Biking around New Orleans in the years after Katrina, pondering the destruction—what was lost and what survived, the blue sky reflecting in the puddles and in the potholes—Anthony DelRosario was conceiving the project of a lifetime. He would go on to spend days, months, years documenting the careful lettering advertising beauty salons, barber shops, churches, delis, daiquiri shops, lounges. This included corner stores, once the center of community life for gossip and groceries. It all began as an act of preservation, a realization that “life and things are fragile and ephemeral.”
BEER - WINE - Liquor
KILLER FREE Jukebox
Snacks…GOOD TIMES
He calls his life’s work Nola ‘Nacular, a reference to the vernacular signage he has taken to heart. Hand-painted signs are going the way of the typewriter, the way of the phonograph. Growing rarer every day, these signs are sometimes misspelled but always distinct to the painter, utilitarian, sure, but also something more. They are almost always an advertisement, but sometimes a plea or reminder that Jesus Loves You or an idea: Cell Phone—Modern Ear Ache? When we talk about the local color of New Orleans, these hand-painted signs, which DelRosario describes as vernacular art, are part of the tapestry. In this instance, vernacular refers to “a language that is not standard or official, but instead specific to a particular community or culture.” I mean, you already know. Who dat, your mom ‘en ‘em. Making groceries, snoballs. Ain’t dere no more. The sign painters go a little further; their art is often the voice, or font, of an entire neighborhood.
Before Katrina, DelRosario spent nearly a decade booking shows for the Mermaid Lounge (ain’t dere no more), feeding the band, making hardly any money, which was fine. He was more interested in the community, supporting the music he loved. So, this newfound mission of wandering the streets and documenting their signs was just an extension of his way of caring for his people. He draws similarities to his work with that of Alan Lomax, who drove around documenting folk stories and musicians in the early twentieth century. When we speak, he smilingly refers to himself as an “ethnosignicologist.” Over time, he found himself able to distinguish the work of different artists by their flourishes, their lettering style—each the last lighthouse of their message, painting advertisements and advice, like any artist, because of necessity and because they’re driven to do the work.
One morning, he stopped before a gentleman sitting in front of a painted sign and asked him if he knew where the artist was who had made it. He’d been looking for Lester Carey for a while. The man, June, said, “Well, he’s probably at Keller Market across the street”—which was exactly where DelRosario found him, there with a grocery cart stuffed with paint cans and a backpack that had “artist” painted on it.
Carey was one of the first sign artists he met and one of the best-known; this grinning older man with a little bit of a shoulder hunch has painted sandwich boards and sides of buildings, logos and church signs, mostly in Central City, where he lived. “Lester would often have sketches when I ran into him,” said DelRosario. On a grocery store wall, NECK BONES PIG TAILS + TIPS PORK CHOPS is painstakingly written, sometimes in cursive, sometimes slanted, red on white; giving a little levity to shopping, to your lunch break, chicken wings painted like the dependable delight they are. DelRosario sometimes refers to work like Carey’s as “block style” or “script style.”
DelRosario has lamented that he understands it might be cheaper, or simply easier, to have a sign designed digitally, or now through AI, and printed quickly. But the “neighborhood loses something.” That is to say, it loses its voice.
After their meeting, DelRosario went from simply observing the culture he loved to helping actively support and create it. He began bringing Carey plywood and paint, the types of brushes he needed, and even got him some commissions. He made shirts to raise money for Carey, who lived on the street. They later collaborated with Defend New Orleans to make and sell more shirts with Carey’s signature painted words across the chest, the proceeds going to the artist. Carey passed away in 2017, though his work remains synonymous with the tradition of New Orleans sign painting, in no small part thanks to DelRosario’s crusade to preserve his visual voice through Nola ‘Nacular. He and his friend Steven Achord, a UX designer, even went so far as to create a website, where the public can download Carey’s signature fonts for free.
The other sign painting characters of the city are similarly larger than life, genuine with light. “Uncle Tom” or Tom White often keeps a paintbrush under his hat, like architects keep their pencils behind their ears. He learned the art from sign painter Huey Bender after attending the John McCrady Art School on Bourbon in the early seventies. When he was a child, he’d draw right on the walls; now, he keeps paper tacked to the walls of his house so he can relieve stress and get out ideas, calling it his “graffiti wall” that he can scribble scrabble on. His work, like Carey’s, defines the Central City neighborhood. He gets his jobs by word of mouth—his work speaking for itself. Innovators Barber Shop: Your not a stranger here . . . Just a friend we never met…Yes We're OPEN • Booth Rentals • WALK • INS • Welcome. “He turned seventy-five a couple months ago and is still full of ideas,” said DelRosario.
DelRosario found Pam Collins through her business card, left at Rainbow Grocery on Magazine Street. It read, “Pamela the Artist—commercial art, truck, lettering, banners for any occasions, signs etc.” Collins worked for the City of New Orleans for thirty-one years, painting signs for various agencies: house auction signs, No! Parking, NO tailgating on City Property, Subject to Be Fined. She even painted the official city grandstand at Gallier Hall for Mardi Gras. Her signature touch is painted stars and flourishes, sometimes including glitter. Her love for art and sign painting began early, painting signs for birthdays and other parties when she was a teen. She felt like it was meant to be that her first “real” job was as a sign painter, and so far, she’s stuck with it. Her work mostly spans the Gentilly and 7th Ward neighborhoods.
There are more artists out there that DelRosario has documented, but hasn’t met—more living legends, or ghosts, painting signs for their neighborhoods. The artists and their work is practical and imaginative, funny and serious. They are not intimidated by the many things they must paint: snoballs and stadiums, jazz bands and daiquiris, catfish and Ford trucks. DelRosario has lamented that he understands it might be cheaper, or simply easier, to have a sign designed digitally, or now through AI, and printed quickly. But the “neighborhood loses something.” That is to say, it loses its voice. “I want others to realize and appreciate the art of life, to recognize the work that other humans do to make our community, our world, what it is,” he said.
You can make your neighborhood yours, and help your neighbor, too, by advertising what everybody is trying to do.
Since 2023, DelRosario has operated a gallery called Nola ‘Nacular on one side of his shotgun house on Magazine Street at Erato, in the Lower Garden District. He books bands and hangs art, and Collins occasionally sets up to paint custom signs for visitors. He sells prints of corner stores and Carey’s lettering on shirts: Neck Bones 5 LBS. $4.69. He tries to have openings on the first Saturday of every month, and closings on the last
Saturday. He curates the music with the help of the month’s featured gallery artist, and he hopes “to get the word out to more touring acts that are looking for funky non-bar venues, but mainly want to create an atmosphere of community where anyone is welcome. Sustainers globus, pro uno commune bono—support the group, for one common good.”
The meaning behind DelRosario’s project is to remind people this is all a part of human history. If you need something like a sign, or to put on a music show, or to make a little book, you really can do it yourself. If you have a message for the world, you can get some scrap wood and some spray paint and craft paint and cheap brushes, you can put your message out there.
In a world now crawling and scraping with AI, and a world running out of sign painters, just as New Orleans has seen its own rebirth over and again, DelRosario’s life’s work reminds us that we can always start anew, we can tell the world about our hearts and beliefs, and build a community that becomes unique and individual, vernacular. It can be misspelled. It can be bright and loud. You can make your neighborhood yours, and help your neighbor, too, by advertising what everybody is trying to do. In the meantime, Tom White and Pam Collins are living legends, alive and well, and ready to paint.