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These days, Boyd, who refers to himself as a "contemporary creator dealing with visual alchemy," can be seen driving around in a beat-up baby-blue pickup truck with a rifle permanently propped on the passenger side and a bag full of bullets on the dash. He chain-smokes American Spirits and when asked about the art scene in the area, says: "The art scene here is me." And he's partly right on that count—he and his daughters arranged for the land donation of Prada Marfa and he does keep the non-stolen shoes in his studio, one on each windowsill. Sadly, there are none my size. And like many things in Marfa, they seem wonderfully out of place.
One resident who has seen it all is Rosemarie Cox, a native Marfan who, at 80, still drives her pickup truck, never locks her front door and has the air of someone who will still be here long after all of the "permanent" art installations have disappeared. "I don't mind the art," she explains. "But I remember when Donald Judd came here for the very first time. He sat right here on this porch and said to me, 'Rosemarie, I'm going to do great things here. You'll like it, but you won't understand it.' And he was right. I don't think that I ever did really understand his art."
It's not only Donald Judd whom Rosemarie has seen come and go. She was here when Hollywood came to Marfa along with stars James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson. "That was a lovely time. Rock Hudson was living in that house right across the street and I used to wave to him most mornings. James Dean, I seem to recall, kept to himself and as for Elizabeth Taylor, well she always seemed kinda cold. My son, who was just a young child at the time, appears in the film as one of the twins. You can see him sitting on Elizabeth Taylor's knee."
As well as a famous son, Rosemarie also has a famous grandfather. Robert Reed Ellison, as a young cattle hand, was one of the first to document seeing the mysterious Marfa lights back in the 1800s—the bright roundish lights that appear every night in a specific area south of Highway 90. They appear and disappear, move and split, can be white or colored, and they've fascinated and alarmed Marfa residents for decades.
Legend has it that the Apaches thought they were stars falling to Earth, while Marfan locals back then thought they might be Apache fires and weren't about to go looking to confirm this. In the decades since, geologists have poked around the area and found no real explanation for them. And so the controversy continues. Some truly believe the lights are something unusual and possibly extraterrestrial. Others think it's a bunch of hooey and that these "lights" are natural gases released by the earth or headlights from a distant highway. Rosemarie agrees to take me out to the viewing point to see if we can see the lights.
When I went to see the lights on my last visit, I'd gotten annoyed with the crowds at the official viewing site and rather petulantly left without being sure I'd seen anything. This time I am determined to see the phenomenon. The viewing site is again crowded with kids huddled under blankets—it gets cold and windy once the sun sets—and a handful of tourists. Sure enough, with a little patience on my part, the sun goes down, the full moon rises and I finally get to see the lights.
Rosemarie, who it turns out is an expert on the lights as well as all things Marfa, has no theories as to what may cause them, nor does she care. "I know that they're there, but I like the mystery that surrounds them," she declares. While it's true that there is something very surreal about sitting on the viewing platform as the sun sets and the lights begin their show, it's not long before I'm thinking "distant car headlights." However, Rosemarie is less than impressed by my skepticism and is quick to point out that there were no cars or highways when the lights were first spied all those years ago. Hmm…she has a point. I hunker down under my blanket and as my eyes hunt for the next glimmer of light on the dark horizon, my mind drifts towards thoughts of the land I've bought.
The following day, I can feel myself getting nervous as the hour approaches for me to view my land. I spent every cent I had—not a huge sum, but still, the whole lot—on this land and have absolutely no idea what I've got.
Over the years I've kept telling myself that it was an investment and doesn't matter if I feel a connection to it or not. Eventually the time comes and I follow the realty agent's truck as she drives west out of town on the road toward Fort Davis and the Antelope Hills. About 15 minutes later we are on a dirt road with nothing but fenced-in land on either side. It's the moment of truth. We pull over, walk up to the gate and suddenly I'm standing on five acres—or 217,900 square feet, or the equivalent of 544 of my rented New York City studio apartment—of my land.
It looks huge and feels vast. From here I can see the lights of Marfa twinkling below, kind of like Los Angeles from the hills, but smaller. I watch a freight train winding its way through town while, in the distance, the sun is setting over the Chinati Mountain Range where Donald Judd is buried. Valda the realty agent apologizes for the sunset: "It's just not that great tonight," she says—but from where I stand it looks pretty fantastic.
