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Beatrice J. ChoiIVC 2013 Submission
03/15/2013
Message in a Bottle: Contesting the Legibility/Illegibilityof Ruins and Revival in Post-Katrina New Orleans
[Fig. 1] An ‘X’ marks the spot. All of the houses in
New Orleans struck by Hurricane Katrina once bore this sign.
In the wake of the storm, military personnel spray-painted
each damaged house with a grim yet simple tally to account
for the evacuation of New Orleans. Now, most of the houses
in the more prosperous neighborhoods have opted to paint
over the reminder, a few choosing proudly to memorialize the
‘X’ as a survivor’s mark of experience. The houses that bear
such marks in less affluent neighborhoods oftentimes do not
have a say in whether they wish to forego this stamp of
experience or not. Crossed out as they are on the cultural,
political and economic spectrum, the residents in these less
wealthy neighborhoods are tarnished by Katrina’s sweep over
the built environment and the storm’s distorted media
coverage as legacies of the event’s material and mediated
aftermath. If the residents and victims of the event find
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these ‘X’ markings ambivalent in their appearance and
significance, how are these traces part and parcel of the
cultural production of post-disaster New Orleans? How do
these networks of urban wreckage leave signs behind that act
as more than visible legacies of such a catastrophe, but
rather, as the liminal spaces and ecologies of a stricken
city?
In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans stands
apart as a post-traumatic landscape that cannot be read
without the projections of specific racial, socioeconomic
and cultural readings onto its terrain. These imaginative
geographies1 are superimposed onto the physical disaster-
stricken site of New Orleans, directly, negatively affecting
the city’s reconstruction efforts. Interpretations of the
post-traumatic landscape reveal disparate discourses about
aesthetics, capitalism, security, and social justice that
1 Edward Said first introduces the idea of imaginative geographies as “the invention and construction of a geographical space” vis-à-vis the Orientand the cultural production of Imperialism. With these conceptual spaces, “scant attention paid to the actuality of the geography and its inhabitants” for the purpose of “the mapping conquest, and annexation ofterritory” (Said, 181).
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collide with extant results on the built environment and the
citizens who inhabit these spaces. This therefore is an
issue of placing stakes on a visual legibility of the built
environment as an object of observation. Media institutions
read the ruins of post-Katrina New Orleans as a bed of
violence, governmental bodies addressed it as a site for
simultaneous conservation and disposability, and
humanitarian responses present an unrealistic tabula rasa
perspective, neglecting its preexisting fabric of
neighborhood life. However, New Orleans in a post-Katrina
environment recovers and renegotiates its conditions of
legibility against a backdrop of overlapping, and often-
pernicious discourses. I am less interested in the active
contestation of a city’s representation after a disaster of
national proportions, but instead, in the potential to
engage in alternative readings of history by regarding the
stricken city as an archival habitat, an environmentally
localized and traumatized bed of objects. To counter these
readings, I offer an alternative history as a refusal of
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responses to such a ‘natural’ disaster that become
‘naturalized’ in collective memory. Ultimately,
renegotiating the different readings of the city unearths a
live space out of New Orleans’ ruins instead of foisting an
imagined one to blanket the already wounded space.
I explore the visual rhetoric interlacing portrayals of
New Orleans’ ruins and revival through analyzing the
different aesthetic responses made in the aftermath of
Hurricane Katrina. These aesthetic responses frame the post-
traumatic landscape in certain reified narratives, and carve
particular shapes into city’s topography in such a way that
the geography imagined by those who receive these responses
are invariably affected by its visual influence. Borrowing a
term from Sol Worth, I argue that post-hurricane
representations of Katrina qualify as articulated events,
“produced by a person’s own musculature or by his use of
tools or both. [It] must be thought of as mediated through
the use of a communicative mode—words, pictures, music, and
so on” (Worth, 29). As such, I consider the images
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disseminated by renowned photographer Robert Polidori after
Katrina, because “photographs alter and enlarge our notions
of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to
observe. They are a grammar, and… an ethics of seeing”
(Sontag, 3). Polidori’s work After the Flood contracts certain
controversy, marred with implications of commerce and
ideological exploitation at the expense of material dearth
and socioeconomic gravity experienced by those living in New
Orleans. I contrast Polidori’s work with an alternate
aesthetic embodied by the Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours that
refutes reified responses to Hurricane Katrina as a
‘natural’ disaster, and contests aestheticizing—also,
anesthetizing—aims on a ‘pliant’ and ‘wounded’ post-
traumatic landscape unable to contest the very grounds of
its legibility. Utilizing semiotic analysis to investigate
how each aesthetic perspective articulates distinctive
visions of the city, I prioritize different readings of the
post-traumatic New Orleans landscape, with its very
‘liveness’ in mind.
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The practice of reading a city’s landscape is a tool of
modernity that initially helped to delineate public spaces,
a mode of address for the masses, and spatial form of
collective memory2. The reading of urban spaces enables
community building through physical experiences and concrete
engagements with the built environment to promote social
advocacy, human ecology, and active interventions in live
space, not imagined space. In reading the city as a text3
through direct interaction with the built environment, I
propose a strategy of looking at the post-traumatic
landscape through the context of (il)legibility. Legibility allows
certain readings of the city’s landscape to seem evident and
natural, yet rupture—in the form of disaster or terrorism—
reveals other discourses hidden or unscripted. These
previously illegible texts contest the dominant discourses,
allowing a new space to revitalize and re-inform both the
2 In City Reading, David Henkin writes of 19th century New York City as a forerunner in cultivating “the culture of city reading in the nineteenthcentury, [to organize and imagine] social relations around an experienceof public space rather than an ideology, a set of class interests, or a fiction of an abstract community” (Henkin, 176).3 There is an intellectual history of reading the city as a text that includes the likes of Debord 1958; de Certeau Re. 2011; Harvey 1997.
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material and cultural production of post-Katrina New
Orleans. The implication of looking at things in terms of
(il)legibility has ethical stakes when we consider their
material subsistence. On one hand, the visual and physical
removal of such materiality denies the precise conditions of
existence not only for these ruined sites, but also for
those housed in them. On the other, to focus too much on the
material culture in the aftermath of such a disaster risks
the temptation of neglecting the logistics needed to address
the very human ecological element that demands social
justice. To read against the grain of available literature
in contemporary journalism and activist-scholarship on the
rebuilding of the built environment, I use the visual schema
of (il)legibility to move away from a purely humanist
emphasis on social justice to depict its tensions with
materialist interventions in visual culture. This approach
offers a new way of gauging the politics of representation,
since the removal of material objects—and human bodies—from
the line of sight negates the existential proof of their
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presence and existence. Ultimately, such visual erasure
allows for certain responses from the media, state
bureaucracies, and humanitarian endeavors to not only be
expected but also to be perceived as natural responses to a
‘natural’ disaster.
