MARFAlous
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My husband Glenn and I are moving to Marfa, Freakin, Texas. While many people are happy for us, many others–people who are truly concerned for our welfare and mental health–are a little wary. Marfa, which is located about 180 miles southeast of El Paso and about 45 miles north of the US border with Mexico, is kinda…how shall I put this…out of the way. It’s remote. It’s hard to get to. It’s out in the middle of nowhere.
Though I’ve spent the last 20-or-so years of my life in larger or at least medium sized cities–Washington, Taipei, Baltimore, and Birmingham (an eclectic mix, I know)–I am moving to a town (village? hamlet?) with a population of around 2,000. A good friend asked me if I had ever lived in a town so, well, small before. The answer, I’m happy to say, is YES! I spent most of my childhood in a little western Maryland town called Smithsburg. I remember looking in my dad’s Rand McNally when I was a girl and memorizing the population of Smithsburg, which at the time (early-to-mid 80s) was 1,112. So, I have, in fact, lived in an even SMALLER town than Marfa. I do realize that in a small town you make your own entertainment. You do not go to the symphony. You do not go to the theater. You probably don’t even go to the movies. (You do, however, have Netflix and buy your J.Crew online, thank god.)
I admit, though, that Marfa is quite different than quaint little Smithsburg, Maryland. VERY different. Take the landscape for instance. As I’ve told many friends and family, there are trees…just not a lot of trees. Okay, I think there’s like one tree. The succulent landscape I’m used to–the green hills of the Appalachians–is non-existent. Marfa is dry, it’s arid, it makes me kind of thirsty, I need a Nehi Grape soda. It’s the town where they filmed Giant and No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood, which are all very stark movies to say the least. Most importantly, and perhaps most noticeably to me, it has miles and miles and miles of sky.
There is something about West Texas…something about Marfa…that is totally and altogether refreshing to me. And it’s all about the sky. While the east is green, lush, tree-filled, and packed to the brim with stuff (both good and bad–meaning, say, The New York Public Library and Walmart, respectively ), West Texas is practically empty. The emptiness, the giant void, makes you realize the unmistakable presence of a completely overwhelming expanse. Sometimes blue, sometimes black, the vast, so-big-it-makes-you-feel-kind-of-scared-and-insignificant-and-alone sky is ever-present. It is a sky that will unforgivably suck you up where you stand and send you careening through space. It is a sky that makes you perceive gravity for the first time in your teeny weeny inconsequential life. In West Texas, you are one 5’5″ (and a half, thank you very much) body standing on a giant round ball in space: you are vulnerable, tiny, and completely accessible to the gods. I find this very very tantalizing and marvelous (er, Marfalous, that is) because sometimes its just nice to remember there are forces out there other than–and I’m going to guess bigger than–yourself. I love that.
This is why Donald Judd, minimalist and conceptual artist, moved to Marfa and eventually came to create The Chinati Foundation, which is where I’ll be working. Though I won’t be talking about my work on this blog, I do want to point out that whatever force brought Judd to Marfa, that same force is taking me there, and has taken many an artist, philosopher, and wanderer to Marfa for one reason or another. I hope you’ll enjoy reading this blog as I discover everything Marfa has to offer, even if everything is nothing.*
By the way, thanks to my friend Kateri for naming this blog. As I told her, I’m terrible at naming things. She, evidently, is not. Thanks K!
*I’m totally serious here about “nothing” because I’ve recently discovered that Marfa does not have two things: a. mail service (you must get a PO box) and b. stop signs (they are all yields)
