Home Is Wherever I'm With You

I'm back in the Bay Area.

I packed up my easel and canvases and yoga mat and all the other accoutrement I brought with me to Marfa. I swept out the casita and fed the cat a little extra so she would be content until her person returned. I said my farewells to the crickets and birds and unmarked streets.

There's no recycling system in Marfa, so I plopped two-weeks' worth of plastics, glass and papers on the passenger seat of my Golf and transported it 26 miles to Alpine where I sorted it all into labeled industrial-sized bins. The car reeked a bit, but cleared out about 150 miles into the 400-mile drive to Austin, where it is now happily ensconced in an underground parking garage, safe from the sun until I return next week to pick it up.

Austin is home to an eclectic mix of tattooed hipsters, two-steppin' cowboys, genteel professionals, and Dilbert-esque technologists. They are (as I've heard most Texans are) notoriously generous and hospitable. I've been blessed by these qualities. To those awesome Austinites who've offered me a beautiful apartment to stay overnight, a place to leave my car, and rides to and from the airport: thank you!

What's this? you say. Your car is in Austin? You're returning next week to pick it up? What gives?

The journey continues, but I am home.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHEOF_rcND8

Peaceful

It is so beautiful and peaceful here in Marfa, especially in the mornings before the sun has got too high in the sky and the residual night-cool mates with angular East-cast shadows for a near-balmy bliss. The bees buzz in profusion, drinking up the nectar from pink flowers that proliferate along the vine-y plant that climbs up the outside of the casita's South-facing window. Hundreds of bees sing a buzz-song that will continue throughout the entire day until the sun slips away. There is no fear of stinging — the bees have their job and I have mine. We peacefully co-exist. 

The sky is clear and blue. The clouds are puffy and white. When they're low enough in the sky, the clouds cast a comforting shade. But they are unreliable as respite from the scorching sun. The thick walls of the adobe houses provide the only consistent coverage from burning rays. My nose has seen the worst of it, even with sunscreen and a hat. 

Marfa is both silent and loud. Birds, insects, prowling cats, fenced-in dogs all add their voices to the chorus of life. The neighbors just around the corner even have a pen of peacocks. Their cries are mournful and piercing. Yesterday, I saw a peahen meandering across the road from its home. I mused: how will its person corral it back to the pen? Roadkill is not a concern — people drive slow-ish here amongst the rows of adobes, shacks, mobile homes, abandoned lots, Airstream trailers, corrugated aluminum constructions and mundane suburban-style dwellings.

People drive better in Texas in general. Signs along all the highways say things like: "Drive friendly." "Maintain your vehicle." "Littering is unlAWFUL." And indeed, there are fewer abandoned cars lining the freeways than in Arizona, the interstates are cleaner than in New Mexico, and there's a road-sharing bonhomie that makes for far smoother traffic flow than in California. 

If Texas is like another country, Marfa is a kind of post-war Paris of urban expatriates. The arts community here was built by Manhattanites (Donald Judd and Co.) and the young hipsters who vie for coveted internships at the various foundations are often relocated from Manhattan. If Marfa takes them over after their internships end, they wind up in retail or food service. Slim pickings, to be sure, but they seem happy here. Peaceful.

Tarantula! (x2)

I had shared my latest Marfa post, signed off from all my technology, done my yoga stretches (a new nightly ritual), and was propped up in bed editing one of my essays. When I flopped my essay-holding file folder onto the painted concrete floor, I saw something skitter. Something large, hairy, and multi-legged. Aack! Adrenalin pumping, I hopped upright on the bed. I'm no spider expert, but that sure looks like a tarantula. Where's the cat? Can she help? Aack!

It's bug season in Marfa. I had been duly warned when I rented this casita. And in my few days here, I'd seen them all: grasshoppers, crickets, mosquitos, small spiders, medium spiders, stick bugs, bugs I've never seen before in all sorts of colors, winged ones, crawly ones, dead ones, living ones. Not my favorite nighttime companions, but I can deal. But this... this was the size of a small rodent. I was not prepared for this. Scorpions and rattlesnakes were on my radar, but tarantulas hadn't crossed my mind.

God doesn't give us anything we can't handle, right? 

After procuring the necessary rodent-sized spider removal equipment (a cup and a firm piece of paper to slip under it), I stalked Mr. T. Actually, it was more like we did a squirmy dance of mutual fear. I'd ushered him (maybe it was a her?) toward the closest door, but s/he dodged the cup and awaited my next move from behind my sandals.

I don't want to kill you. I just want you to go. Just go. Shoo.