Section I. The Moneyed Sublime and the Power of People-less
Landscapes
Monday, August 29th, 2005—Hurricane Katrina hit
landfall overnight. In a matter of days, New Orleans was
left flooded, littered with ruins. Amidst the devastation
signs could be read that pointed to the depletion of
direction and order in the post-traumatic landscape. Susan
Sontag predicted in On Photography that aesthetic responses
work with and on the built environment, complicit in its own
ruin: “From the start, photographers not only set themselves
the task of recording a disappearing world but were so
employed by those hastening its disappearance” (Sontag, 76).
Her words have carried over a measure of legitimacy into the
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present, where aesthetic responses to a disaster signal the
disappearance of the city’s template prior to the event,
articulating the emergence of its next incarnation, a shift
from one form of visible legibility to another. What
threatens us with the city’s disappearance then cannot be
read any longer, and the issue for a new representation of
the city is sent. As the city undergoes fluctuation, the
conceptualization of its built environment also shifts,
pushing undercurrent ideologies to the surface as the city
transitions variably from ruins to revival.
Robert Polidori is no stranger to post-disaster stages
of fluctuation; his photographic oeuvre evokes multiple
geographies ruptured by disaster. His previous work on the
nuclear disaster in Chernobyl raised his profile to
international stardom in the art world. In another
compilation of spectacular, post-disaster photography,
Robert Polidori packages his perspective of post-Katrina New
Orleans in the tersely named After the Flood. Jeff Rosenheim,
curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, introduces the
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collection with words of praise: “New Orleans after Katrina
is an enormous subject for the camera: in the hands of an
artist of Polidori’s resolve, it [becomes] a meditation on
our culture in decline” (Polidori, 11). This exclamation
inspires in turn a slew of questions: beyond pictorial
renditions of tragedy, who wields the authority to craft
such a message? What exactly is in decline here? From
decline, depletion and ruin to revival—how do aesthetic
responses such as Polidori’s influence the reconstruction of
post-Katrina New Orleans? Hereon, I address the ways in
which readings of the disaster-stricken landscape may frame
the aesthetics of a disaster without tackling social justice
as a necessity in addressing the actual ruins, chaining
enterprise to ruination.
The book opens up to spreads of a stricken panorama:
The mild blue sky sets a scene of destruction anomalous with
its clarity and light. In “Tupelo Street” [Fig. 2] stark
devastation draws jagged edges, splintered objects, and
vestiges of domestic order struck by the weight of an
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invisible force. The house, its front façade cleanly ripped
away from the structure, reveals its domestic innards, with
a slanted closet full of colored men’s shirts. The house
tilts, favoring weight on its right, devoid of furniture
except for an upturned stool near the center. There isn’t
any other trace left in the photographic landscape—no
ominous, overcast sky, no residual flooding—the only traces
left by Hurricane Katrina that can be measured in this
photograph can be read through ruins. That same force is
measured out in different ways in “View from St. Claude
Avenue bridge” [Fig. 3, 7], one of Polidori’s first pieces
bearing witness to freshly sprayed ‘X’s that mark the houses
in photographic testimony of the evacuations that had come
to pass. The ghostly ‘X’s appear to be final judgment marks,
a tally that testifies to the count of invisible bodies
trafficked out of New Orleans, drawn against the set of an
ordinary residence. The measure of disaster manifests itself
differently in photography, where Polidori in an interview
describes its aesthetic effect as the capture of reality as
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fiction, associating the photographs with literary
legibility. He situates the images in the realm of the
imaginary where the viewers become immersed, asserting
“[The] viewer has to put more of him or herself into it…
Reality will compose the most extreme paradoxes and
contradictions and adjacencies, which can’t be understood”
(Ayers, 1). Polidori’s lens reads the reality of post-
Katrina New Orleans as a ghostly fiction.
The image of the city as a ruin is an archetypal
metaphor that regains new meaning in contemporary times. The
aesthetic decision to portray architectural ruins through
photography is a modern concept Sontag intuitively connects:
“[The] photograph offers a modern counterpart of that
characteristically romantic architectural genre, the
artificial ruin” (Sontag, 80). In a review of After the Flood,
Dieter Roelstraete agrees, exclaiming: “Indeed, it has been
said that many buildings look better as ruins” (Roelstrate,
8). After the Flood takes the form of a stunning montage of
photographs of New Orleans still inundated in the waters six
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months after Katrina’s passing. There is a haunting
experience of the sublime in this contemporary tableau, and
it is with a certain ambivalence that Roelstraete observes,
“Robert Polidori has a great eye for the sublime beauty…
that lies hidden, in waiting, among the wreckage of
devastation” (Roelstraete, 5). The sublime, the romantic
concept that gains precedence in the 18th and 19th centuries,
is well known as a response to the naïve, idealistic beliefs
placed in the feats of modern man. Gene Ray stipulates “the
feeling of the beautiful simulated that reconciliation with
nature missing from modern bourgeois life, and [that] of the
sublime was a complex mix of terror and enjoyable awe,
triggered by encounters with the power or magnitude of raw
nature” (Ray, 5). Paul Duro asserts this in his work “‘Great
and Noble Ideas of the Moral Kind’"; although he examines
Englishman Joseph Wright’s art during the Industrial
Revolution, the visual legacy of the sublime speaks to a
greater Western schema of aesthetic discourse. Duro observes
that the sublime “came to be understood less as a rhetorical
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trope than as an aesthetic category in its own right” (661).
The fulcrum of this aesthetic experience rests on the
“‘cognitive failure’ on the part of the subject, when our
ability to express thoughts or feelings is overwhelmed, and
when the limits [of reason]… are paralysed in the face of an
overpowering, opposing, and as it were, oppressive force”
(Duro 661). The sublime stamps the effects of beauty even as
it elicits a sense of awe, even terror, conventionally meant
to remind man of circumstances larger than those he weaves.
Polidori chooses to articulate the sublime in his
photographic representations of New Orleans, resulting in
the legibility of beauty in the inhuman, in the
extraordinary and catastrophic.
Polidori’s photograph “4235 Albert Drive” [Fig. 4]
presents a tableau that mixes an industrial aesthetic with
nostalgia. Polidori frames the contrast made by the canal
wall in the background with the forlorn scatter of
residents’ material possessions, such as the white iron bed-
frame with girls’ dresses hanging from its rim. A nursery
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blanket lies abandoned on the dirt, and buckled chairs sit
at the feet of equally collapsed fences, mimicking in
miniature the fate of the city’s levees. This image suggests
that the naïve comfort New Orleans’ citizens seemed to find
in its security architecture, in its canals and levees,
falls at the price of blind trust. The bus smashed headfirst
into the canal wall adds to the puerile feeling of
nostalgia, a visual rhetoric of innocence lost in the
ravages of a natural disaster larger than life. The camera’s
eye appears to pass through as a ghostly visitor, a visual
trope reinforced by the historical appreciation for the
sublime linked aesthetically to travel literature and art.
Duro observes that “[many] sought to locate the sublime, in
the manner of the picturesque traveller, in an appreciation
of the grander aspects of nature” (Duro 661). The pleasure
and terror intertwined in such landscape paintings such as
Wright’s, however, become aesthetic experiences updated to
address the politics of the present day through photography.
