If you’re looking for a piece about how cool and hip Marfa, Texas is then you’ll be disappointed with this read.
I’m don’t want to talk about how famous, minimalist artist, Donald Judd, “discovered” Marfa in the 70s or how Houston attorney, Tim Crowley, “revived” Marfa in the last decade. I could link to countless articles from The New York Times, Travel + Leisure, Town & Country, and Time Out New York that sing the praises of this small, West Texas town. I’m not going to go on and on about how Hollywood has struck Oscar gold with Marfa as the backdrop.
Want to know why?
Because that’s not the Marfa that I love.
I was eight the first time I went to Marfa. My mother and I were visiting my uncle who lived in nearby Alpine. We drove 26 miles in search of the famous Marfa Lights and dipped cones from Dairy Queen. I got the ice cream, but the lights were elusive.
It was fifteen years until I would return to the remote, West Texas town. My boyfriend (now husband) invited me to his hometown of Fort Davis, just 21 miles to the north. In 1997, the town was untouched by Tim Crowley. The Donald Judd disciples and other hipster types hadn’t migrated, set up galleries, or purchased vacation homes. No, fifteen years ago, people who were born and raised and/or worked in Marfa could actually afford to live there.
The picture of Marfa is now painted as the next Santa Fe or Aspen. I surely hope that isn’t the case. Marfa has always felt like my little secret. It’s sort of like that great hole-in-the wall bar you love that others have finally discovered. It’s still great, but not the same.
When I think of Marfa, thoughts of trips to Mondo’s for Mexican food and Baeza for feed bring a sense of nostalgia. Remembering the countless rounds at Texas’ highest golf course makes me grin. And no matter how many crazy art installations pop up (Prada Marfa, anyone?) and fusion restaurants appear, this dusty, West Texas town will always be Dairy Queen dipped cones and the Marfa Lights to me. Certainly, I’m not the only one.
On Christmas day, I braved the bitter cold in an attempt to capture the Marfa I know and love. These photos are the result.
My idea of Marfa is very much different from what Condé Nast writers and New York City reporters are spewing. As a native West Texan, I ain’t buying what they’re selling, at least when it comes to Marfa.
I prefer to keep the wild in my West.