How do I slip the cup over that big hairy body without getting too close? I backed away from where I'd backed Mr. T into a corner... and nearly backed into T2, a smaller version of Mr. T. 

Family? Aack!

T2 was easier to handle. The ugh factor — though strong — was not as overwhelming with the smaller tarantula. It took me a while to muster the courage, but I did scoop up T2 and deposit him outside. I used the door furthest away from the bedroom.

But I met my match in Mr. T. I just couldn't bring myself to get too close to the critter. I chased him into the living room. We stared at each other. Really. I could see the light reflecting in his eyes. I looked away. And then he disappeared. Probably into the stacks of books. (This casita is filled with really good books.)

The adrenalin was wearing off and it was way past my bedtime. Exhausted, I crept back into the bedroom. I lifted all the pillows and sheets to scan for bugs before lying down for the night. I called to the cat. This time she came, the tags on her collar jingling. Will you keep me company? She did. 

I Have Seen the Light(s)

Just back from viewing the Marfa mystery lights.

First a red light appeared off in the distance slightly to the left of the viewing station that's been constructed expressly for spotting this unsolved mystery. The red light flickered and wiggled a bit, but basically stayed in one place. It was so stationary that it could have been a streetlamp, way off in the distance. But streetlamps aren't known to flicker or wiggle. Since there was just one red light, it was unlikely to be a car's headlights. More lights appeared to the right, then to the left. They would occasionally blink on and off.

As I watched with the swarms of other mystery seekers, I was not convinced these lights aren't ordinary lights (of what sort, I couldn't say). I checked in with my intuition. These didn't feel like spirit entities or earth emanations. They felt technological. The real mystery to me is that science hasn't determined what they are. 

Regardless of their source or their purpose, the lights delight me. They are yet another expression of Marfa's quirkiness. And driving the eight miles out of town to the viewing station afforded me a breathtaking sunset and a deep appreciation for the wide open expanse of this land. It is gorgeous out here.

I can feel Marfa working its magic on me.

P.S. The more curious phenomenon out at the viewing station tonight was a dark object just above the cloud line. The object was still against the sky for quite a time, then disappeared. Through the viewing station's binoculars, I could make out its shape. It looked like a dirigible. A web search turns up this article. Perhaps I saw the Border Patrol's drug blimp.

Cool Cats

I've been in Marfa a full three days now.

The resident cat rests on the floor by my chair as I type this. I've dislodged her from my lap. As cute as it was to have her chin resting on my arm, it made it extremely difficult to type. She must know that I'm writing about her — she's just cast me a backward glance, hopped into the matching chair adjacent mine and has curled up into a purr-ball. The cat knows how to work me. Her person's instructions about food were clear — 3 scoops a day — but kitty is trying to convince me with plaintive whines that her person meant 3 scoops per meal. Kitty is so convincing that I've placed an email to her person, just to double check feeding instructions. 

Her person — I'm deliberately omitting names. Marfa is a small town, and as small towns do, has a tendency to gossip. My intuitive hunch about this was validated by one of the locals. Discretion is an important social skill in small town. This is one of the reasons I prefer a metropolis. Sagittarians are known for foot-in-mouth disease. We're enthusiastic and just want to share. And since my professional life is built on confidentiality, it's important for me to have room in my personal life to share freely. 

Discretion in a small town shows up as not naming any names about a thing liked or disliked. Take, for instance, Marfa's annual 24 Hour Plays. Marfa's creativity is inversely proportional to its size. That is to say, it's a tiny pueblo with tons of artistic energy. And every year for the past seven years, the town's writers, actors, and enthusiasts converge to write, rehearse and perform several short plays... all within 24 hours. I was fortunate to be here for the annual event, which took place at the town's theater, the dilapidated exterior of which belies the thoughtful interior architecture with its clean, modernist lines. (Since there's no signage for the theatre, I had to ask a Marfan where to find it.) The plays ranged from funky to charming, to funny, to disturbing. And while I heard some acknowledgments of a few participants' special talents, people were tight-lipped about the things they didn't like. I was advised that nay-saying is strictly verboten. Glowing praise also seems to be sensitive terrain. The delicate ecology of small town harmony, it seems, is disrupted by too much of anything — shadow or light. The social fabric is maintained by easy smiles, generalities and the sense of "it's none of my nevermind."

I chatted about this with two Austinites over drinks after the play. (As much as I want to name drop so you can click on links, I'm hyperaware of this topic, so I'm refraining.... Ah, to heck with it: we were having drinks at Maiya's.)