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The image of “5979 West End Boulevard” [Fig. 5] would
never garner a second glance, quotidian as it appears, an
example of everyday domesticity interrupted by the
unmistakable markings left in the aftermath of Hurricane
Katrina. The house at centerpiece, complete with white
picket fence, could pass as a photographic Andrew Wyeth
landscape if it weren’t for the tree leaning against the
house’s rooftop. This image resonates strongly with Middle
American heritage, with its freshly drawn wheel marks on the
dirt ground and its grey, overcast skies overlooking
commonplace suburban setting. Unlike previous forms of
landscape imagery; however, where the portrayal of Middle
America amidst the Great Depression united an image of a
nation undergoing a shared experience4, this image of the
lonesome house suffocated by the weight of the tree, its
environment, provokes instead a strong sense of abandonment.
Except now the cloudy sky bears witness and warning to what
4 Also, it is worthwhile to note that Middle American imagery was essentially populist, full of emotional portraiture, pictures of the masses, working classes, etc. For further reference, see the art of Grant Wood; Andrew Wyeth; and of regionalists Thomas Hart Benton and John Steuart Curry.
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has befallen New Orleans as example of both the physical and
ideological ruination of a contemporary American city. The
visual proof of derelict material culture appears to tally
the cost of living in the place of the human bodies excised
from these photographic representations of disaster.
The danger of portraying a barren, disaster-stricken
landscape, however, is that there is no need to depict the
people affected and traumatized by the disaster. In the
contemporary setting of post-Katrina New Orleans, the
sublime is evoked in Polidori’s work, as events of
extraordinary measure yet the victims affected by them are
absent from the picture, and are thus rendered fictional.
Duro observes that in keeping with the aesthetic reading of
the sublime, through the focus of an inhuman object as
subject, “the discourse on the sublime ‘should be seen as a
technical discourse of the subject: it bridges the
incommensurable gap between aesthetic pleasure and ethical
action’” (674). This fracture between pleasure and ethical
action goes unaddressed in the political reality of post-
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Katrina New Orleans. Writer John Updike, in his review of
the book for the New York Times, remarks critically,
“Polidori, his work makes clear, loves the grave, delicate,
and poignant beauty of architecture when the distracting
presence of human inhabitants is eliminated from
photographs” (Updike, 1). The victims themselves are
illegible; only metonymic traces and echoes of their prior
inhabitance are legible as they linger in the premises, a
legacy that testifies to the radical, devastating effects of
the disaster. These aesthetic readings of the post-traumatic
built environment legitimize a kind of vacant, gaping beauty
through absence and devastation. What these readings avoid
examining is “whether a sufficiently historicized and
demystified category of the sublime would liberate the
‘transformed truth’ of its feeling for the work of mourning
and radical politics” (Ray, 5). The ruins in Polidori’s
photography stand as an enunciated whole that eclipses both
images of the former city and imaginings of its possible
reconstruction, because the aesthetic impact of the ruins
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functions as a complete work of art. Polidori’s aesthetic
representations immediately reads the post-traumatic
landscape through the lens of the sublime as a fiction
larger than reality without addressing the clear need for
social justice in response to the disaster’s effects.
In media footage taken during and immediately after the
hurricane, others read the lingering devastation carved onto
the New Orleans landscape in a similar manner, exposing
parallels in the longstanding ideological effects of
disaster coverage by televised media. In televised news
footage Kelly Whalen, an MSNBC special correspondent
covering Hurricane Katrina exclaims,
“I have never felt so small as I did when I first visited hurricane-ravaged New Orleans two months after Katrina. There were signs everywhere of the horror thatplayed out when 80 percent of the city became submergedin water. Cars swept up in the floodwaters now rested upside down on building tops. Downed power lines crisscrossed mud-caked streets, and marooned boats and homes that had floated right off their foundations blocked intersections. Ripped-open roofs and spray-painted messages of desperation for help told stories of people fighting for survival…” (Whalen, Interview for NBC).
In an account of exactly how the landscape suffered through
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Katrina, the media depicts the wreckage strewn about New
Orleans as the fallout of disaster management and the
security of the built environment. The fallout, as we have
witnessed, comes at the cost of human lives. The shock that
comes from these multiple failures is not from the fact that
such a natural disaster had come to pass, but that it had
devastated an American city so unexpectedly and thoroughly.
Here we see that alongside the modern conception of the
sublime and the contemporary manifestation of the classical
ruins, are the material implications of another modernist
fabrication: the systematization of security.
The aesthetic narratives of the sublime find
ideological symmetry in the scientific tenet of knowledge
and manifest in the post-modern outcome of Hurricane
Katrina. Duro confirms this discursive collusion: “Indeed
both scientists and non-scientists saw in scientific
investigation intimations of beauty, awe and terror (and
often the deity) that served not to undermine, but to
validate, their conclusions” (Duro 665). In the context of
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both Polidori’s aesthetic renditions and the media coverage
of the post-Katrina landscape, what becomes legible are the
expectations for the scientific management of the modern
built environment to be able to withstand any sort of
adversity or catastrophe. Whelan confirms this assumption in
her news feature: “After spending several months reporting
in New Orleans, I adapted to this eerie landscape… I was
struck by the features of a functioning American city that
most of us take for granted” (Whalen, Interview for NBC).
This unreflecting state takes the ‘normal’ order of life for
granted in what Peter Taylor considers one of the essential
conditions of modernity: “If being modern is a taken-for-
granted feature of life this implies it is embedded in
everyday thinking and behavior” (Taylor, 4). Hurricane
Katrina tears the guise of normality from the
systematization of disaster management and security. The
engineered bridges and levees, the media coverage of the
responses, and government branches such as FEMA established
to address such events—all these prove inadequate, revealing
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a collective American inability to contain nature as
presumed, and reads as an articulated failure of the
modernist era. Onlookers responding to the news or
photographs of the event become aware of the potential that
disasters have to uproot all that was supposedly secure,
anchored and established. This sudden awareness, one of
Taylor’s responses to modernity, is also the pivotal point
where a new form of legibility rises to the surface. The
foundational blocks for the American built environment
expose the skeletal ruins of modern security
infrastructures, disaster preparation and architectural
methods of containment as ideals of progress rendered
defunct, obsolete. The post-traumatic landscape then becomes
an active space to read the disappointment of modernist
ideologies, and the ever-growing preoccupation with
disasters, advancing the production of both technical
expertise and cultural narratives in disaster management.
