NEW ORLEANS — Since the city started sending text messages urging people to stay at home, I have been waking up around 6:00 each day as my neighbor Owen feeds his chickens. We sit at opposite ends of our shared backyard and drink coffee.

Afterward, I wash my hands for 20 seconds, put on my helmet, hang a bandanna around my neck as a makeshift mask, and pack my bag with hand sanitizer and wipes.

It has been 23 days since we were first told to practice social distancing, the now-familiar act of staying six feet away from each other to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. In a city known for parades and saying hello to your neighbors, the change is stark. On day four, I decided to make portraits of the city from this now significant distance.

Donald Narcisse, employee, Pizza Domenica. Mid-City. March 15.

Andrew Richard, left, and Capt. Kenyon Hughes, firefighters. Engine No. 9, French Quarter. March 22.

Sara, emergency room nurse, after a week of 12-hour shifts. Mid-City. March 15.

Sean Julian, driver, FedEx. French Quarter. March 20. “I don’t know if it’s a hurricane coming, it has that kind of vibe coming.”

With my camera over my shoulder, I bike down Canal Street to the French Quarter, passing the Joy Theater. The lettering on the marquee carries a message: “We Love you NOLA, Stay Safe & Wash Your Hands, Be Back Soon.”

“Nobody’s ready for this,” Capt. Kenyon Hughes told me while he was working overtime at the fire station on the edge of the Quarter. On Thursday, the number of known coronavirus cases in Louisiana soared past 9,000.

A man washing the sidewalk in front of Royal House Oyster Bar, which is now closed.

Owen Ever, curator, New Orleans Pharmacy Museum. In his fifth day of self-quarantine. Mid-City. March 16.

From left, Andy Overslaugh, bar manager, Voodoo Lounge, with Wilder Tipton and Lori Tipton, writer. Upper Ninth Ward. March 24.

Dr. Dipti Munshi, physician, Ochsner Medical Center. French Quarter. March 22.

Individual sounds once muffled by the hum of the city now echo through deserted streets. I follow the echoes to their source. I hear Barry Botson’s broom sweeping up Basin Street outside the Saenger Theater. Sean Julian closing the door of his FedEx van. The clicking heels of three Tulane students as they walk down a boarded-up Bourbon Street to make graduation portraits. Then, camera in hand and standing six feet away, I introduce myself and ask to photograph those I encounter.

Ellis Douglas, farmer, Major Acre Farm. LaPlace, La. March 25.

Jasmine Araujo, writer. French Quarter. March 28.

Mason Hensel, chef. Bywater. March 20. “I think this is making a lot of our relationships strong, we are bonding together like the city was designed to be. We’re making sure everyone in the neighborhood has food, has beer, light bulbs. This makes us feel a little more like family, than like friends.”

Ashley Teamer, seated, and Elle Pérez, artists. Seventh Ward. March 26.

Though we are beginning to understand how this disease spreads and what we can do to help prevent it, the isolation and uncertainty make a hard trade. Our daily routines have come to a standstill. Lives feel momentarily frozen. Once crowded, early evening streets now carry the air of dawn.

In this new landscape, making portraits also feels changed. No one’s eyes are darting back and forth, conscious of being seen. No drunken revelers stumbling into frame, apologizing, then backing out. No urgency of scheduling (we all have time). There’s an ease to our interaction. This disruption clears the space to connect.

Jennifer Ann Jones, a.k.a., “The Dance Queen,” street performer. French Quarter. March 24.

Nikki Minor, herbalist and kindergarten teacher. Mid-City. March 26.

Louis Howe, retired, and Catt Rolland, restaurant manager. Treme. March 26.

Barry Botson, maintenance worker, Saenger Theatre, the day the Mayor ordered nonessential businesses to close in New Orleans. Canal Street near the French Quarter. March 20. “I’ll be excited when everything gets back to normal. So, we can go back to work. I’m missing that.”

From left, Isabella Smith, Maggie O’Donnell and Shea Jolly, Tulane students. French Quarter. March 19.

Hieu Than, owner, Kin restaurant. Gert Town. March 26.

After a few mornings in the Quarter, I head out in search of the absence. Where are the musicians? Bartenders? The people who make up this city? When income, along with agency and power, is taken away, what are we left with? Who do we lean on when physical touch is a luxury?

At about 5:00 p.m., Jasmine Araujo rides in the bed of a 1998 Chevy truck as it crisscrosses the Quarter. Beside her are 75 bagged meals and bottles of water that she has prepared for people living on the streets outside — a mutual-aid project like many surfacing across the country.

“You need food?” she asks a man walking by.

“Yes, please,” he says.

“I’ll bring it to you,” she answers. With gloved hands, she places the meal on the ground and steps back. “We want to keep you safe,” she says. He picks it up.

Fifteen minutes later, the meals are gone.

Biking home down the center of Canal Street, I see a vacant streetcar glowing at dusk. I pass nurses leaving the hospital after a 12-hour shift, where each act of care carries risk. I look at them, wave as I go by. I remind myself that while this new distance prohibits touch, it still allows for eye contact.

Mark Reed, construction worker. French Quarter. March 19.

Steven Smith, actor, and Jenny Fischman, yoga instructor. Bywater. March 20.

Li Yaffe, set decoration buyer. Seventh Ward. March 16. “We have these stress coping skills that we rely on — holding, being held — you can’t do that now. You have to develop a whole new set of stress coping skills.”

Cherise Hills, employee, Rouses Grocery Store. French Quarter. March 28.

William Antill, bartender, Crossing. French Quarter. March 26.