Hilary and Theresa's Road to Nowhere: Y'all Heard of Marfa?

“Do you know about Marfa?” “Oh you have to go to Marfa.” Everyone in Austin seemed to know about this West-Texas artist colony in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert. Inspired by Donald Judd, a minimalist artist who brought his vision and his need for space from New York in the 70s, Marfa has become a destination spot for artists from all over the world. It was right on the way to New Mexico and we couldn’t think of a reason not to go, so we decided to check it out.

Our first impression of Marfa wasn’t so much bad as it was confusing. The absence of street lights made it difficult to find anything the night we arrived. Daylight didn’t help; most of the shops and galleries looked closed even though some were, in fact, open. There was a starkness to the town that left us asking “huh?” Maybe this is part of the whole minimalist thing, I thought, an antidote to everything else being so big in Texas. But frankly, it didn’t seem like much of a “destination spot”.

Yet the hotels were booked and the restaurants were packed with people who looked very artsy. There were lot’s of uber-hip looking outfits and one ridiculous hat after another. Our visit became one “oh puleese, can you believe that guy?” after another. Everything was expensive; my favorite store that I didn’t buy anything at was Fancy Pony Land where they were asking $600 for a cowgirl skirts and $1100 for cowboy boots. When a woman walked into Maiya’s, the restaurant where we only got a table because we were willing to eat at 10 pm, dressed in a Picasso-styled striped shirt, I'd just about had it with the pretention. “Oh for Christ’s sake", I muttered under my breath, "why don’t they all just wear berets and get it over with?”

We stopped by Ballroom Marfa to see an exhibit, appropriately titled “Immaterial". In one gallery, the highlight was a patina garbage-can hanging at an angle from the ceiling. The Ayn Foundation was presenting the work of a German artist that looked like stuff my son brought home from pre-school. Seriously, I would have been embarrassed to put those pieces on my refrigerator. Another gallery was presenting some of Andy Warhol’s Last Supper prints. Okay, those were cool. Still, Marfa seemed like a bit of a joke and we were on the verge of writing it off as having, in the words of Gertrude Stein, “no there there.”

Then we took one of the Chinati Foundation tours and had a chance to see some of Donald Judd’s work up close and personal. And I totally got it. The need for massive amounts of space, the perfection that was the desert backdrop, minimalism itself. It all fell into place as we wandered around an old fort that had been converted into studios. The metal sculptures went on for blocks. The outdoor exhibits went on for miles. It was really amazing and I started seeing the whole town of Marfa in a different light. Even the exhibit in the Ballroom made more sense and I started to envision a garbage can hanging from the ceiling of my San Francisco flat.

Speaking of seeing Marfa in different light, we’d heard there were mysterious lights that appeared on the horizon after dusk. We didn’t see anything the first night we were there. But on the second night, there they were. Bouncing around, appearing and then disappearing, merging together and then separating again; we definitely saw something. What that something was, well, we weren't really sure. The “Marfa Lights” have been attributed to everything from aliens and ghosts, to swamp gas and radioactivity. The most likely explanation is probably headlights and taillights of cars moving through the Chinati Mountains on Hwy 67. Yet there have been reports of strange lights in this desert for hundreds of years; long before cars were ever invented…

Marfa is probably too remote to turn into another Carmel, but some of the desert landscapes in this area called “The Big Bend” are truly stunning and could easily frame the next Four Seasons. One afternoon we set off in search of hot springs and saw magical mesas, purple cactus and a family of peccaries that crossed the road right in front of us. My favorite cacti were the ones that looked like little peasants wearing straw hats. I wondered if the border patrol cops, who drove the only other vehicles we saw on the remote roads, ever mistook them for border-crashers. “Over there, there’s another….never-mind.”

The hot springs themselves were a disappointment; nothing more than a luke-warm outdoor pool and an indoor bathtub filled with an Indian man who didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon. We got our money back and headed back to Marfa just in time to watch the sun set over the Chihuahuan Mountains. Once again, the road to nowhere had taken us exactly where we were supposed to be.