Reír para no llorar

  • Person: How are you feeling today?
  • Virginia Woolf: Again, my mind vibrates uncomfortably as it always does. Actually, I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words. I do not let myself think. This is a fact. I cannot face much of the meaning. Shut my mind to anything but work and bowls. And I wonder as I let the month run through my fingers: Can I get out of it? Out of it all? Truth is, I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin. (Isn't it all dust and ashes?) I am impressed by the transitoriness of human life to such an extent that I am often saying a farewell…and my heart currently resembles the ashes of my cigarettes; In fact, I'm in the mood to dissolve into the sky brb

Dispatch From Ferguson »



Ashley Yates:

The night after Sunday’s vigil, my fiancée and I returned home and watched a documentary on the Egyptian Revolution in Tahir Square.
I never would have imagined two days later, some of those very people would be tweeting me information on what to do after being tear gassed.


Lauren Bacall, hair and makeup test for To Have and Have Not, 1944

Goodbye Miss Bacall 


Lauren Bacall, hair and makeup test for To Have and Have Not, 1944

Goodbye Miss Bacall 


New Orleans, LA

It is no secret that New Orleans is made of its own kind of magic. During Mardi Gras — the city’s culmination ultimé — a reified sacred world emerges from the street, so raw and brightly colored we have to squint. No matter where you are in the city or what time of day it is, men in masks throw beads from balconies and glowing LEDs light up trinkets, swandive from giant fiberglass floats, high school kids in marching bands tilt their trumpets to the sky in unison, as if lifting their golden throats to sing holy holy in some tribal rhythmic ritual. Crack a crawdad and suck out its insides, and boogie in a bounce-induced fever while everyone slips into a proper southern swoon. 

The most elusive tradition is the march of the Mardi Gras Indians. A tradition nearly three centuries old, the Mardi Gras Indians are African-American “tribes” borne out of working-class neighborhoods, secret societies, and spiritual clubs. They wear elaborate hand-beaded and feathered costumes known as “suits” that members spend the whole year making. Each suit comes to symbolize a very specific and hierarchical position within the tribe, be it that of chief, queen, spy boy, or wild man, and the ornate patterns tell a tale all their own. Mystery shrouds the origins of the Mardi Gras Indians. Some say they pay homage to the Native Americans in the Houma and Chitihacha tribes who provided refuge for runaway slaves in the swamplands of Louisiana, while others maintain it was a show for Buffalo Bill’s visit west. 

In public ceremony, tribes dance and circle round each other in ritualistic competition. Once violent in nature, these days rival tribes compete for the superior suit and act of showmanship. When rival chiefs meet on the streets, they shout boasts and insults and you lookin good, babys at each other, while chanting call-and-response ditties that their grandparents before their grandparents before their grandparents sang. The songs remain to this day the most prominent and accessible part of Mardi Gras Indian culture. A line of percussionists offer support with tom drums, penny jars, bells, and forties bottles. It’s a spectacle of magic realism, characters of folklore, myth and legend culled from neighborhood 7-11s and front porch stoops.   

Photographs taken by one of The Big Easy’s own, Michael P. Smith.