crumpled interior tells a different tale of Katrina, a family
that once was, a life that once flourished. No home captures
me as much as this home, the home of a musician, jazz perhaps.
A rusted yet majestic French horn sits against the mud flecked
wall, a matching band hat languishing on the floor. A trumpet
nestles amidst more rubble, tarnished and forgotten, while
a gilded mirror leans atop a couch, unbroken, magnificent.
I feel part of his life, this man whose photo lays on the
table next to a pack of big red gum. Like a voyeur, I've
entered sacred space unbidden, space of a family that is
not mine, a life with which I am not acquainted. I walk
outside to the rotting corpse of a dog, patches of rottie-colored
hair still clinging to pieces of rawhide and bone. Was this
your home too? Have you died waiting for your musician to
come? Perhaps you are what calls me to this home. The animals
always do call to me."
heart is with all those suffering from Katrina, human and
framed pieces, apparel, or other items with this art