The inability to imagine the extent to which a disaster
could damage a city, and how the built environment could be
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inadequate, even detrimental, under extreme duress reads as
a lesson in complacency, a dialogue steeped in delusion. The
misreading of disasters and their destructive potential
renders the post-Katrina topography of New Orleans
illegible, as witnessed in the media and state letdown in
the face of valid community need. To open up space for
critical readings of New Orleans as a post-traumatic
landscape, the next step would be to investigate the legacy
of disaster management and the impact it leaves in the
American collective memory. In The Culture of Calamity, Kevin
Rozario claims that over time, “Disasters have been
laboratories for social reform” (23); thus, disasters
forcibly carve out their own spaces for legibility through
the security measures that manifest in response to such
traumatic events. The modern anticipation of disasters,
according to Rozario, leads to the building of security
structures and ecologies as a kind of material and visual
culture that facilitated the formation of “a decisive
structural or ideological component to the American
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dependency on disasters” (Rozario, 2). Rozario’s historical
analysis of the evolution of American disaster preparations
and responses posits that the cultural production of
disaster management forms over a layering of disasters and
the responsive legislative and media measures arising from
such events. When preventative measures and relief efforts
begin to address American public interest via mass media,
this ultimately leads to the mediation and visual
representation of disasters to become pervasive in
contemporary times. The misreading of such disasters is
symptomatic of modernist tendencies, as a product of years’
worth of constructed narratives, cultural deposits that form
the sediment of contemporary representations of disaster
emerge ideologically reified as a ‘natural’ response to
disaster.
American civic engagement in the 1927 Mississippi flood
spelled a turning point for modernist responses to disaster
management. For Rozario, the flood was a catalyst for
“clearing the emotional and political space for a modern
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system of disaster management” and notes “[intense] media
attention encouraged the public to invest emotionally in the
flood and to demand that politicians do whatever they could
to help the victims” (Rozario, 146). The Risk Management
Solutions’ Special Report supports this claim, “The 1927 flood
was a disaster on such a scale that it changed the political
climate of the U.S.” (RMS, 1). The flood affected the
political reality of the US in two concrete results: first
with President Coolidge’s Lower Mississippi Flood Control
Act of 1928. The Flood Act “authorized ‘under the direction
of the Secretary of War and the supervision of the Chief of
Engineers’ a system of flood control achieved through
floodways, levee channel improvements and stabilization, and
tributary basin improvements” (RMS, 9). This led to the
official inauguration of a flood relief-centered
‘bureaucratic mechanism’.5 The second outcome took shape in
the rise of Herbert Hoover—the “Great Humanitarian”—into
5 Lohof, Bruce A. “Herbert Hoover, Spokesman of Humane Efficiency: The Mississippi Flood of 1927”. American Quarterly, Vol. 22, No. 3 (Autumn, 1970), Pg. 691.
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presidential office after successful flood relief
operations, placing a human face to the relief efforts.
These two outcomes have lasting legacies in the cultural
production of disaster management and in particular, on the
activism arising from social justice responses to disasters
that I will address in the second section.
Situating the Flood Act against the historical backdrop
of American disaster management contextualizes modernist
discourses of scientific mastery over natural circumstances,
and mold cultural awareness for contemporary responses to
disasters such as Hurricane Katrina. In the case of the Army
Corp of Engineers, the voice of authority sometimes acted as
the source of aggravation for disaster management. The U.S.
Army Corp of Engineers was established in 1802 specifically
to “subject the [Mississippi River] to human mastery”
(Rozario, 144). The modernist ideologies that influenced the
working practices and beliefs of these engineers “brought
modern scientific principles to bear on the problem of
disasters, exhibiting extraordinary faith in technology and
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planning” (144). Historical events, however, revealed in
multiple occasions that the solutions implemented by the
government for anticipating and coping with disasters at the
time would not solve all of America’s flooding problems6.
Rozario recounts,
As communities along the Mississippi River had learned in 1927, floodwalls must continually be strengthened and raised if they are keeping raging waters at bay. When they breach, as happened again in 1993, the flooding is much more severe than would have been the case if artificial defenses had not been erected… Not only was this placing people in harm’s way, it was destroying wetlands that presented a natural impedimentto floods. By 1966, it was all too clear that engineering could not, in itself, protect communities from calamities (170).
This is one of many cases in which modern disaster policy
acted as ‘the mother of disaster’ (146). What is oftentimes
left unnoticed is the fact that the solutions to disaster
planning and management were often made on a case-by-case
6 Amongst which stands the remarkable example in 1947, where “the military dropped two hundred pounds of dry ice into the center of a hurricane that was approaching Florida, hoping thereby to ‘over-seed’ the clouds and prevent rain. The storm shifted direction soon afterwardand careened into Savannah, Georgia. According to historian Ted Steinberg, that luckless city may thus have been ‘on the receiving end of modernity ascendant: the first engineered hurricane disaster’” (Rozario, 163).
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basis, requiring reform and correction after each instance
where the rising waters breached the floodwaters, levees,
and precautionary measures. This is the underside of
progress that did not appear in the dialogue of the time, a
modernist experience of costly advancement rendered
illegible.
Modernist principles of scientific progress eventually
confront the hard-experienced reality of natural disasters
to yield a particular blend of bureaucratic, technical, and
grass-roots action that Herbert Hoover would employ in
response to the Mississippi Flood of 1927. Hoover’s
endeavors in disaster relief and management after the
Missisippi Flood were some of the first large scale efforts
to work across traditional divides perceived by technical,
bureaucratic and community-centered organizations. In the
wake of the flood, President Coolidge responded to the
requests of stricken states by organizing federal
participation in relief efforts in the guise of a Special
Mississippi Flood Committee, more popularly known as the
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Hoover Committee. Hoover, at the time the Secretary of
Commerce, provided the groundwork for other organizational
entities created to address the issue of preparing for and
responding to natural disasters, by coordinating a relief
effort across bureaucratic divides.7 The Disaster Relief Act
of 1950 soon followed, operating as “a key building block of
an emerging national security state that promised a more
orderly, rational society—a world safe from natural and man-
made disasters” (Rozario, 23). Bruce Lohof notes that
Hoover, in his stint as the superintendant of flood relief
operations, prioritized bureaucratic hierarchy to “give
cohesion and central direction to an essentially local
relief operation” (Lohof, 692). This ‘administrative
machine’ would “gather the potential energies of disparate
agencies, coordinate those energies and place them at the
disposal of local leadership, [imbued] with a spirit of
7 Of the main branches enumerated, the Departments of the Navy and War, the Treasury Department, the Coast Guard, the Agriculture Department, and Hoover’s own Commerce Department. Also of note, the ‘quasi-governmental’ American Red Cross became an ‘indispensable’ part of Hoover’s disaster management machinery. Lohof, Bruce A. “Herbert Hoover,Spokesman of Humane Efficiency”, 691.
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community” (Lohof, 692). These two consequences led to the
popular acceptance of disaster management as part of the
political infrastructure, and the bureaucratization of
social activism through the governmental backing of local,
grassroots organizations.
Despite the spirited rhetoric offering promises of
local agents and communities collaborating side-by-side with
the technical expertise of the engineers and the political
clout of state bureaucracies, what ultimately emerges is a
body of policies and administrative machinery suited to
build a security state. The idea of disaster is tied
irrevocably with ideas of progress in the built environment
as states of simultaneous vulnerability and security. The
complex convergence of modern space with security mechanisms
is born of the ideology that Rozario calls the ‘catastrophic
logic of modernity’, or rather, the drive to “apply
instrumental reason to the task of making human life on
earth safer and more predictable… an ongoing effort to
control, or at least manage, nature” (Rozario, 10).
