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.