Your Monday Muse #4
100 untitled works in mill aluminum (1982-1986) by Donald Judd, permanent collection of the Chinati Foundation
“Prada Marfa” was only an amuse-bouche to whet my appetite for the unexpected dichotomy that is Marfa, Texas: simultaneously rural yet sophisticated; elitist yet unpretentious; bland yet vibrant; boring yet memorable.
The town of Marfa is in the middle of nowhere. From what I remember of our professor’s introduction, it started as a few army bunkers converted into an artist commune in the 1970s and now receives the art savvy elite by private jet. Upon our arrival downtown, it seemed to be one street with an historic hotel, post-office, restaurant, and food truck, plus galleries and art sites scattered around.
We visited several galleries with quirky art and minimalist installations by acclaimed artists (emerging and established), but none of it moved me. Not until we drove to The Chinati Foundation (the site of the former bunkers-turned-commune).
As I remember, we drove up the gravel road toward a small welcome center where we parked, got out, and were greeted by interns in matching t-shirts. I don’t remember them or most of my classmates being nearby the rest of my visit. I simply remember the art, the place, and how moved I felt by the experience.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Donald Judd is kind of a big deal, and this place could be considered his masterpiece. The bunkers and surrounding fields are now preserved by his foundation. The bunkers are long, narrow, brick buildings grouped together in the middle of an open field that stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions.
Upon walking into the first bunker, I was captivated by an arrangement of shiny silver boxes thoughtfully installed around the room. The exterior of each is nearly identical and large enough to contain the viewer, yet the interior of each contains varying angles of positive and negative space.
Their reflective quality struck me as significant. Not only could I see myself, but also the brick walls of the surrounding bunker and the expansive view of golden fields beyond the bunker windows were all reflected as part of the art. I became part of the art. My existence in the world (in that place, at that moment, having that experience) was part of the art. I felt seen. I felt moved by an artwork created decades prior. Its reflective beauty continues to exist without me, but for that moment I was part of it and that felt meaningful.
The remaining bunkers were filled with more shiny boxes of varying colors, sizes, and configurations by Donald Judd, and equally-captivating installations (and paintings) by his contemporaries. I especially enjoyed Dan Flavin’s arrangements of old-school fluorescent light tubes and John Chamberlain’s crumpled metal (now seen with a whole new appreciation compared to my first gallery visit).
Even with the artists being long gone, the energy of their creativity is palpable on-site. My experience of being there ignited a deep appreciation for site-specific art installations that cannot be replicated in an urban gallery, and for art tourism.
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