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Discursively, American culture embeds disaster management in
narratives of containment and control: “Even as disasters
have become entertaining spectacles, they have also laid the
cultural groundwork for the expansion of a powerful,
national security apparatus” (9). Yet it is unclear whether
the element contained is the disaster or human subject. It
is only through mistakes that such endeavors are measured
against, and here is where the false security in modern
standards and measures is laid bare. Progress emerges at the
risk of others less able or less knowledgeable to prepare
for the fallout, and the mistakes can be read as scars
littered on the post-disaster landscape. The cultural
production of disasters conceptually embeds disaster
management into the built environment, pointing to how “the
power and place of calamity in American culture” (2) has
shaped the way the U.S has undertaken catastrophic events
through modern history. This historical genealogy, complicit
with all the modernist agendas, biases, and ideals that
shape the built environment as security apparatus, wires
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itself also into the aesthetic renditions of contemporary
post-disaster landscapes.
Disasters experienced in recent American history emerge
both as spectacle and catalyst for progress in the
systematization of national security. This reveals a deep
ambivalence towards disasters, in which the articulation of
disaster management methods meant to prevent and contain
such occurrences includes the possibility of failure. The
resulting effect is to read disaster itself as a call for
progress. Where then can a reading of progress emerge from
the ruins of post-Katrina New Orleans? In reality, both of
these modernist narratives—of disaster and progress—yield a
complex entanglement that stretches across live space.
Taylor notes that a geohistorical approach “respects this
embeddedness, never neglecting the contexts in which modern
behavior and thinking take place” (Taylor, 4), even if such
trains of thought can clash with one another. The post-
traumatic landscape is capable of holding such differing
narratives in the same space, the disaster itself unearthing
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ideologies of disparate temporalities, all surfacing to come
into play in the present. In a geohistorical approach
towards reading the post-traumatic landscape, Taylor points
to Foucault’s observation: “that whereas time has been
treated as dynamic, space is seen as essentially ‘dead’”
(96). Herein lies the problem with artistic renderings of
Post-Katrina New Orleans: they implicate the idea of the
built environment in a fixed frame, a dead space of
representation. The pejorative implications of this
modernist, reductive perspective to the liveness of space
and its situated materialities is what Janet Berlo in her
article “Beyond the Mirror” calls an “instrumentalist
approach to a politics of environment” (Berlo 28). She
protests the danger inherent to such an aesthetic approach
as a flattening of the complexities of a built environment
with its intermingling ecologies of the human and the
material that ignores the possibility of “an equitable
geopolitics that [loosens] the grip of anthropocentric
nationalisms and devastating neocolonialism” (Berlo 28). The
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liveness of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina may
paradoxically become more apparent after its traumatic
upheaval, unearthing the ways in which the “material may be
the ultimate judge of our ethics” (Berlo 28).
With post-Katrina New Orleans’ tense juxtapositions
between human and material ecologies in mind, Polidori’s
aesthetic portrayal of its ‘liveness’ depicts the shortage
of feasible solutions for renewal. It is only when the
viewer engages in an active counter-read does the issue of
progress and social justice becomes legible necessarily by
the very human absence from the image. This is an oversight
that Updike opposes:
Arresting though the outdoors photos are, with their silent testimony to a catastrophe that swept through humble neighborhoods accustomed to being ignored, it isthe wrecked, mildewed interiors that take our eye and quicken our anxiety. Would our own dwelling quarters look so pathetic, so obscenely reflective of intimate needs inadequately met, if they were similarly violatedand exposed? (1).
It is the disembowelment of residential interiors that
shakes the viewer the most. The home is the last and most
basic unit of security, and when the home is penetrated on
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such a wide-scale level of devastation, it sends a clear
message that the expected security methods have failed. The
city of New Orleans is a conflicted space in the sense that
all feel the devastation and call for its reconstruction,
yet none feel the personal obligation and ability to take up
the responsibility. Do these photographs address who
receives the obligation to restore such bedrooms and living
rooms, purchase of new furnishings beyond feasible means,
and re-install such delicate chandeliers as seen in “1724
Deslondes St” and “2520 Deslondes St” (Fig. 6 and 7)? By
taking the viewer into these houses, Polidori manages to
play on unexpected peripheries of private and public spaces,
and thus the margins of ethical responsibility and social
justice. When disaster enters through the front door, it
becomes much more than just a public event; the devastation
reveals the poverty and unpreparedness behind the security
apparatus in the civic responses to Katrina. The
photographic representations of the stripped surroundings
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and devastated material culture in the devastated city speak
as objects in lieu of human subjects.
This is the spectacle of the New Orleans post-traumatic
landscape: the environment articulates the legacy of the
event in a visual rhetoric so strong as to express—in the
words of Guy Debord— “estrangement and separation between
man and man” (Debord, 23). It is the lack of social justice
in the favor of a capitalist message that confirms post-
Katrina New Orleans as a site of spectacle,8 as Updike
notes, “[who] is this book for? Not the flood’s victims, who
could not afford it” (Updike, 2). Those who would provide
visible proof of the social reality of post-Katrina New
Orleans have been neatly excised out of the frame of sight.
The illegibility of social justice in the New Orleans post-
disaster landscape portrayed in Polidori’s After the Flood is
compounded by the commodity overtones found in the book’s
material appearance: “It weighs nearly ten pounds and costs
8 In Society of the Spectacle, Debord mentions the spectacle is the “materialization of ideology brought about by the concrete success of an autonomized system of economic production—which virtually identifies social reality with an ideology that has remolded all reality in its ownimage” (28).
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$90; a consumeristic paradox hovers over the existence of so
costly a volume portraying the reduction of a mostly poor
urban area” (Updike, 2). This aesthetic response to disaster
provides both actual and psychological capital as much to
the voyeur who wishes to own a piece of Hurricane Katrina as
an event, as to the consumer who buys the book in an attempt
to assuage the possible guilt felt in watching the event’s
unraveling. This startling update to contemporary disasters
is the immediate recourse to put tragedy into good use by
generating capital to respond to disaster.
The recent rash of disaster tourism venues cropping up
in the wake of Hurricane Katrina may offer a compelling read
into the spectacle emerging from disaster responses. Disaster
tourism9 is a fairly recent development that provokes
similar, mixed sentiments as its counterparts ‘slum porn’,
and ‘death’ or ‘dark’ tourism, due to the voyeuristic
pleasure or fascination that fuels interest in these
9 It was surprisingly difficult to find official definitions of ‘Disaster Tourism’; hence, I turned to Sudhir Andrews’ Introduction to Tourism and Hospitality Industry for an in-field sense of the word: “Disaster tourism is the act of travelling to a disaster area as a matter of curiosity” (Andrews, 164).
