Main Street in America: 62 Photos That Show How COVID-19 Changed the Look of Everyday Life

Here is America.

A walk around the block, a trip to the grocery store, a socially distanced meetup in a neighbor’s driveway. The span of our physical world has gotten small these past few months—very freaking small. Yet weirdly, along the way, our everyday surroundings, the spaces and the streets and the buildings we look at all the time but never really see, feel different. The mundane—a woman sitting on a bench, a cyclist, an empty bus—has become extraordinary.

This month, on the verge of the slow and scattershot reopening of the country, Esquire dispatched seventeen photographers to document their very small worlds, and to find out what has changed and what endures.

What did they find? Shuttered storefronts, empty playgrounds, deserted beaches, sure. But also college graduates congregating around a keg, a lone musician keeping the beat alive in the French Quarter, carloads of shoppers filling a mall parking lot, and the neighborhood barber back in his shop, cracking jokes through a mask.

These photos describe a moment: We were stuck in the in-between, and it was confusing, but in it were also moments of beauty. We wanted to chronicle all of it. Because soon enough this will all feel like a crazy dream.

Right?

Madison is both a college town and the state capital. State Street, which extends from the capitol to the University of Wisconsin, is usually jam-packed with people on the weekends. COVID-19 changed all that. Students were sent home to finish their semester online. Restaurants and bars have been closed. No farmers market on Capitol Square on Saturdays. The capitol building itself has been locked for weeks.

Riding my bike around town, I expected a spattering of people, mostly social distancing from others. Some wearing masks, some not. But alas, it turned out that Saturday was graduation day at the university. Though it was held virtually, many students had already rented their caps and gowns. So they were out and about, taking photographs with their families. Very few wore masks. There wasn’t a lot of social distancing.

I can understand their predicament. They’ve been cooped up for weeks. They want to celebrate their special moment. They’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars for their four years of education. Plus, let’s face it: They’re getting mixed messaging on how bad this coronavirus pandemic really is. It does illustrate, though, the challenge we face as a nation as the pandemic continues to sweep across the country and some of us disregard the proper health precautions. People may feel invulnerable, but they’re really not. —P.S.

Students from the University of Wisconsin wheel a keg down State Street. Official commencement ceremonies were canceled, but—global pandemic be damned—graduates celebrated their achievement.

The scene looks shockingly normal as graduates and their families gather at the State Capitol to take photos.

Social distancing, or a normal scene? On what would have been graduation day, students and families enjoy Memorial Union Terrace.

Though graduation was held virtually, many students had already rented their caps and gowns.

Warm sun, cold beer, and freedom: For these Wisconsin grads at a house party near campus, the end of college is blessedly timeless.

Dude is ready.

Graduation photos, spring 2020.

Friday night on King Street, around happy hour.

Photojournalist Pete Souza was the chief official White House photographer for President Barack Obama and the official White House photographer for President Ronald Reagan.

I moved to Atlanta seven weeks ago after living in New York City for twenty-five years. Moving from the great metropolis to suburban Buckhead was quite a change. It was always going to be weird, but it feels even more surreal now. Instead of views of the Manhattan skyline, my new apartment overlooks the Lenox Square and Phipps Plaza malls.

The malls reopened on Monday, May 4, after shelter-in-place orders had been lifted in Georgia by the governor. The cars came driving in that day and have continued arriving ever since. Curious to get a glimpse of what the foreseeable future of physical retail might look like, and to see if people were actually shopping or were just bored and in need of a destination day out, I wandered over. —A.H.

The parking lot at Lenox Square Mall—not exactly Christmas, but not empty. Plus: three guys doing something with a Ferrari, at a safe distance.

Orange tape, masks, and standing around at the Lenox Square Mall.

Socially distant mall seating, Part 1.

Socially distant mall seating, Part 2.

Shoppers line up to buy Gucci on the day the Phipps Plaza Mall reopened.

Covered drinking fountains outside public restrooms in Phipps Plaza Mall.

Andrew Hetherington is a photographer and director with over twenty years of experience traveling the world on assignment. Born in Dublin, he now lives in Atlanta.

