Magazine Street

Imagine Thom's delight Friday morning when he discovered his work on prominent display in Fleur de Paris, a dress shop on Royal Street in the French Quarter.  A saleswoman told us she sold a lot of plus sizes to Southern belles and drag queens.

Although I'd been to professional conferences in NOLA and toured the 9th Ward with the Red Cross shortly after Hurricane Katrina, I hadn't ventured much beyond the French Quarter.   Joe and Magda led us across Canal Street through the warehouse district, filled with trendy stores and restaurants getting ready for the NBA All Star weekend, to a coffee place they found when they arrived.

First we had to go through an industrial area.

It's probably safe to say that with the 24/7 drinking culture, the Big Easy is the world's Pot-O'Gold capital.

At French Truck Coffee, the woman behind the counter asked if I wanted the barista to make my peppermint iced tea with sparkling water.  Never again.  Our wet--in more ways than one--brunch at Atchafalaya was a lot better.  Incredible Bloody Mary bar, duck hash and blue cheese flan.  Like the natives say, you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning!

 

We knew we were among kindred spirits once we hit Magazine Street.

These young cheerleaders were getting ready for Mardi Gras.

The area had a funky charm.

 

And cool places to park bikes.

Many shops offered vintage merchandise.

Did you know that the music industry sold more product on vinyl than compact disc last year?  Jim Russell's Rare Records just couldn't hold on quite long enough.

There were a few galleries, too.

Thom bought a discounted Parisian umbrella with a zebra motif from this woman.

Across the street, a statue memorialized Sophie B. Wright who educated disabled children and advocated for prison reform.  I'll bet she never paid 300 bucks to impersonate Mary Poppins.

 Even the NOLA meter readers are friendly.

In Da Hood

You never really know what you'll find when you arrive at your Airbnb.  Magda rescinded her SOS once she realized the St. Claude neighborhood was within walking distance of almost everything we wanted to do.

Some houses on Urquhart Street street were in better shape than others.

Etoile Polaire No. 1 on North Rampart Street, Louisiana's first fraternal lodge, is gated and guarded.  That didn't stop some intrepid souls from renting the historic building for their wedding reception a couple of years ago.  It hasn't changed much since 1850.

Of course Thom pretended he fit right in!

Artists lived around the corner from our humble but pricey abode.  Love the broken grandfather clock behind the barbed wire fence!

You can find beauty wherever you look.

And our accommodations did answer a question people have been asking for centuries. "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

To get outta da hood!

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Joe invited Thom and I to spend President's Day weekend in New Orleans with him and Magda.  Neither he nor Thom had been before.

We all were surprised that Mardi Gras was in full swing, nearly two weeks before Fat Tuesday!

 

Expect Resistance, Even on a Frigid Afternoon

Corey Johnson, a gay member of the New York City Council, organized a rally near the Stonewall monument to warn the White House that the LGBTQ community is on high alert. It was hard to estimate the crowd size because police cordoned off the cramped area.

But it's safe to say there were more camera phones (mine included) than signs or pink pussy hats.

A creatively costumed protestor drew part of the crowd onto Seventh Avenue South to sing patriotic songs with adapted lyrics.

Francis Picabia: Our Heads Are Round so Our Thoughts Can Change Direction

The artists also said "The only movement is perpetual movement."  A retrospective of Picabia's ever-changing work at MoMA offers an exhilarating ride through the first half of the 20th century and cements his protean reputation as the wise-guy of modern art.

He began as an Impressionist in the early 1900s,

earning the scorn of his more established peers because he sometimes painted from postcards instead of real life,

and quickly veered into Cubism . . .

before making a Dada pit stop.

His color sense can't be beat.

In 1924, Picabia collaborated with Rene Clair on "Entr'acte," a beautiful and funny surrealistic film that runs nearly half an hour.  It's occasionally pervy, too.

You have to love the mourners dancing behind an edible hearse drawn by a camel through the streets of Paris.

A notorious playboy, half-Cuban and French, Picabia adored women.

He created a literal matchstick girl

Gertrude Stein sat for him . . .

and soft porn inspired some of his kitschiest work,

including this woman looking over his shoulder in "The Wandering Jew," an oddly titled self-portrait.

Picabia didn't take much seriously, especially coupling.

But even a committed Dadaist recognized the evils of fascism.  "Calf Worship" certainly resonates today.  Just add an orange wig.

Picabia crossed the finish line painting the kind of severe abstractions that leave me cold, although this upside down pig is kinda cool.

Thanks for free Friday evenings at MoMA, Uniqlo!