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.
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