I still don't know what I'm going to do with the land. Maybe I'll put some concrete blocks on it like Donald Judd did, or maybe I'll build a house and live there. Maybe I'll just do nothing with it. But I know that I'll never sell it because I like having an attachment to Marfa—I just don't know why. And I think that's the same for a lot of people who come here—except for one person, that is. I ask Rosemarie what makes Marfa irresistible. "I don't think that Marfa is so special," she says. "Every town in America has a story—it's just that our story is more interesting than most."
One resident who has seen it all is Rosemarie Cox, a native Marfan who, at 80, still drives her pickup truck, never locks her front door and has the air of someone who will still be here long after all of the "permanent" art installations have disappeared. "I don't mind the art," she explains. "But I remember when Donald Judd came here for the very first time. He sat right here on this porch and said to me, 'Rosemarie, I'm going to do great things here. You'll like it, but you won't understand it.' And he was right. I don't think that I ever did really understand his art."
It's not only Donald Judd whom Rosemarie has seen come and go. She was here when Hollywood came to Marfa along with stars James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson. "That was a lovely time. Rock Hudson was living in that house right across the street and I used to wave to him most mornings. James Dean, I seem to recall, kept to himself and as for Elizabeth Taylor, well she always seemed kinda cold. My son, who was just a young child at the time, appears in the film as one of the twins. You can see him sitting on Elizabeth Taylor's knee."
As well as a famous son, Rosemarie also has a famous grandfather. Robert Reed Ellison, as a young cattle hand, was one of the first to document seeing the mysterious Marfa lights back in the 1800s—the bright roundish lights that appear every night in a specific area south of Highway 90. They appear and disappear, move and split, can be white or colored, and they've fascinated and alarmed Marfa residents for decades.
Legend has it that the Apaches thought they were stars falling to Earth, while Marfan locals back then thought they might be Apache fires and weren't about to go looking to confirm this. In the decades since, geologists have poked around the area and found no real explanation for them. And so the controversy continues. Some truly believe the lights are something unusual and possibly extraterrestrial. Others think it's a bunch of hooey and that these "lights" are natural gases released by the earth or headlights from a distant highway. Rosemarie agrees to take me out to the viewing point to see if we can see the lights.
When I went to see the lights on my last visit, I'd gotten annoyed with the crowds at the official viewing site and rather petulantly left without being sure I'd seen anything. This time I am determined to see the phenomenon. The viewing site is again crowded with kids huddled under blankets—it gets cold and windy once the sun sets—and a handful of tourists. Sure enough, with a little patience on my part, the sun goes down, the full moon rises and I finally get to see the lights.
Rosemarie, who it turns out is an expert on the lights as well as all things Marfa, has no theories as to what may cause them, nor does she care. "I know that they're there, but I like the mystery that surrounds them," she declares. While it's true that there is something very surreal about sitting on the viewing platform as the sun sets and the lights begin their show, it's not long before I'm thinking "distant car headlights." However, Rosemarie is less than impressed by my skepticism and is quick to point out that there were no cars or highways when the lights were first spied all those years ago. Hmm…she has a point. I hunker down under my blanket and as my eyes hunt for the next glimmer of light on the dark horizon, my mind drifts towards thoughts of the land I've bought.
The following day, I can feel myself getting nervous as the hour approaches for me to view my land. I spent every cent I had—not a huge sum, but still, the whole lot—on this land and have absolutely no idea what I've got.
Over the years I've kept telling myself that it was an investment and doesn't matter if I feel a connection to it or not. Eventually the time comes and I follow the realty agent's truck as she drives west out of town on the road toward Fort Davis and the Antelope Hills. About 15 minutes later we are on a dirt road with nothing but fenced-in land on either side. It's the moment of truth. We pull over, walk up to the gate and suddenly I'm standing on five acres—or 217,900 square feet, or the equivalent of 544 of my rented New York City studio apartment—of my land.
It looks huge and feels vast. From here I can see the lights of Marfa twinkling below, kind of like Los Angeles from the hills, but smaller. I watch a freight train winding its way through town while, in the distance, the sun is setting over the Chinati Mountain Range where Donald Judd is buried. Valda the realty agent apologizes for the sunset: "It's just not that great tonight," she says—but from where I stand it looks pretty fantastic.
I still don't know what I'm going to do with the land. Maybe I'll put some concrete blocks on it like Donald Judd did, or maybe I'll build a house and live there. Maybe I'll just do nothing with it. But I know that I'll never sell it because I like having an attachment to Marfa—I just don't know why. And I think that's the same for a lot of people who come here—except for one person, that is. I ask Rosemarie what makes Marfa irresistible. "I don't think that Marfa is so special," she says. "Every town in America has a story—it's just that our story is more interesting than most."
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