We didn’t know it at the time, but our pilgrimage to the high, austere deserts of West Texas began four months prior, at 101 Spring Street, New York City. It’s at once utterly utilitarian, an enduring critique, and a case study of Donald Judd’s earliest works.
Though the house shines as a cathedral to Judd’s own architectural mastery, it’s not actually his work that capped the visit. It’s a Dan Flavin piece in it that shines—brought to life by Judd’s sublime contextual control. With a click, Flavin’s sprawling, interlocked tunnel of neon flutters then floods the Judds' bedroom in a piercing, transcendent pink glow.
Yet seeing one-half of the geographical equation to Donald Judd seemed so unlike him. A half measure, when the whole must do. The man would’ve wanted it this way. So off we went, beyond the black crags of Alpine, and to the sleepy, sun-bleached town of Marfa, Texas.