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afflicted, post- traumatic sites. Post-disaster tours places
those involved in an uneasy ethical positioning because it
appears to pay homage to the immediate effects of a disaster
without considering the implications it may have on a
place’s already extant histories and communities rooted
onsite. Disaster tourism distorts the modernist legacy of
progress in response to disaster, inverting the cultural
production of disasters and disaster management from one of
preparation and control to that of negligence and
exploitation. Instead of ideologically framing disasters as
natural phenomena to prepare against and master, a modernist
response to the aesthetic portrayal of the disaster as the
sublime, disaster tourism encompasses the disaster as
spectacle. The disaster-spectacle is a “visible negation of
life”, and offers visitors to post-Katrina New Orleans
curated portrayals of the splintered environment that are
artfully selected, disarrayed, and manicured for effect,
“where the real world is replaced by a selection of images
which are projected above it” (Debord, 4 & 6). The cultural
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production of disasters in both of these aesthetic
engagements ultimately employs different methods of city
reading, but results in similar repercussions when one
considers an ethics of seeing.
Disaster tourism is one of the most visible
manifestations of disaster capitalism in practice, a concept
first coined by Naomi Klein in The Shock Doctrine. She defines
it as “orchestrated raids on the public sphere in the wake
of catastrophic events, combined with the treatment of
disasters as exciting market opportunities” (Klein, 6).
Disaster tourism stands here as an admittedly creative
vehicle for capitalizing on the disaster of spectacle,
channeling contemporary American reactions to disasters as
articulated events of tragedy and consumption at once. It is
this spirit of capitalistic exploitation that aids in the
polemical shaping of imaginative geographies and their
constrictive histories, collecting disparate, conflicted
readings of the post-traumatic landscape of New Orleans.
Here, I argue that disaster tourism—or its pejorative term
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‘disaster porn’—helps to actively create or contest an
imaginative geography of its own, at the expense of those
who dwell within its parameters. By framing the landscape
with its own plots, death tourist ventures such as the Grey
Line Bus Tours’ Hurricane Katrina Tour10 and the
Hurricane/Rebirth Tour11 supplant history with a moving
panorama, writing over the torn environment.
How do disaster tourism and its exploitative
underpinnings alter contemporary readings of the New Orleans
cityscape? The preexisting cultural identity of New Orleans
as a tourist destination complicates the visualization of
the city when disaster tourism is thrown into the mix. Prior
to Katrina, the tourism industry was a celebration in civic
life, good food and music, albeit carefully crafted to be
politically innocuous. Anna Hartnell notes that the Katrina
bus invites tourists “to gaze on a bit of living history”
(Hartnell, 297). Hartnell observes the ‘illusory’ effect of
the prior tourist endeavors:
10 http://www.graylineneworleans.com/katrina.shtml. 11 http://www.tourneworleans.com/rebirth_set.html.
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Ironically though, few of the mostly white tourists whovisit realize that the apparently edgy experience of Bourbon Street is a show put on by tourist industry workers, most of whom vacate the Quarter at night to return to homes that are in general located on the ‘wrong’ side of Rampart Street(297).
Here, it appears that a stage is already set for New Orleans
as spectacle, with tours scheduled and mapped to promote a
certain reading of the city as the locus for tourist-based
commerce. Hartnell affirms these findings, taking the
legibility away from the residents who once resided in the
Ninth Ward and other parts of lower New Orleans to promote
instead “a business-driven reconstruction program that is
currently completing New Orleans’ makeover into a playground
for wealthy tourists” (299). The imaginings of New Orleans
in the American collective memory then considers only
certain high-profile locations that are aesthetically
pleasing to signify the city as a whole. The projection of
the city as an imaginative geography has concrete,
pejorative repercussions on the social reality of the
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inhabitants whose lives do not fit into the map of this
spectacle-fed New Orleans.
A few notable projects such as the Ninth Ward Rebirth
Bike Tours attempt to renovate tourism as a tool for
different valences of ‘progress’ by considering New Orleans
a live archive with a materiality that does not necessarily
preclude a perspective of social justice stemming from
disaster-stricken human ecologies. While Robert Polidori’s
photography evokes landscape imagery of the sublime, the
Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours’ aesthetic takes on a neo-
realist12 recovery stance from the day-to-day rebuilding of New
Orleans. The Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours assumes an active
stance on witnessing the current state of rebuilding New
Orleans, considering the day-to-day reality of committing to
the reconstruction of the post-traumatic landscape as
neorealist progress as change. Stephanie Houston Grey
12 Neo-realism is an aesthetic school of thought seen in Italian film first after World War II—the brainchild of a post-traumatic Italy—yielding a perspective that makes a ‘virtue out of necessity’, as Christopher Wagstaff words it, “[becoming] their own producers, and developing cheap production methods, concentrating on authentic content rather than on ‘production values’ such as stars and spectacle” (Wagstaff, 13).
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affirms this aesthetic keeping interventionist practice,
stating, “Renewing a vibrant urban space means examining the
grounds upon which the city’s sense of authenticity has been
established in the past and confronting the spatial
ideologies that continue to inhibit the process of recovery”
(Houston Grey, 130). In order for post-Katrina New Orleans
to reconstruct the city, the ruins have to be examined as a
site of material and ideological contestation to address
what is built within the city’s space that prohibits its
social progress.
Section II. The Ninth Ward Revival Bike Tour: Neo-realist Interventions in Sight/Site-seeing
My experience of a bike tour through lower New Orleans
provides an example of tactical engagement that dismisses
the rules of normal, pre-formulated city legibility. In the
style of Michel de Certeau’s explorations in the reading of
space functions as an exercise of agency engaging the
pedestrian—or biker—with the intricacies of city reading
from the ground. The critical pedestrian walking through a
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site can witness the contrast between physical ruins and the
lingering hold of its ideological identity. Walkers, or as
de Certeau calls them, wandersmänner,13 walk along the post-
traumatic landscape to interact with it, an act of
appropriation that allows “walking to function as a space of
enunciation” (de Certeau, 93). The critical pedestrian can
read the city’s ruins by sifting through the traces of a
disaster’s aftermath to combat the ways conventional media
and political narratives strive to contain the post-
traumatic landscape in discourses of simultaneous
conservation and negligence.
As such, the critical pedestrian is narrowly separated
from his predecessor, the flâneur,14 or his conceptual
opposite, the tourist. One is the urban poet that moves with
a skill and ease “which the journalist eagerly learns from
him” (Benjamin, 167), the other is a voyeuristic consumer.
13. De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, 93. 14. For Anne Friedberg, the flâneur is a “male dandy who strolled the urban streets and arcade in the nineteenth century” (Friedberg, 420). According to Susan Buck-Morss, the precise social position of the flâneur embodies ‘the empty time of modernity’ in Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project (Buck-Morss, 228).
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These slight nuances in social positions associated with
modern, tactical engagement within the city introduce
diverging ethics of seeing. The tourist is the contemporary
bastardization of the flâneur insofar as the ethical weight
the tourist’s gaze seems to impart on his surroundings
differs from the impact the flâneur makes with his
observances. The gaze of the flâneur is disengaged; he does
not intercede with his surroundings, yet permits it to act
on him. Walter Benjamin portrays the flâneur, “who plunges
into the crowd as into a reservoir of electric energy”
(Benjamin, 175), as a social product of his time. He arises
to “keep abreast of traffic signals… [subjecting] the human
sensorium to a complex kind of training” (175), thus
occupying new positions of seeing in modern city life. The
flâneur turns his “ambulatory gaze” to observe the changing
landscape of modern, public spaces. 15 This gaze eventually
15 For more on the urban spectator in New Orleans, see: Fisk, Sandra. “Strangers Are Flocking Here: Identity and Anonymity in 1810-1860”. American Nineteenth Century History. Vol. 6, Issue 1, Mar. 2005: 421.
