“The creative photographer sets free the human contents of objects; and imparts humanity to the inhuman world around him.”
-Clarence John Laughlin, photographer

On March 10, 2006, I traveled to New Orleans to photograph the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina approximately six months after the storm. As a child of the Gulf Coast region, I felt a sense of duty to bear witness to the ongoing struggle to rebuild and to help in some way. Living and photographing in the South, I have witnessed the region’s familiarity with defeat. From the Civil War to the constant threats of nature and the overwhelming heat, Southerners have an ingrained ability to bear hardship. This stubborn insistence on surviving was never more palpable to me than on this trip.
When my closest friend moved to Baton Rouge three years ago, the New Orleans area became a second home to me. A year before Katrina, I was in New Orleans with my friend to document the Saint Patrick’s Day festival and remnants from Louisiana’s plantation era. On our way to Oak Alley Plantation, I spotted a roadside graveyard with no more than 20 graves resting closely together above ground. When we pulled over so I could take a photograph, I realized this was the family plot of a single African-American family that dated back a hundred years. The rich and tumultuous history of the area is seeped in the soil. It is carved in the oak trees. In the days following the levee collapse, I found myself wondering what became of that family’s resting place?
In the mere two days I had to experience New Orleans after the storm this past March, I was overcome by what I saw. My worries over that tiny rural graveyard seemed so naive as I stood in the mass grave of homes and lives that was the Ninth Ward. Entire communities ripped open and left in scattered remains on the pavement; a family living room violently exposed and destroyed. The ghosts of these inhabitants continue to haunt me. My only clue to the number of residents who died in the flooding are the spray-painted numbers on the front of their homes. But what I also realized during my trip was that the many citizens who have fled do not have the means to return. They were ignored during the evacuations, and continue to be forgotten by the local governments. Entire communities of the city’s poorest citizens, invisible to the powers that be, have disappeared. All that remains of their existence are the personal possessions still left scattered in the streets and the skeletons of the few homes that still stand.

It is my goal to travel back to New Orleans to photograph these artifacts, the survivors who have returned, and the state of the area one year after the devastation. Their voices deserve to be heard. And the sad truth is that most Americans have moved on, as the media has moved on, from this story. History has taught us the impact that photographs can have on the national consciousness. Beyond the first anniversary of the storm, I would like to make multiple trips to the region during the year to track the progress and revisit the people and places I encounter along the way. I aim to travel around the city of New Orleans and its outskirts with my camera, capturing images that meld the history of the area to the current conditions. I want the chance to return and walk down those streets where I know objects lay waiting for me to give them a voice.
Return to New Orleans, 6 Months After Katrina portfolio.