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It should be a welcomed reminder, in the day-to-day haze of always needing more, when those basic components that make life livable suddenly climb to the top of must-haves. It should give us a sense of gratitude, in a time of loss, for the roofs we still have, the people who are still here and those trees that still compose the skyline. The acknowledgment of a present disaster should place a calm in the days that rest before and after. And perhaps it does for a moment make us all thankful for cool air and electricity, but it also fosters doubt in the value of living in Louisiana.

It is difficult to challenge that dubious feeling because it isn't just the nasty games we play with Mother Nature. The question is shaped by the weight of the status quo, the lethargy of the government, the deplorable state of public education and so on. We have to fight through the heat, through nepotism, through racism, through stagnancy.

The only acceptable defense I have found in the eight years I have lived here lies in our culture. And though it is hard to hold on to the memory of a junior ballet performance or the nameless neighbor that waves to you as you drive by, it is the sum of our song, our dance, our generosity, the way we cook, the stories we tell and the artful way we have always managed to enjoy each other that keeps one foot, if not both, rooted to this shifting, sinking soil.

Now all the music and poetry in the world isn't going to fix the hole in your ceiling or lift the water oak off your car, but it can more precisely communicate the kind of sympathy, anger, relief, aggravation and resiliency that only we in Louisiana are familiar with. Our art is born out of a brand of discontent and revival that is uniquely genuine and unmistakable. It isn't just the fiddle of exiled Acadians or the blues of overworked sharecroppers, it is the bold graffiti outside of a tattoo parlor bowing up to the hurricane or the impromptu dance in the middle of Chelsea's Cafe owner Dave Remmetter's dining room. It is why at the height of the storm, after a tree had split the Moreland's Magnolia Woods home in half, that glassworker Stephen Wilson ran inside to grab their son's work. It is why the death of artists Elemore Morgan Jr. and Paul Dufour mean so much, because their lives meant so much more. And these are only examples from my small world.

Many who live here wouldn't want to defend their affection for this place; it seems like an insult to even indulge the question. But the answer, though difficult because of all the garbage you have to acknowledge, is worth exploring not as a defense but as a reminder. We pride ourselves on the graciousness with which we treat people and the camaraderie that comes with street parades, festivals or grabbing a cup of coffee. It is that connectivity that makes living in Louisiana worth it, that makes art worth it.

Below are links to different ways disaster has managed to inspire art, both here and in New Orleans:

New Orleans Banksy

Baton Rouge graffiti

NY Times article

Lyrics