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results in the ethical permission to look beyond detached
perusal to blatant consumption.
The tourist, a contemporary manifestation of the urban
spectator that the flâneur presented earlier in the
nineteenth century, engages in perceived parasitic behavior,
tying voyeurism to the remnants of city ruins.16
Historically dating back as early as the 1840s in New
Orleans, tourists consist of those “hailing from the working
and middle classes, as passive visitors guided by
convention, [blending] into the “modern ‘crowd’” (Frink,
162). Already a figure of dubious taste, the tourist is the
catalyst in a larger cultural economy that feeds upon the
landscape, “as the very presence of the tourist corrupts the
idea of reaching an authentic and totally different culture”
(Coleman & Crang, 3). Mike Crang notes that the cultural
production that emerges from tourism operates under a model
of ruination: “Paradoxically, a nostalgia semiotic economy
is produced, one that is always mourning the loss of that
16Fisk, “Strangers Are Flocking Here”, 160-163.
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which it itself has ruined” (3). The tourist establishes and
reinforces the idea of imaginative geographies splayed over
the actual site, semiotically tying worth on the ‘untouched’
site as that which is unreachable: “The really authentic
unspoiled place is always displaced in space or time—it is
spatially located over the next hill, or temporally existed
just a generation ago” (3). The tourist emerges in
contemporary times to engage in different social positions
alongside the post-traumatic landscape, linking present
notions of ruins, disaster capital, and the articulated
event as spectacle. The disaster tours in post-Katrina New
Orleans were created with the tourist in mind—to create an
ideal experience for those looking to experience sights and
sites as aesthetic expenditure. Based on voyeuristic
consumption, these disaster tours provide a way to share its
history without the guilt and loss experienced by those
immediately struck by Katrina.
The tour guides at the Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tour are
aware of this visual distance; they take the tourism schema
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and invert it. By allowing the pedestrian to engage actively
within the Lower Ninth Ward instead of from a spatial and
visual distance in a bus seat or car, the Ninth Ward Rebirth
Bike Tour offers a critical approach that pokes at
conventional histories surrounding post-Katrina New Orleans,
stating:
Life experienced through a windshield is one step away from watching it on TV, but even a bicycle tour can become just a series of sights. We want to deliver a series of stories and lives, from the history and importance of the Lower Nine, the context of the flooding during Hurricane Katrina, and why the revival of this remarkable neighborhood matters (Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours, Online).
The Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours embeds itself within the
social fabric of the Ninth Ward, taking into account its
built history, the shared fates of its inhabitants, and the
politicized exploitation it suffered at the hands of the
media. The website describes the background history of ‘The
‘Lower Nine’: “One of the worst-hit neighborhoods during
Hurricane Katrina, the working-class community of the Lower
Ninth Ward had one of the highest homeownership rates in the
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state of Louisiana before the storm. It was a tight-knit
neighborhood, an interconnected community of musicians and
blue-collar workers who had survival stamped onto their
souls” (Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours, Online). By allowing
the critical pedestrian to engage with the post-traumatic
neighborhood directly, to learn the histories that lace over
the city’s topography, the bike tours reveal the existing
need for social justice.
The sensation of seeing the Ninth Ward for the first
time on a bicycle gave the strong impression that I was
watching a panoramic history unravel before my eyes. The
first words the tour guide imparts are not weighty words of
poetic justice or emotional baggage, but rather simple,
quotidian instructions for riding through traffic. Much of
the area surrounding the Ninth Ward has been rebuilt, and
the ride up until St. Claude bridge allows the critical
pedestrian an idyllic perspective, with the rows of white
fences, and the suburban domestic sprawl of houses alongside
the curb. The domestic layout of the neighborhoods does not
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change, but the condition of the dwelling spaces deteriorate
at an alarming rate on bicycle. Alongside houses with gaping
maws, broken windows, and split rooftops still untended to
after more than five years, a few of the more famous housing
projects initiated by non-profit organizations stick out in
almost surreal juxtaposition. The surreal effect is
compounded even further by the fact that the critical
pedestrian can read the signs littered all over the post-
traumatic landscape: the broken-down, abandoned houses—
still, after all these years—and the visible lack of
community activity offers a striking comparison to the
surrounding neighborhoods that have long since recovered
from the storm. The memory of the bike tour takes me through
several stages the neighborhood has experienced prior to and
after the hurricane, lending the perception that a visual
history unravels the greater the distance I cover.
The Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours [Fig. 8] map this
trajectory of neglect as a tactical counter-aesthetic
narrative of the post-traumatic landscape. The aim is to
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build awareness of the negligence the neighborhood has
suffered, even as it represents the focus of world-wide
familiarity from the high-profile architectural, political
and media endeavors that profit highly without allowing more
than a mere percentage to come back to the community they
exploit. Acknowledging this particularly fruitful branch of
disaster capital, the Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours
disclaims, “This is not ‘Disaster Tourism’, designed to
leave you in awe of the devastation; it is a tour meant to
show you the strength of the residents and leave you amazed
by their strength and perseverance” (Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike
Tours, Online). The tour starts in the adjacent neighborhood
of Marigny, by Washington Square, then crosses over the St.
Claude bridge to show the rising tide-line of disaster
impact through the Lower Ninth Ward, St. Bernard’s Parish,
and other surrounding neighborhoods. In focusing on the
medium of bicycling, this NGO acknowledges that the best way
to read the city in the aftermath is to let the space to
articulate itself, inviting the critical pedestrian to come
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and investigate the post-traumatic landscape intimately and
individually. By uncovering precisely what is not covered in
the news in the wake of a disaster like Hurricane Katrina,
Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours offers pedestrians a chance to
draw their own readings of the post-traumatic landscape,
escaping the frame of conventional narratives.
The tour guide, Reecy, explains the concrete
impressions the disaster had imprinted upon the landscape of
lower New Orleans—the ‘X’ marks on the house, the flood
water marks that measured the rise and ebb in the level of
flood waters, etc. She also contextualizes the politics
around the rebuilding projects that have persisted over the
years past Katrina, such as Make It Right. “Architects Gone
Wild”—that is how she describes the swoop of urban planners
and architects that had descended upon the Ninth Ward right
after the disaster. As replacements for those family-owned
houses, the project entails approximately 150 houses under
construction, which start at $150,000 subsidized, designed
by Frank Gehry. Concerning the Make It Right initiative, Reecy
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postulates that “when they can go into the open market in
twenty years... Those houses will sell for $300,000 each, or
more, because Frank Gehry designed them. And then the whole
community will essentially turn into a gated community”
(Interview, Mar. 2011).” The lure of a tabula rasa
opportunity attracted the attention of celebrities like Brad
Pitt to come and rebuild the area in a vision that detracts
from the neighborhood’s appearance prior to Katrina. One of
the bikers raises the question of aesthetic disparity:
“We’ve been down here before [Katrina]. You’ve got to wonder
why they’re going from that type of house, style of the
house—everything—to something completely off-scale”
(Interview, Mar. 2011). Reecy ascribes it to “Vanity.
