by Mark Gimenez
‘So what gave Earlene away as a lesbian? Her clothes? Her hair? Her lack of makeup? The way she looked at you and not me? The fact that she’s got shoulders like Michael Phelps? Ms. Honeywell, please tell the jury how you can know con clusively that Earlene the receptionist is in fact a lesbian?’
Nadine shrugged again.
‘She grabbed my butt in the bathroom.’
Chapter 15
‘They’re boxes.’
‘Works of art, Ms. Honeywell.’
Nadine Honeywell stared.
‘Boxes.’
They stood in a renovated artillery shed on an abandoned cavalry outpost just south of town; it was more monastery than museum. Arrayed before them were fifty-two of Donald Judd’s 100 Untitled Works in Milled Aluminum. The other forty-eight were installed in an adjacent shed. The works were rectangular boxes, each with identical exterior dimensions—41 × 51 × 72 inches—but unique interior configurations—a box within a box, a floating box, partitions like cards in a deck or slanted shelves on the wall—that created optical illusions; each was open to the inside, each weighed one ton, each had been factory fabricated to exacting specifications, each cost $5,000. The boxes were perfectly aligned in three north–south rows under a high ceiling topped by a Quonset hut roof; massive east-and west-facing windows allowed the sun to bathe the boxes in light and set the shiny surfaces aglow. A young man sat cross-legged on the floor before one box, his elbows on his knees and his hands cupping his chin, and stared as if in a trance, like a disciple before a religious shrine. Donald Judd was a crusty gray-haired and bearded Midwesterner; he lived on a ranch overlooking Mexico; he was a towering figure in contemporary art in New York; and he created his life’s masterpiece in Marfa, Texas.
Which masterpiece was funded by oil money.
Donald Judd began his artistic career as a painter but became renowned as a sculptor of boxes. He was a leader of the Minimalist art movement in New York in the sixties, but he became disenchanted with the New York art scene. He hated museums. ‘Art is not commerce or show business,’ he said. He believed that art cannot be separated from the space around it and said he put as much thought into ‘the placement of the piece as into the piece itself.’ He wanted to permanently install his art in big open spaces, inside and outside, where it would exist forever. In 1973, he moved to Marfa to realize his vision.
Which required money. A lot of money.
Philippa de Menil had a lot of money and a love of contemporary art. Her money came from oil; she was the granddaughter of Conrad Schlumberger, the French physicist who founded Schlumberger Ltd., an international oilfield service company. Her love of art came from her mother, Dominique de Menil, who founded the Menil Collection, a contemporary art museum in Houston. In 1974, Philippa founded the Dia Art Foundation in New York with her husband, Heiner Friedrich, and her inheritance, Schlumberger stock. Their vision was ‘one artist, one place, forever,’ to be achieved by funding permanent installations of major art projects; that is, one-man museums.
Heiner had long been a dealer of Donald Judd’s work, both in his native Germany and in New York. Dia’s vision matched up perfectly with Judd’s. In 1978, Philippa and Heiner agreed to fund Judd’s Marfa project, including the one hundred aluminum boxes as well as sixty large concrete boxes to be installed in an adjacent field just to the east of the artillery sheds. Dia purchased the decommissioned Fort D. A. Russell, paid Judd a monthly stipend of $17,500, and poured $5 million into the project. Dia funded other artists as well, including John Chamberlain and Dan Flavin; it acquired hundreds of artworks, many by Andy Warhol. It was a heady time indeed for the Dia Foundation and Philippa’s Schlumberger stock, which traded in the $90 range.
But the oil crash of 1982 hit oil stocks hard; Schlumberger’s stock price plunged to under $30. Despite putting $35 million of her inheritance into Dia, the foundation faced financial ruin. Philippa and Heiner told Judd that Dia could no longer fund his Marfa project.
Judd was not pleased.
After he threatened a lawsuit, Dominique de Menil stepped in to save Dia and her daughter’s fortune. Heiner was removed from the board; Philippa’s inheritance was placed in a trust overseen by her brothers. Dia conveyed the entire Marfa project—the buildings, the fort, and the art—and $2 million to Judd’s new Chinati Foundation. They parted ways. Judd completed his masterpiece in 1986.