The French Quarter is never this empty—even if you cleared out all the tourists, this nearly three-hundred-year-old neighborhood is always filled with residents and patrons of its twenty-four-hour bars. Because I shot during the day, the emptiness was more shocking than eerie. But it was also calming. To me, the French Quarter is akin to New York’s Times Square—iconic destinations for tourists often avoided by locals. The Quarter does have romance and charm, but also horror, with its too-often forgotten history of slavery.

I don’t have the privilege, or willful ignorance, to move about life and not consider these things. I don’t allow the history to control my present. So when the shelter-in-place order is lifted, I hope my tucked-away bars—Cane & Table, Manolito, and Jewel of the South—reopen, and I will once again stroll through the French Quarter with a cocktail in hand. —L.K.H.

Looking toward the Mississippi River on St. Ann Street in New Orleans’s world-famous French Quarter.

On Royal Street, Haji Ahakba, 73, continues to perform to no one. Normally, the neighborhood is full of musicians.

On Decatur Street, many businesses are boarded up, as if preparing for a hurricane.

“As I took this photo, I thought about Carnival just months before, when Bourbon was abuzz with revelers and I watched Mayor LaToya Cantrell do the final walk of Mardi Gras 2020 down the street.”

L. Kasimu Harris is a New Orleans–based artist who strives to tell stories of underrepresented communities in New Orleans and beyond.

Downtown Plano is a charming stretch of brick road, lined with storefronts rebuilt after a fire in 1896. On a normal Friday night in the Before Times, you would have to circle in your car a few times before finding a spot a few blocks away. So it was jarring to see so many empty parking spots on a Friday night. We are in an eerie in-between place. The city is reopening, businesses are anxious to get going again, and yet those empty parking spaces show you that customer demand is not quite there yet. —M.K.

Around 8:30 p.m., Keasler ran into an acquaintance, Jenny, who is out for a drink with her parents and chats with the general manager behind the bar.

“This barbershop has been open for more than one hundred years. My dad has had his hair cut there for thirty-five years, first by one brother then by the other. It is lively, with no shortage of opinions from James Russell, the owner.”

Misty Keasler is a Dallas-based photographer whose work has been exhibited internationally and has appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Harper’s, the London Daily Telegraph, and Texas Monthly, among others.

On Friday, May 8, Juneau became COVID-19-free. The last known case had recovered, and we hadn’t had a new case in twenty-six days. In many ways, it feels like we’ve dodged a bullet here. We have good guidance coming from the state and city governments, and we’re being very cautious. We know that a flare-up will happen if we let our guard down. On Tuesday, May 12, two new cases were reported. —B.H.

Jasmine, a customer at the Triangle Club Bar during its first day open in two weeks. They were doing a trial run—4:00 to 7:00 p.m., with eleven patrons at a time.

The Triangle Club. Huff had to return three times before he could get in, due to strict limits.

COVID life in a small city: “I saw Roger walking his dog, alone, on the pier from a distance and made my way over to talk to him. He was gracious and curious. When I asked him his last name, I realized that I know both of his daughters.”

On any other evening in May, there would be four to six cruise ships in port, spilling thousands of tourists onto the pier. Floatplanes would be taking off and landing in forty-five-minute sightseeing-tour intervals, and, Huff says, “you could almost smell the money changing hands.”

Ben Huff was born in LeClaire, Iowa, migrated to Colorado in his twenties, and moved to Fairbanks, Alaska, in 2005. He currently lives with his wife in Juneau. Huff is the founder of the independent publisher Ice Fog Press.

“I drove by this family and couldn’t believe my eyes. Three generations were all out enjoying their Friday afternoon on their lawn like any other day, but in the time of this outbreak, everyone was wearing masks. Each of them was in their own headspace but enjoying themselves as a family.”

“This plaza was the first place I went when I received this assignment. I had always loved this market plaza, with its architecture that looks like a western-movie set but with an Asian market and retail stores.”

“I saw this group of young adults taking pictures with their masks and name tags on and stopped my car immediately. I caught them as they were taking a photo and saying, ‘Feliz día de la Madre!’”

“The playground was a sad sight. I can’t imagine being a kid and being confined to certain spaces without my friends, classmates, or cousins to play with.”