Vanity, vanity— ‘Frank Gehry needs you to look at his house
and go, ‘Ah, that is a Gehry house!’” (Interview, Mar.
2011). This inability to associate or acknowledge the dire
reality of the neighborhood in favor of some architect’s
masterpiece, or the mark of celebrity, traces back to the
delusions that arise from modernist delusions to the legacy
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of disaster. This failure manifests itself as dire lack of
empathy and an unwillingness to recognize the remnant traces
of legibility in the Ninth Ward’s broken homes and
structures in favor of profit.
The scenario in the Ninth Ward bodes ill for New
Orleans if the social and aesthetic responses that emerge
after disaster management prioritizes profit over reform. As
a stipulation, Reecy remarks, “Now, to be fair to Make It
Right, they are the only organization working on a large-
scale to put people back into houses. There are a number of
volunteer organizations that are rehab-ing houses for them.
But this is the only major building project out here”
(Interview, Mar. 2011). This gesture, while much acclaimed,
is not sufficient. Once asked if the neighborhood is
prepared for the likes of another large-scale hurricane, she
answers:
“Zero plans for the lower Ninth Ward. No plan at all. There were plans, two years after the storm… plans, a whole library that they had, that the city put together. They had urban planners go, ‘Okay, here’s a couple of scenarios… we make everything that has ten feet of water, or whatever, near the floodwall… we make
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this area green space.’ Kind of a dirty word here in the lower Ninth Ward now, green space. ‘We do dense housing along Clayborn and St. Claude’s—the two main drags around town—and we rebuild here, along this side of Clayborn, and kind of let nature take it back, and we rebuild here.’ There are plans, but nothing has beenimplemented” (Interview, Mar. 2011)
That a certain strain of ‘fashionable’ ecologically-driven
social justice finds derision with the inhabitants of the
Lower Ninth Ward is dismal, if unsurprising. Reecy’s
skeptical reading of the slogan words ‘green space’ as not
an ethically driven intervention, but a shallow
appropriation of ecologically-minded material culture and
its potential interventions as the prize items of a more
privileged incoming cluster intended to displace the
neighborhood’s older, more impoverished inhabitants. This
weak attempt at community developing and habitation through
green branding is not a compatible alternative to the
restoration of a security apparatus for the lower Ninth
Ward. The contemporary narratives of humanistic social
justice campaigns are at odds once again with the discursive
narratives addressing the material act of rebuilding the
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built environment, where materialist interventions conducted
within a post-traumatic landscape are used to render certain
unwanted or undesirable demographics illegible in the name
of progress. This illegibility ethically conflates
humanistic and materialist readings of the post-traumatic
landscape, causing the people struck hardest by the disaster
to compete against the progressive reconstruction of
material sites and objects, which signify the erasure of New
Orleans’ poor marginalized past in the anticipation of a
gentrified, more privileged future.
The Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours ultimately attempts
to unearth the derivative politics lurking behind such a
reconstruction project. I contrast this widely broadcast
idea of progress behind rebuilding projects such as Make It
Right—an uneasy marriage between capitalist gentrification in
the name of social reform—with the ideological stance
espoused by Reecy and the Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours. The
latter draws from neo-realist values that act as the incentive
for progress. Neo-realism is defined here as an aesthetic
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genre that offers an alternative means of representing a
particular environment, historical sentiment and collective
identity of a nation by re-seizing its means of systematic,
cultural production—initially, the film and media industry—
and subverting it to tell different kinds of history,
memory, and texts. Subverting neo-realist aesthetics of
necessity and barefaced montages from a film trajectory
traveled in the mind’s eye to a physical trajectory traveled
on bike extends the interpretive frame from reading the film
as a text to reading the city as a text. A neorealist
reading of the city reveals it as a live text. These values
factor in both necessity and improvement as part of the
everyday process of recovery and renewal, not en masse, as
fashionable rebuilding projects advertise change, but in
uneven growth—in fits and starts. Reecy confirms this when
she recounts the interstitial process of rebuilding New
Orleans post-Katrina, “You see the empty houses, but you
also see new construction. And I do see it start up, every
week. Slowly but surely, it does happen. They start
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renovating, they start coming home” (Interview, Mar. 2011).
Ultimately, the Ninth Ward Rebirth and Bike Tour’s approach
is a critical intervention in the context of post-Katrina
New Orleans because it addresses the post-traumatic
landscape as a live space with continuous progress, not a
dead one determined by the passing of the articulated
disaster event.
By offering a different articulation of the event and
its resultant social reality, the Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike
Tours offers an alternative reading of the event and the
possibility of a different vision for the city. In painting
a tableau where the ideological and material representations
of the landscape are entangled, Reecy and the other like-
minded activists offer innovative ways to engage the
community directly, addressing those neglected in Polidori’s
photography and the news coverage presented by media and
political pundits. The Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tour website
states, “After the tragedy of Katrina, the television
coverage left off this post-script… Through the efforts of
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residents and volunteers, of governments and charities, the
rebuilding of this neighborhood is possible and still
underway” (Ninth Ward Rebirth Bike Tours, Online). In the
years following, what ultimately is articulated through the
lens of post-Katrina New Orleans? The problematic
positioning of the tourist and the critical pedestrian that
emerges as a response raises questions about the ethics of
seeing, alongside Sontag’s ‘grammar’ of photography.
Ultimately, do we have the right to legitimize certain
images of catastrophe through legible narratives, and to
script certain readings produced to appear more readily than
others?
Perhaps beyond the literal ruins of the landscape, what
is also in decline is an ethics of looking, an awareness
confronting a certain visuality that endorses the
proliferation of disaster imagery. Michael Crang notes that
“[touristic] culture is more than the physical travel, it is
the preparation of people to see other places as objects of
tourism, and the preparation of those people and places to
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be seen” (Crang & Franklin, 10). If that is the case, could
it be that people are prepared to see post-Katrina in a
state of frozen disarray, in a stasis of ruin? If not, then
why does one of the nation’s most attractive destination
sites allow neighborhoods like the Lower Ninth Ward to
continue appearing in such a state of disarray? What
surfaces after Hurricane Katrina is specific narrative of
legibility for the post-traumatic landscape, deciphering
critiques, solutions and progress in the terrain as
alternative readings to conventional narratives of neglect,
dismissive aesthetics of the sublime, and the visual
consumption of a space as disaster capital. By reassessing
the built environment as live space that speaks to its
inhabitants, critical counter-reads forego the undergirding
cultural ideologies that petrify the post-traumatic
landscape into an ossified graveyard of bygone dreams of
American Progress. Rather, various discursive and material
interventions that focus on recovering live space for
diverging and productive ideas of progress can negotiate the
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