No. 215 - Marfa, TX
I visited the infamous West Texas town of Marfa this weekend, and a fellow writer asked me to send my opinion about this haven for artists and billionaires — my response is below:
Marfa has a definitive vibe that’s unfamiliar because it’s not Aspen or Tribeca or Carmel. It’s also not Austin, though it feels like what I’d imagine early ’70s Austin felt like.
The art scene is legit — concentrated and appears to be flourishing. There’s an authenticity and energy that doesn’t exist in SoHo galleries, but probably did in the ’70s.
The non-locals are intriguing. If they’re there, it’s by choice, and by that I mean Marfa is literally in the middle of nowhere, so intentionality is bigger there than anywhere I’ve been. I measure a city by who’s there, how difficult it is to stay there, and what the collective discomfort provides by way of the arts (before gentrification destroys it). The non-Texans I saw were eclectic and not off-putting.
A black coffee at The Sentinel (the hippest coffee shop in town) is three bucks. A pepperoni calzone at Hotel Saint George is fifteen. I bought a hat at a local T-shirt shop and it was ten dollars. It says a lot, in my mind, when you’re not getting ripped off by every shop with an “Open” sign.
The only gallery I went to had a young man working who was not only polite, but fun to be around. We chatted for thirty minutes about art school and local artists. He was comfortable in his skin, which was my impression of Marfa.
Would I go back? Absolutely. I was only there 24 hours. Per the “everything there is to do can be done in 48 hours” saying… I’m not convinced of that. Marfa is a slow roll, like most small Texas towns. If you’re expecting the glitz of Aspen, the energy of lower Manhattan, or the natural beauty of Northern California, you’ll be disappointed. But if you want to visit a place where the hands of time haven’t moved in decades, Marfa will not disappoint.
24 Hours Later
I’m sitting at a coffee shop in Fredericksburg a day later thinking about Marfa.
For starters, the answer is yes — I went to the Prada store, but it’s not in Marfa. It’s nowhere near Marfa — it’s 37 miles away in Valentine, Texas (pop. 73). In all my travels in the U.S., I had yet to see a tumbleweed — until I drove to the Prada shop and dodged no fewer than three dozen. Most were the size of a beach ball, but a few were of the son-of-a-bitch! variety. Anyway, not visiting the Prada shop while in Marfa would be like not visiting the Empire State Building in New York (which I haven’t) or going to Alcatraz in San Francisco (which I haven’t).
Now, here are a few fun facts about the Prada store:
It doesn’t sell anything; it’s officially a “permanent, non-functional art installation.”
The shop was robbed the day it opened.
The shoes are all right-footed to deter thieves.
The purses do not have bottoms and are connected to a security system that alarms the local police if they’re removed.
Miuccia Prada personally selected the pieces from the Fall/Winter 2005 collection.
Now try to picture this: the sheriff is minding the trials and tribulations of governing Valentine when an alarm sounds from the Prada shop. This poor guy has to stop what he’s doing to open an investigation into stolen Italian goods, which consist of all right-footed high heels and purses without bottoms — from a Prada shop in West Texas! Something tells me he didn’t jump to his feet from his domino game.
Ok, enough of that. No more Prada talk. Except for this… you have to admit it’s a brilliant idea. A phony high-end shop on the side of a road in West Texas somehow morphed from a local oddity into a place in the American zeitgeist. It’s marketing brilliance, even if it wasn’t meant to be.
I heard through the grapevine that two brothers in Alabama, Tater and Booger, are angling for a phony Armani shop to draw tourists to their BBQ joint. Much to their dismay, they’ve yet to hear from anyone on either side of the Atlantic.
Anyway, I’ll be coming back to Marfa. I like the vibe. But more than that, there’s some anthropological work to be done. To drive into a West Texas town and see single-wide trailers within walking distance of art galleries is of interest to me. And unlike the million-dollar single-wides of Woody Creek (i.e., Aspen), you can snag a two-bedroom trailer for under two hundred grand.
That said, billionaires and glitterati alike are flocking to this international arts colony. Supposedly every ranch on its outskirts is tied to an LLC from New York and LA. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
To be sure, none of this happened by accident. A New York artist named Donald Judd visited Marfa in 1971 and would go on to purchase numerous buildings, including 40,000 acres before his death in ’94. No different than Carmel, lower Manhattan, or Santa Fe, the artists show up first, followed by dealers and collectors, and ultimately the locusts arrive (bankers, entertainers, etc.) and destroy everything that was good.
So I’ll be back — not to visit the Prada shop (open the encyclopedia and under “One & Done” is a photo of the “Marfa” “boutique” in Valentine), but to quietly walk around and absorb this oddity in the middle of nowhere.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Marfa, Fredericksburg, and Austin TX