The Austinites have traveled here for the weekend. One of them owns a little casita not far from the one I'm staying at. They know my casita's person. They are part of a culture of weekenders that has changed Marfa's commercial and social landscape over the past ten years. As Marfa's reputation for great art has grown, it's attracted a new class of landed gentry. Hipsters and lawyers alike pilgrimage to this mecca to renew their spirits with Marfa's funky modernism and its (relatively) cool climate. (Sitting on a mountain plateau more than 4000 feet higher than Austin, its swampy neighbor to the East, Marfa is the coolest place in Texas. But for a native San Franciscan such as myself, that's still fiery hot!)

Marfa's cool is both literal and figurative, and attracts the cool cats from across the state and beyond. Cool cats need cool digs and cool digs cost money. And thus begins the cycle of gentrification. Having lived in the Mission district in San Francisco during the peak of the dot-com bubble, I have experienced firsthand the impact an influx of primarily white, well-paid professionals (who are artistically-oriented but who are not themselves working artists) can have on a comparatively poor community. It drives up demand and therefore prices for existing housing, and opens up new opportunities for building — here, namely, hotels and vacation rentals — which will be woefully unaffordable for the folks who already live here. It's a squeeze job on the working class, which are often people of color.

I observe several distinct cultures here in Marfa that divide along racial, economic and primary zip code lines. Either you're Latino or white, wealthy or poor, tourist or local. There's some overlap, of course, but the communities do seem to keep to themselves. The only substantive exception to this that I can discern is the local bar, Padres. Everyone goes to Padres. Given the town's size, I would have expected more interaction.

But here's the thing: I'm an urban outsider. Outsider analysis can be impartial, but can also be speculative. Take it all with a grain of salt.

Listen to me, trying to balance my observations so as not to rock the small town boat should any Marfans come to read this blog. In any case, it's highly unlikely that angry townsfolk will drag me down to that beautiful courthouse and stone me... right?

Kitty doesn't seemed concerned about it. She's still curled up in her chair, keeping cool.

Detours, Delays and Delights

I arrived in Marfa late last night, later than expected due to a spontaneous mid-morning stop-off in Tucson and terrible rush-hour traffic in El Paso.

The Tucson detour was an utter delight. Since complimentary motel coffee simply does not do, a proper macchiato was in order. Praise be the Yelp iPhone app which shows me — wherever GPS can find me — businesses that are both open and nearby. With the help of Yelp, I located Sabine's Café Passe. The espresso was good, the space was better! Replete with creativity, this charming little cafe on 4th Ave near the university co-habitates with several little boutiques. Called The Little Village, this cluster of shops was popping with super cool arts and crafts. I chatted up the shopkeepers with my Marfa travel tales (Oh! We've heard of Marfa!) and tried on a peacock feather necklace that looked startlingly like an art-box one of my clients recently made for me. I took its striking resemblance to my newest treasure and its name — "Wandering Star" — to be an encouraging nod from the gods. Carry on, intrepid traveler.

And so I did. At a breezy 80+ miles per hour for about 300 miles... until El Paso. Then bam! Tire blow-out. Minivan to the right. And another. Up ahead on the left. In the Texan summer, burning rubber is not a euphemism. Snarled in traffic, I chugged along, listening to soft rock on a local station. The music stopped mid-melody, interrupted by several long, stern beeps. You know the sound. I waited for the familiar follow-on: "This has been a test of the emergency broadcast system." But it didn't come. Instead, a computer-voice declared that a hazardous storm was brewing and that we should all seek shelter. This was not a test. What do you do when you're in bumper-to-bumper traffic in unfamiliar turf and the national weather service says pull over or risk death? You'd think the answer is pull over! But...

Navigating across lanes of congested freeway seemed impossible and the local drivers seemed unperturbed. Perhaps they deal with these advisories on a regular basis, no big D? Was the storm really that close? The sky was basically clear — only one dark cloud and a beautiful double-rainbow off to my right, just over Juarez, Mexico, El Paso's sister to the South. I said aloud: "I'm really not sure what to do right now."

When in doubt, call Paul.

Paul is a dear friend. Besides being funny and smart, he's a great listener (even trains people in listening skills) and is masterful with technology. He's been my go-to guy for what I call "remote concierge services," which is to say I call him when I'm bleary from long hours of travel, begging for a hotel. Can't Yelp and drive, ya know.

Um, Paul, could you check to see if my travel route lands me in a storm with vehicle-damaging hail, car-toppling winds, and deadly lightning?

