A humble introduction to a haunting city
I first became acquainted with New Orleans by way of a pile of trash in a North Side Chicago alley. Therein lay an original painting by Donabeth Jones titled "Rue Royale." I was between original artworks at that time, having recently given away a creepy rendition of the Velvet Peanut Butter boy and yet to meet its replacement.
So, under the "one man's trash" rule, I retrieved the painting, complete with a typewritten note by its artist glued to the back of the frame explaining its provenance. Said frame also featured a broken glass front and an ill-suited harsh orange matte border. After moving with me from one household to the next, and repeat, I finally took the painting to a framer and asked him to replace the glass and change out the matte to a more subtle, flattering theme. By then, I had visited New Orleans twice.
The freshly dressed painting hangs in our living room. It depicts a typical scene in the French Quarter: two women walking by a building on Royal Street with tall windows top and bottom and a wrought iron balcony. The pale green and orange watercolors serve not as foundation but as shadow to the black framework of the building and ironwork.
You'll probably see more posts about my fascination with New Orleans. It surely seems cliche, a northerner's crush on a historic, richly appointed southern city. I nonetheless think of my perspective as unique, personal, universally distinct. I think about drinking a cafe au lait and reading the paper at Cafe du Monde when I'm pouring my coffee at home some mornings. Tourist. I remember the damp heat during Jazzfest after a rain storm rolls through. Hopeless romantic. And I write about it now, too. So enjoy.
So, under the "one man's trash" rule, I retrieved the painting, complete with a typewritten note by its artist glued to the back of the frame explaining its provenance. Said frame also featured a broken glass front and an ill-suited harsh orange matte border. After moving with me from one household to the next, and repeat, I finally took the painting to a framer and asked him to replace the glass and change out the matte to a more subtle, flattering theme. By then, I had visited New Orleans twice.
The freshly dressed painting hangs in our living room. It depicts a typical scene in the French Quarter: two women walking by a building on Royal Street with tall windows top and bottom and a wrought iron balcony. The pale green and orange watercolors serve not as foundation but as shadow to the black framework of the building and ironwork.
You'll probably see more posts about my fascination with New Orleans. It surely seems cliche, a northerner's crush on a historic, richly appointed southern city. I nonetheless think of my perspective as unique, personal, universally distinct. I think about drinking a cafe au lait and reading the paper at Cafe du Monde when I'm pouring my coffee at home some mornings. Tourist. I remember the damp heat during Jazzfest after a rain storm rolls through. Hopeless romantic. And I write about it now, too. So enjoy.
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