Crow Robichaux and I were not born in New Orleans, but once we walked the streets, breathed the air by the river, experienced the French Quarter and immersed ourselves in the city's atmosphere, New Orleans became part of us. Below is a small selection of poetry, photographs and stories inspired by her. We hope you enjoy the magic of New Orleans through the passageway of our art.
En Plein Air The cool breeze of her summer dress slips into place. Serpentine fumes of oil paints leaking colors into her imagination yearn to permeate the sleeping brushes laying beside them in their unadorned wooden box. Stepping into Pirates Alley familiar, intimate, cools stones once again kiss her naked feet. In the pleasant din and morning sunshine of a warm croissant even the cat is French in this tiny cafe. Her worn fishing basket, filled with the ghost of her grandfather, holds a magnolia blossom alongside her brushes and paints - they are now joined by champagne grapes, a wedge of Midnight Moon and a crimson blessing from Bacchus. The day is billowing, swallows swirling on steam whistles as she boards the ferry and sails the muddy waters reflecting nothing but the city’s soul - where harmonies and rhythms can never be separated from the humid air and the spirits of all who have loved her live on.
 From Caught in the Arms of a Twilight Sky
 ...swamp crickets and frogs now deafening, running, she reached the pirogue waiting in the still water... she rested under towering cypress trees their silhouettes and hanging spikes of moss black against a sky of passing clouds framed by halos of a hidden moon...
From Riddles of the Raven, a New Orleans Love Story
 I created this book for those of us that love New Orleans so we can have a little of her soul with us as a companion in the city or by our sides no matter how far we may have to venture from her embrace. I’ve photographed cities all over the world, but none have the mysterious, unseen spiritual and emotional effect that New Orleans has when lingering in her streets, sitting in a dark bar, watching her through a window or just passing through one of her alleys. You can breathe New Orleans. My aim was to capture some of that feeling and atmosphere. I chose what to photograph by finding not only the image but also a feeling that I could sense with my eyes closed before finally shooting the physical scene. In doing so, New Orleans gave me these images. My hope is that her palpable moods and magic come through for you too. I thank her for posing so beautifully and trusting me with her heart.
All photographs by Crow Robichaux from his collection New Orleans, A Taste of Soul
Under a Voodoo Spell Following an empty path twisting, winding, blindly curving narrow, bent and black. Caged alone in a lightning storm, eerie call of night birds awaken ghostly forms. Hot coat of dampness suffocating, pressing, lifeblood draining clings to naked skin. Lightning's flash through moss draped trees, nowhere to escape the touch of things unseen.
Incantation Go and catch a falling star Make a wish for tomorrow's fruit Discover where the years past are And who cleft the devils foot. Listen to the mermaids sing From silver oceans where ghost ships sail Feel the wisp of feathered wings Whisper the blossom’s tale.
From The Book of Petals
Underneath an Esplanade streetlamp, a broken black umbrella sits upside down and open at his feet, scattered litter comes and goes, riding on the various breezes that pass him by - the only motion on this empty late-night city street. The solitude is undisturbed by the last of the revelers echoing in the distance. He points to the umbrella and answers an unasked question to the warm night air: "To protect me from negative thoughts,” he says. Leaning back against the lamppost beneath the ancient canopy of oaks, he lights a cigarette. The old fedora pulled low over his brow leaves only his thin, unshaven chin and the glowing cigarette visible. Smoke curls up and lingers under its brim. ...He sings again: slow, deep and meaningful. This time, about a woman that he knew/her satin dress was baby-blue/he knew his heart was broke/before they even spoke. Bringing out his harmonica, he plays the melody to his childhood friend, old man river, holding the notes and fading them off into the gentle sound of the waves... into a place where time doesn’t pass; its flowing waters alive with untamed swamps, Indian canoes and pirates - all passing by in the impenetrable blackness at the end of the road...
From Hearts of Fire
 New Orleans, A Taste of Soul Introduction from the book of photography by Crow Robichaux:
BACK TO RIDDLES OF THE RAVEN
~Unpublished poem