In short order, my generous friend determined that the weather bureau warning was now down-graded from red to orange and the storm itself has moved slightly north of me. Death averted, I continued to slog through traffic. After El Paso, my travels were met with only a few more delays — a minor detour hunting for a road-side restroom (not to be found) and then the queue through a border patrol checkpoint.

Citizenship? U.S. Where do you live? Oakland, CA. Where are you going? Marfa, TX. What is your business in Marfa, ma'am? Art-making. What? Make art, you know, paint. Good luck with that, ma'am.

At 11pm, central-time, I pulled into Marfa. People navigate by landmarks, not street signs, in Marfa. Turn after the bank but before the market. If you pass the gas station, you've gone too far. I found my accommodations — an adobe casita — easily enough given the absence of signage and streetlights. The resident cat was waiting for me as predicted. She'd left me a dead frog under the kitchen table — a housewarming gift. Coming from a cat, this is a high honor.

The sky was brilliant with stars, no light pollution to dull the sweep of the Milky Way. The night was alive with the humming and chirping and singing of all sorts of critters. I wanted to linger outside and soak in the beauty, but my nerves were fried from three days of hard driving, and all I could do was wash the dust from my feet, curl up with the cat and pray.

Preface

It all began in Santa Fe...

It's June. Two lovely people — a couple still in the romance phase — are next to me at the bar in El Farol, a cosy cantina on the gallery strip of Santa Fe's Canyon Road. I am a traveler, road tripping through the American South West, sipping wine next to strangers. We strike up a conversation. After hearing my journey's destination (Austin) and learning what I do for a living (see elka.works), they chorus together: You should go to Marfa!

Where?

It's only a little detour, they tell me. In the middle of nowhere West Texas.

Why in the world?

Oh! It's this funky little town — an arts colony of sorts. Given what you're up to, you'll fit right in. And there's the atmospheric phenomenon called the Marfa lights. You got to check it out.

Ok.

I've already decided to pass, but I appreciate their enthusiasm.

We continue chatting. I finish my wine. They're twirling on the dance floor as I take my leave.

Flash forward: I'm in Austin. Two people tell me: you should definitely go to Marfa. One tells me: I've seen the Marfa lights. My tarot cards are telling me: go to Marfa. My creativity coach tells me to make it an art project.

I'm on my way out of Austin through the cute little town of Fredericksburg. The clerk at a used bookstore remarks wistfully: yes, I've been to Marfa. [Sigh.] You should definitely go.

And so I do.

It's hot, isolated. Expensive.

As much as I enjoy my designer room at the Thunderbird hotel and the delish dinner at Cochineal, I'm an econo-traveler and my Marfa tab is jacking the curve on my per diem. I'm surprised by the prices — isn't this something of a ghost town? But no, Marfa is an arts mecca (really "the arts mecca of Texas") and, as such, caters to an art-collecting crowd. With the exception of a Dairy Queen, there are no chain stores in Marfa, no Tom Bodett to leave the light on for me for a mere $45 a night plus tax.

I can groove with all of that... just not on short notice on the last leg of my trip with a fixed budget funded by the sales of some of my own artwork.

Because my stop-in was spontaneous and destined to be short, I am unable to take advantage of all that Marfa has to offer. Many of the galleries that make Marfa so art-rich are closed for the Summer season, and the two art foundations I'm advised to tour — the Judd Foundation and Chinati — are closed for the day. The county courthouse is closed for air conditioning repair, so I am denied a tour of its Goddess-topped dome. My hotel neighbor, whose Marfa-lust was sparked by a travel feature in the New York Times, offers that I should return with some advance planning.

Not likely. But thanks!

Next morning I head out. No Marfa lights for me. No foundations, just a few galleries and shops and a tip of the Stetson to the Goddess of Justice high up in her civic perch against a wide blue sky to which I say good bye. I drive on out of the tiny town, past the Prada Marfa installation, which is technically not in Marfa at all, but in its even more petite neighbor, Valentine. I'm thinking, yeah maybe I'll come back someday.

I return to the Bay Area... and it begins. Marfa Marfa everywhere. It's like buying a new car and suddenly every car on the road is that car. And I surrender. OK, Marfa, I would like to know you better.

In short order, I've secured a mercifully affordable sublet for a wee casita. It's now August and my car (I will not call it my Marfa-mobile) is loaded with all I need for an arts intensive of my own making.

As I type, I'm ensconced in overnight accommodations just outside of Tucson. After my last of three eight-plus hour drives, I arrive in Marfa tomorrow.