Marfa Texas: The Wildest Town of The West
Marfa, Texas. What a hard place to sum up. I’ve never seen a city so confused about what it is, yet remain so unshakably confident. There’s a clash between two powerful forces here: old and new. Third generation, leather skinned Ranchers sit next to beanie wearing, waxed mustached Hipsters. They drink the same beer at the same bar (probably the Lost Horse Saloon) and chat— focusing on what they have in common rather than what separates them. There’s a since of community here that even the smallest and oldest towns have seemingly lost. The locals lean into the change — choosing to ride the wave instead of ducking underneath it.
Even after its recent burst in popularity, less than 2000 people call Marfa home. It’s largely a “pass-through” town — a stop along the way to somewhere else. If you Google Marfa, you’ll find a thousand images of Prada Marfa and other Instagrammable landmarks that dot the two highways that run through the micro-town.
Cultural icons like Beyonce, Anthony Bourdain, and Matthew McConaughey have helped put Marfa on the map, but the Marfa wouldn’t be what it is today if it weren’t for Donald Judd.
In the late 70s and early 80s, Donald Judd, an artist and godlike figure within Marfa, purchased hundreds of acres and an old Army base in Marfa with the help of the Dia Art Foundation. Before his death in 1994, he converted the base and surrounding landscape — effectively creating The Chinati Foundation (Chinati for short).
Chinati is quite something to behold if you’re a fan of minimalist art. If you’re not a fan, you’re probably wondering why your friend dragged you to the middle-of-fucking-nowhere-Texas to look at a bunch of stainless steel blocks in a warehouse and giant concrete blocks that are seemingly placed at random in an open field.
On my way through one of the exhibits, an older, but rather spry, lady stopped me and my friend John. “Help me understand!” She begged. I gave her my interpretation of the art — that it wasn’t the objects themselves but their environment and how they interact with the harsh Texas landscape, but she shook her head in dismissal. She wasn’t drinking the Kool-Aid and she didn’t care too. She shrugged, accepting that it wasn’t for her, as I suspect a lot of people do. John cut in and said, “it’s the new Facebook corporate office” and she exploded with laughter.
I’ll admit that while I was extremely excited about Chinati and Marfa in general, when we arrived in downtown Marfa (those two words seem like an oxymoron), I asked myself “is this it?” Had I really just spend hundreds of dollars on a flight and driven three hours south from El Paso just to see a “pass through town?” I desperately tried to maintain my enthusiasm, but on first glance, Marfa was unremarkable. Aside from a few cool buildings and restaurants, it was a small Texas town no different than the others. I asked myself why I had come here and the answer wasn’t as clear as it had been. Hopefully that would change.
Our first exhibit was Robert Irwin’s, which was housed in a brutal concrete building with four long, empty corridors. Before we entered, a Chinati employee (or Chinatiean as we later called them) explained the rules.
The rules were simple: no pictures. They explained why. Something about how the works were meant to be experienced “uninhibited.” It felt like a pretty common request. I’ve always understood it as a request, though. I feel like we should be free to experience the art in any way that we’d like to, but anyway…
We entered directly into first corridor. Tailored windows allowed bursts of light to dance off of the walls and spill out onto the floor. The first hallway split into two smaller ones, so I walked to the other side. I spotted another Chinatiean at the far end of the hallway. She seemed to follow my movements. We swayed back and forth together — less like a Waltz and more like a B-rated horror movie.
There were four Chinati in the building, keeping me annoyingly honest. I wasn’t really able to take the art in as I normally would. Their eyes and bodies constantly followed me around. We tried to crack jokes with them, but they were un-enthused. They reminded me of those ridiculous dudes in red coats outside of Buckingham Palace. Relax, man. Relax.
This continued through all of the other exhibits, save for the concrete block exhibit that was outdoors. We enjoyed that one.
The surveillance kind of ruined it for me. It took me out of the headspace I so desperately wanted and made the experience more bitter than sweet. I’m not a child that needs to be monitored, and fuck you for making me feel that way, man!
This experience kind of painted the town in a new, not nearly as bright and charming, color. From then on, I was hyper aware to bullshit.
Later that day, I saw a dog on the back of a parked motorcycle and asked the owner how long he had been riding. He cracked a smile and handed me a card that had a ridiculously long Spanish name for the dog on it. “Garcia Lukan Rodriguez Armendarix de Montoya,” he said proudly. John and I laughed politely before exchanging annoyed expressions. “He’s well behaved,” I commented, and the man went into some spiel about telepathy and higher consciousness. He pointed to the card. “That’s my website if you’d like to know more.” He reminded me of one of those automated characters in a videogame. I feared he might freeze up if I forced him to go off-script.
“Is this Marfa?” I thought. An Instagram town filled with pseudo-cowboys and like-thirsty hipsters? Was I one of them? I had probably traveled farther to get here than most. Was I worse? Just then, a strong gust of wind swung through the town. I half-expected the buildings to fall forward, exposing the town for what it truly is: a movie set.
But just when I felt I had solved the equation, I’d be thrown. I’d meet a local and have a genuine conversation. I’d see a Cowboy and Cowgirl walking hand-in-hand in dusty, worn boots into a new, hip restaurant. If it weren’t for Judd or Beyonce or even myself, they might not have had this opportunity.
The people in Marfa, whether local or visitor, were all here for a reason. The love of the land, the love of art, the love of culture or conversation, the love of discovering something new. I’d eavesdrop on conversations at the local watering hole and there was a genuine give-and-take happening. Both were open to receiving. Learning. Sure, there were some gimmicks (as in any touristy town) and sure, there were some people that took it all a little too seriously, but it seemed to stem from a genuine place.
Marfa, as ridiculous as it is, is unapologetic about its ridiculousness — and I kinda dig that. It’s an example of a town that was dealt a tricky hand and didn’t fold.