Damon Casarez is a Los Angeles–based photographer who grew up in the southern California suburb of Diamond Bar. He graduated from Art Center College of Design in 2012 and in 2016 was named as one of PDN’s 30 New and Emerging Photographers to Watch.

“Typically at this time of year, the beaches would be full, as would all of Atlantic Avenue—limited parking, traffic, and reservations are a thing.”

“Hand’s has been the hometown supply shop of Delray Beach since 1934. I had walked Atlantic Avenue for almost two full days and must have passed this shop window ten times before I noticed the mannequin armed for her vacation with gloves, mask, and paper towels.”

“I have walked into Sloan’s ice cream and candy shop many times since I moved to Florida in 2014. A line of people is often winding out the door with kids waiting impatiently, tugging at their parents. This weekend it was the last stop for me, the last photograph, on Sunday night. There were no lines, no kids.”

Erika Larsen is a storyteller who works in photography, writing, and video. She is based in Florida.

They missed shopping, they missed fresh air: Outdoor seating at the reopened Garden City Center mall.

Sprung from their homes just in time for ice-cream weather, two families greet each other in Pawtuxet Village, which just days before had been barren.

In a scene that is happening even as your read this in a thousand towns, people wait in line to get into a grocery store—a Whole Foods, in this case.

The garden department at Lowe’s, which at least is kind of outside, is busy.

Brian Ulrich is a Providence-based artist and educator, teaching photography at RISD. His forthcoming book, The Centurian, will be published later this year by FW: Books.

Gore Creek Drive at Bridge Street looking west. It may be known for skiing, but Vail is a year-round hive of activity—normally. Spring is usually a time when locals get outside and experience Vail without the visitors.

A safely distanced conversation at Pepi’s—part restaurant, part après-ski hangout, and part ski-rental, bike-rental, and retail shop.

John Plack is the senior communications manager at Vail and Beaver Creek Resorts. He is a veteran Navy helicopter pilot and former White House staffer.

On Monday, May 11, I ventured to the downtown area to visually take stock of how my community is faring. Most stores are shuttered, and “For Rent” signs hung in the windows of many restaurants and other businesses.

Very few people were out in public. The Omni Hotel, a usually bustling location on the downtown mall, was closed, and I saw white sheets covering in-progress renovations in the lobby. I wandered down to the park where the Robert E. Lee statue still stands and found a lone homeless man napping in the otherwise quiet park. —M.E.

“The Main Street Station, where I would usually take the train to Washington, where I teach. The platform was mostly empty, with only a handful of people boarding the usually packed train from a usually packed platform.”

Matt Eich is a photographic essayist working on long-form projects related to memory, family, community, and the American condition. He lives in Charlottesville.

Skateboarders at Freedom Plaza in downtown Washington on Sunday, May 10. The open plaza adjacent to the White House is a popular place for people to have lunch or relax during the workweek, and for tourists to gather on sunny weekends.

To limit crowds and encourage social distancing, the Dupont Circle Farmers Market has deployed an online reservation-booking site.

Normally, on a sunny day in May, this visitor would have had to contend with large crowds to get a clear vantage point for a selfie with Lincoln.

“I often joke that, despite the humidity, August is my favorite time of year in D.C. Tour groups are nonexistent, lawmakers go home to their constituents, and one can move freely at the grocery stores.” Now all of that is happening all the time.

Based in Washington, D.C., working across North America and beyond, Jared Soares uses portraiture and long-form essays—often through the lens of sports and subcultures—to create projects based around community and identity.

Guntersville, Alabama, the Marshall County seat, was founded as a salt-mining town by John Gunter in 1854. The main street, Gunter Avenue, is a mix of law firms, hair salons, antique stores, a few restaurants, and—in the beautiful New South—a loft fitness studio with yoga and Pilates classes. I walked past Barnes Barber and called the number on the door, asking if I could snap a few photos. In the midst of the pandemic, I walked in as a stranger and was treated like a friend as they celebrated life going on, with a few new precautions. —T.H.

Owner Colin Barnes purchased the shop in 1967 at age twenty-three. Today, his son and two colleagues cut hair alongside him, a combined 160 years of barbering experience. On May 11, their first day back open, business was humming. “Don’t take your mask off,” Barnes instructed one of his barbers. “You’ll break his camera!”