Judd’s boxes are now something of a shrine. Art lovers from around the world make the pilgrimage to the old fort. With permanent installations of masterpieces by three giants of contemporary art—Judd’s one hundred boxes, Chamberlain’s twenty-two crushed cars, and Flavin’s 336, eight-foot-long fluorescent lights in four colors (green, pink, blue, and yellow) installed in six U-shaped barracks at the fort, which the New York Times dubbed ‘the last great work of 20th-century American art’—Marfa itself has been deemed ‘Minimalism’s masterpiece’; but Marfa will always be about Donald Judd. Marfa is a one-man museum; one artist, one place, forever. The vision of Judd, Heiner, Philippa, and Dia was realized and validated. The vision lives on without them.
Donald Judd fell ill on a trip to Germany in early 1994 and died in a New York hospital at the age of sixty-five. He is buried on his beloved ranch south of Marfa. The Dia Foundation survived but without Heiner or Philippa. Heiner Friedrich, now seventy-four, recently opened a museum in Germany and bought a $2 million home in the Hamptons. Philippa de Menil, now sixty-five, converted to Sufi Islam and is known as Shaykha Fariha Fatima al-Jerrahi; she is on Facebook. And the source of it all—Schlumberger stock—now trades near $80, giving it a market cap of $103 billion. The company is a leading international player in shale gas fracking.
‘You reading a book at lunch?’
Border Patrol Agent Wesley Crum stuffed the last of the large pepperoni pizza into his mouth. He and Angel Acosta sat on stools at the counter.
‘What are you reading?’
His words came out garbled through the pizza he was chewing. Angel looked up from the book.
‘What?’
‘What are you reading? That Shades of Grey book they was talking about on The View?’
‘No, I’m reading his book.’
‘Whose?’
Angel nodded past Wesley; he turned and saw the professor and his gal walk into the place. Angel waved like a kid to a sports star. Wesley shook his head. This was goddamn embarrassing.
‘Professor,’ Angel said. He held up the book. ‘Would you sign my book?’
The professor stepped over, greeted them, and autographed the title page.
‘It’s very enlightening,’ Angel said.
‘Thanks, Agent Acosta,’ the professor said.
He and the girl found a table across the room. Angel stared at the professor’s signature on his book. Wesley sighed.
‘Jesus, Angel—he ain’t one of the Kardashian sisters.’
‘It smells great in here,’ Book’s intern said. She inhaled the place. ‘Olive oil. I love extra virgin olive oil.’
Her eyes glazed over and her mind seemed to drift off into another world.
‘Ms. Honeywell?’
Nothing. He spoke louder.
‘Ms. Honeywell.’
She snapped.
‘What?’
She had a wistful expression on her young face.
‘Oh, sorry, Professor, I was, uh … thinking about olive oil.’
‘Cooking with it?’
‘Something like that.’
She shook it off with a full-body shiver.
‘So why’d we go look at the art?’
‘You’re a student. I’m a professor. I’m trying to educate you.’
‘In art?’
‘In life.’
She eyed him with suspicion. ‘You’re not telling me the whole truth.’
‘See? You’ve already learned an important life lesson.’
‘Don’t trust law professors?’
Book smiled.
‘Can we go home now?’
/> ‘No.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
She groaned then pulled out her cell phone and began tapping with her thumbs on the little keyboard.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Tweeting.’
‘What?’
She read off her phone: ‘“Help! I’m being held hostage in West Texas by a deranged law professor.”’
‘How many followers do you have?’
‘Two. Including my mom.’
She replaced the phone and folded her hands on the table.
‘Most law professors love to hear their own voices so they lecture the entire class. You didn’t.’
‘I don’t lecture. I’m just a tour guide through Con Law.’
‘Problem is, we never knew what you were thinking.’
‘Good.’
‘But we’re not in your classroom, Professor. We’re in Marfa. So tell me what you’re thinking.’
It was past noon, and Nadine was homesick and hungry. He had not yet found Nathan’s truth, so he couldn’t take her home, but he could feed her. They had ridden back into town for lunch at the Pizza Foundation, just a few blocks up Highland Avenue from the Border Patrol headquarters. The building had been a gas station in a prior life. A purple Vespa was parked outside.
