NOLA Notes

Pulling up to the address on Tupelo Street, it was what I expected: a home. The museum is in a small building in the Lewis’ backyard. A woman was sitting on her front steps. And in the shadows of the trees sat Ronald Lewis on his front porch. Waiting for us. He instructed us to “go ‘head back” and he’d meet us.

It took Mr. Lewis about ten minutes to walk the 50 yards, what with his ruined knees. I inquired after his knees, having known of the trouble they give him. “Acupuncture,” he said, “I don’t want surgery—folks tell me often they hurt just as bad after surgery, so that’s not for me. I’m gonna try Alternative Medicine.”  Mr. Lewis shuffled to his chair, slowly bent down to sit, got situated, then took up reign as the Curator of the House of Dance and Feathers.

He asked where we were from.  I explained that my husband and I were from New Orleans, and that Tara was in from Florida.  He seemed more pleased with locals coming, white locals especially.  He asked how we’d learned of the museum.  I explained I’d known of it from visiting the Backstreet Cultural Museum (“Oh, Sylvester’s place,” he’d responded, “he’s a good friend of mine.”) and that I had read Dan Baum’s “Nine Lives” and so knew that end of things as well.  Then I couldn’t hold back.  I told him it was an honor to meet him; that I commended his sense of commitment to his neighborhood and the culture it generated; that I applauded his perseverance to preserve that culture and make it available to a larger audience.  He politely thanked me, as if I’d complimented his choice in a hat.  I STILL do not think Mr. Lewis thinks of himself as a catalyst; as a hero; as an icon.  And that modesty makes him all the more the hero and all the more likable.

He began by telling us he’d worked over 30 years with NOPSI maintaining the St. Charles Avenue streetcar tracks—that’s what ruined his knees. That for decades, he’d been actively involved with the Mardi Gras Indians and the various Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs—his club is the Big 9.

The museum, he’d explained, was a way to preserve the culture and beauty that is associated with those organizations.  “And that’s my love story, ” Mr. Lewis stated, “I don’t have much more to say than that.”  He welcomed us to take pictures, and I asked if I could take one of him.  He obliged me.

Then he started fresh on a new topic.  His being asked to be the 2008 King of Krewe du Vieux, and his wife, Minnie, the Queen.  “When I was young,” he’d said, “I thought all white people were rich.  Mardi Gras to me was going down and catching as many beads as I could to then sell them for lunch money. I’d watch the floats stop in front of the Bienville Club on Canal Street—all the white people on the floats dressed so fine.”

“Then in 2oo8 Krewe du Vieux asked me to be King. I was King of the French Quarter. ME,” he stated, still humbled by the honor these 2+ years later.  The krewe even put his likeness on their cups that year.  He reached for a cellophane bag that contained maybe 20 of the golden cups left.  He snaked one out and gave it to me, telling me he didn’t give those to everyone.  It was my turn to be humbled.

Then he settled down as though he had no more to say.  He looked around his museum and started anew.  He discussed that he is a member of the Krewe du Jieux—”a member,” he repeated for emphasis.  The museum had hosted several Seder meals over the years for Lewis’ Jewish friends.  He talked about American Indians, and how their story intertwines with the Mardi Gras Indians; about how he met a Choctaw Indian in a shelter post-Katrina and a member of the Houma Nation at Jazz Fest, and how they each discussed how much they had in common.

Drum donated by a member of the Houma Nation

And like so many Lewis meets that have an impact on his culture, that Houma Nation Indian began giving items to the museum to expand its cultural horizons.  The latest item he’s donated is this skull cane:

He talked about the Acadian people cast out of Canada that settled in Louisiana.  He’s got donated items from Acadians that likewise fit with the theme of the museum: pamphlets on Acadian home remedies to ailments.  He talked about his continued relationship with Dan Baum; the section of the museum dedicated to Hurricane Katrina; his lack of interest in being in Spike Lee’s Katrina documentary (“Friends tell me I should be in it.  I tell them Mr. Lee is getting paid to do that for HBO.  He isn’t doing it for me.  He didn’t help me rebuild.  He would just want my story.”) Interspersed in each of these topics, he returned to his real love: the bead- and feather-work of the Mardi Gras Indians.

Mr. Lewis is humble, but he is human.  And it is this final piece, an intricately beaded Indian Chief head, that brings out Mr. Lewis’ pride.  The pitch of his voice changes ever so slightly; the light in his eyes brightens just a tad.  He simply cannot resist drawing your attention to the piece and then explaining it:  It was a patch beaded by Mr. Lewis for an outfit his son wore one year for Mardi Gras.

On the one hand, it represents six months of work done for love of the craft and love of one’s child.  But to Mr. Lewis, and to folks like me that appreciate this craft, it represents so much more.

This beadwork is also the artwork used on the cover of Mr. Lewis’ book, “The House of Dance & Feathers: A Museum by Ronald W. Lewis.”  You can buy it from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.  But, as Mr. Lewis aptly points out, if you by it from the museum, he signs your book for free, as he did mine:

As we were leaving, I asked Mr. Lewis to indulge me one last thing: to allow me to kiss his cheek.  Of course, he obliged.

Thank you, Mr. Lewis, for showing us your museum, for opening your heart to me, for opening the minds of blacks and whites to see that there is no racial divide in loving art.  And thank you, Tara, for indulging me on taking you on this tour with me.  It is something I will never, ever forget.