Taylor Hill is based in New York City, hailing from Huntsville, Alabama. From Google to Governors Ball, his work to maximize image quality and media coverage can be seen nationally and internationally.

Walking around gave me a mild sense of anxiety due to the uncertainty of the situation. The lack of people, cars, and noise during rush hour in Chicago is a very surreal experience. But it wasn’t completely empty. You could still catch glimpses of people doing what they could to get by and stay sane during shelter-in-place. People hanging out of their windows to get fresh air. Delivery people outside local shops waiting to pick up food for families. Little signs and symbols around the city to remind people that this is temporary. —N.A.

A six-week-old old newspaper, dated March 24, rots on a front step.

In the Pilsen neighborhood, an apartment dweller got as close to the outdoors as perhaps she felt was safe.

As the weeks went by, Americans got to know the view outside their windows pretty well.

COVID ingenuity! A scrap of plywood and a 2x4 render a public basketball hoop unusable, in the name of public safety.

Nolis Anderson was born in Chicago. When not on assignment, he explores his hometown, capturing candid moments and the architecture of his city.

If you've ever driven in Boston traffic, you will know that this view of the Mass Pike at 10:30 on a weekday morning is astonishing.

“I was running an errand and noticed this woman with her pet parrot basking in the sun outside a convenience store.”

“I stumbled upon this woman staring at the entrance of a shop for several minutes, attempting to read the warning sign on the door from a distance.”

“From the outside looking in, I was drawn to the vibrant colors. But I was also gravitating toward the reflection of the empty bench in the background.”

Tony Luong is a photographer based in Boston. Clients include Architectural Digest, The Atlantic, Bloomberg Businessweek, National Geographic, The New Yorker, The New York Times, Airbnb, IBM, and New Balance.

In Livingston, pretty much every downtown business—other than Riverside Hardware, which has experienced a slight uptick in traffic—is having a tough time and has had to make heart-wrenching changes in the past six weeks. None of us know where we’re headed or if we’ll bounce back to what we were—but there are a few signs of hope. —L.D.

“I live about twelve miles outside Livingston. My husband’s been doing 100 percent of our family’s errands, so I hadn’t set foot on Main Street in quite a while. It felt really strange.”

“Local business owners are well versed in the drop in traffic that the off-season and shoulder season bring, which can be bleak in normal years. But that’s nothing compared to COVID-19.”

Lynn Donaldson is a fourth-generation Montana farm girl raised on land her great-grandparents homesteaded. She feels lucky to have found a balance between being based in Montana and shooting for clients all over the world.

Once a week I venture into town to get groceries and household supplies. Although Hawaii has mandated that all grocery-store customers wear masks, tensions are still extremely high. People are usually rushing through the aisles and avoiding one another’s gaze. Everyone appears to be afraid of everyone else. When walking through my favorite areas, like Ala Moana Boulevard or Liliha Street, I see the impact of the pandemic—businesses shuttered completely or opened by appointment or for takeout only. Beaches are closed, parks gutted, and foot traffic is almost nonexistent. —G.V.

An employee at Jane’s Fountain, a local restaurant and community staple, takes off her mask to speak with a customer.

A woman wearing a face mask nervously looks back and forth while waiting for a bus on Liliha Street during Honolulu’s lockdown.

Gioncarlo Valentine is from Baltimore and is currently based in New York. His photography focuses on issues faced by marginalized populations, particularly the experiences of Black/LGBTQIA+ communities.

Ninth Avenue, at least six feet apart.

A man hugs his dog by the Hudson River. “I later saw them running through the park like two kids.”

“This man waved to every passerby in his neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“A woman during happy hour at her local bar on Tenth Avenue. She can’t wait until she can get a manicure again.”

In the middle of a deserted Times Square, a man is offering haircuts.

Every night at 7:00 p.m., New York neighborhoods erupt with applause for front-line workers. A woman in Hell’s Kitchen bangs pots to show her appreciation.

In Times Square these days, there are sometimes more bikers than cars.

Mark Peterson is a widely published American photographer based in New York City. He is the author of the book Acts of Charity.

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