‘I’m thinking there’s a connection. Between Nathan, the art, fracking, his death … my gut tells me it’s all tied together.’
‘Maybe your gut’s just telling you it’s hungry.’
‘Could be.’
‘Connected by what?’
‘Not what. Whom.’
‘Hi, I’m Kenni with an “i.” I’ll be your waiter.’
A skinny young man wearing skinny jeans and a T-shirt that read Frack Off stood at their table. He seemed too somber to be a waiter in Marfa. He wore purple with a passion—in his hair, on his back, and on his feet. He was young, pierced, and tattooed. On the fingers of his left hand letters had been inked into his skin, one letter per finger: WWDJD.
‘I’ve seen that WWDJD all over town,’ Nadine said. ‘What’s it stand for?’
‘“What would Donald Judd do?”’
Nadine frowned. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be WWJD? “What would Jesus do?”’
‘Not in Marfa.’
Kenni’s face was puffy, and his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. Or as if he were stoned. Or both.
‘You okay?’ Book asked.
Kenni gave a weak nod. ‘Just sad.’
He offered no more, so Book ordered the chicken, tomatoes, spinach, and olive oil on thin crust. Nadine went for pepperoni, sausage, Canadian bacon, and extra cheese and her hand sanitizer. When Kenni left, Nadine said, ‘He’s gay.’
‘You’re not going to stop, are you?’
She shrugged. ‘Just stating the obvious. He walks with his palms to the ground.’
Book turned and observed Kenni. He walked with his arms tight to his body and his wrists angled up so his palms faced the floor.
‘Telltale sign,’ his intern said.
‘All right, Ms. Honeywell, since you’re apparently an expert on this sort of thing, why do you think Nathan was gay?’
‘His photos.’
‘Explain.’
‘What did you see?’
Book shrugged. ‘Black-and-white photos.’
‘You’re not gay.’
‘I know. But why do you think Nathan was?’
‘The brilliant law professor is clueless. I love it.’ She smiled and wiped the table down then rubbed sanitizer on her hands. ‘All the photos were black and white, manly scenes, cattle and cowboys, the rugged landscape, a drilling rig, but in each photo there was one object in color, one thing that didn’t belong in the scene—a Barbie doll, a red rose, pink underwear.’
‘Okay.’
‘Like Nathan. He was saying he didn’t belong here. He was a gay guy in manly West Texas, living a black-and-white life, forced to hide his true colors.’
Book pondered her words a moment.
‘Ms. Honeywell, either you’re really smart or all that ethyl alcohol is poisoning your brain.’
A gray-haired man wearing a plaid shirt, creased khakis, and cowboy boots walked up and stuck his hand out to Book.
‘Ward Weaver, mayor of Marfa.’
They shook.
‘John Bookman. And Nadine Honeywell.’
‘Read in the paper you were in town, Professor. Mind signing my Nook? Got your e-book on it. Been carrying it everywhere with me the last couple days, hoping to run into you.’
Book used a Sharpie to sign the mayor’s Nook.
‘Mind if I sit?’
‘Pull up a chair.’
The mayor sat then sniffed the air. ‘Smells like a hospital.’
He waved at Kenni across the room.
‘So how do you folks like our little town? Number eight on the Smithsonian’s “twenty best small towns in America” list.’
‘The museum?’ Nadine said.
‘The magazine.’
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping.
‘Got the article right here.’
He unfolded it on the table like a teenage boy with a Playboy centerfold. He read.
‘“It’s just a flyspeck in the flat, hot, dusty cattle country of southwest Texas—closer to Chihuahua than Manhattan. But it’s cooking, thanks to an influx of creative types from way downtown.”’
The mayor looked up with a grin.
‘We beat out Key West.’
He carefully folded the article and replaced it in his pocket. He then reached into his other shirt pocket and removed another clipping. He spread it on the table and read.
‘“The Art Land. In Marfa, the worlds of beef and art collide, giving the town a unique kick.” New York Times. Course, you know what that’s like, being in the Times, don’t you, Professor? I read that story, “Indiana Jones Goes to Law School.” Was all that true?’
‘It was.’
The mayor grunted then folded and replaced that article. He patted his shirt and then the pockets of his khakis. He returned with several more clippings.
‘“Marfa makes an art out of quirky.” Chicago Tribune. “Minimal, marvelous Marfa: avant-garde art, deep in Texas.” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. “Marfa, oasis d’artistes.” Le Monde. You read French?’
Book shook his head.
‘Don’t know what it says, been hoping someone could translate it.’
Nadine reached over, took the article, and read: ‘“This is a charming and strange village, a world apart. In the late afternoon, you can enjoy a Spritz (Champagne, Campari, seltzer water) on the terrace of the only restaurant on the main street …”’
The mayor smiled and nodded in approval. ‘That’s nice.’
Nadine scanned down the article. ‘It goes on to tell the history of the town, how Marfa got its name, blah, blah, blah, Judd’s story, the boxes, blah, blah, blah … Oh, this is interesting.’
‘Read it to me,’ the mayor said like a kid wanting his mother to read the ending to a Harry Potter book.
Nadine translated. ‘“The widening gap between the arts and the Marfa ‘from below’ also casts a shadow on the picture. At the last census, the population was seventy percent Hispanic, and the median income less than half of Texas. But there are few artists who are interested in Marfa’s poor and Mexicans. Chicanos, for their part, do not mix with the ‘chinatis,’ as they call the newcomers … The next contention could focus on education. Founded by two personalities from the art world, an international private school will open in September for twenty students. Do we want to educate the entire community or a few? Donald Judd enrolled his children in the public schools. This is one of the poorest counties in Texas or in the United States. Our schools are starving for money.”’
The mayor’s excited child’s face had turned into a deeper frown with each word of Nadine’s translation. He gestured at the article.
‘That’s what those
French words say? You sure about that?’
‘Unh-huh.’
‘Well, hell’s bells, that ain’t a good story at all. And I’ve been carrying it around all this time. Goddamn French people.’
He snatched the article and wadded it into a ball and threw it at a distant trash basket. Nadine turned to Book; she was trying not to laugh.
‘French, Ms. Honeywell?’
‘The finest private school education available in San Francisco.’
The mayor spit out the bad taste of French and put his other prized articles away.
‘Anyway, we’ve been written up in GQ, Vogue, Vanity Fair, Wall Street Journal, Texas Monthly, papers and magazines from California clear to New York City. Before Judd, all we had was the Marfa Mystery Lights. After Judd, we got art. And that’s a marketable concept.’
‘A concept?’
‘You know, a promotional gimmick.’
‘Judd’s art is a gimmick?’
The mayor shrugged. ‘Disneyland has Mickey Mouse.’
Kenni brought a glass of iced tea for the mayor. He grabbed the sugar dispenser and turned it up. And left it there, dispensing a load of sugar into the tea.
‘You like a little tea with your sugar?’ Book said.
‘What? Oh, I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.’
‘Lucky you still have teeth.’
‘Don’t pay him any mind, Mayor,’ Nadine said. ‘He doesn’t know anything about the sweeter things in life. Like sweet tea and chocolate-covered donuts and … pizza!’
Kenni had returned with their pizzas, which kept Nadine quiet.
‘See,’ the mayor said, ‘when you think of Dallas, you think of J. R. Ewing and the Cowboys. Austin, you think of music and hippies. Houston, you think of … mosquitoes. We want you to think of art when you think of Marfa. And let me tell you, Professor, art is a promotional gimmick that works.’
He drank his sugar with tea then continued.
‘I mean, we’re an airplane flight and a four-hour drive from anywhere, but ten thousand art tourists make the pilgrimage every year. And that’s what it is for those folks, a religious experience, like Judd was a god and Marfa’s a shrine. I don’t get it myself—hell, they’re just boxes—but they come and they see and they spend. We got a bookstore, fourteen art galleries’—the mayor pointed out the window—‘right over there, that’s the inde/jacobs gallery, two homosexuals from Minnesota moved down here and opened it—and nine restaurants. Got a French place called Cochineal, gay couple owns it, they had a place in New York called États-Unis, cost you a hundred bucks to eat there, place is packed—homosexuals, they can cook. We got Italian, Mediterranean—that’s the Food Shark. Serves falafel, hummus, fatoush salad … folks like the stuff, but it gives me gas.’
