An Open Letter to my Classmates from Lubbock High School, Class of 1955

Lubbock High School after 19th street was widened.  Somebody watered the trees.  Five hundred twenty-six of us graduated from high school in this lovely building and went out to face the world in the spring of 1955.

      I wanted to write something meaningful and appropriate about our recent 58^th High School Reunion.  What is appropriate when so many are gone and so many others are ill and infirm?  What is meaningful, when close friends are hospitalized, clinging to life?  I think it’s appropriate to look for the positives in our situation.  I think it is meaningful to remember all the good things the members of this class accomplished.  I think it is time to look forward, feel good, laugh, talk, and visit with old friends.  I think we need to remember good things.

      While looking through some old papers last week, I discovered a small, thick envelope addressed to my parents.  Inside was another envelope, and inside that, a greeting card-sized leather-bound booklet.  Across the lower front, the words “Lubbock High” were embossed into the black leather and outlined in gold leaf.  An etching of the magnificent building we attended, and took for granted, filled the bulk of the space on the front of the announcement.

     On the first page, held in place by an embossed western saddle, an engraved card said simply, “Jimmy McLaughlin,” the young man I once was.  The overleaf displayed a brown-ink sketch of a cowboy, resting on a mesa, with his horse grazing nearby.    Beyond, gigantic thunderheads framed the overpowering West Texas sky.

     The next page revealed one single sentence, engraved in Olde English Script.  It read, “The Senior Class of Lubbock Senior High School announces its Commencement Exercises Friday, May the twenty-seventh Nineteen hundred fifty-five at eight o’clock in the Fair Park Coliseum”

     I was overwhelmed by the quality of the whole thing.  Unlike similar items today, no imitation leather, no production compromises, no skimpy shortcuts were taken.  I realized that is as it should be.  I remember the quality of the education we received in that memorable building.  I remember the teachers, the coaches, the administrators.  It is only fitting that all that quality should be reflected in our graduation announcement.

     Now, all these years later, we can look back on the lessons we learned, the attitudes we developed, the alliances we made.  We can be proud of our accomplishments and thankful for the influence this school had on our lives.  We can be grateful—for the High Plains, for Lubbock High School, and for each other.

     I know this is meaningful.  I hope it is appropriate. I enjoyed every visit, every story, every chuckle, and every guffaw over the entire weekend.  My only regret is that I didn’t get to visit with everyone.  I love you all.

                                                                                          Jim McLaughlin

The Lubbock High School Building as we knew it, during the early days of aerial photography.

More on Marfa and Donald Judd

The restored court house in downtown Marfa.

     The prime mover behind the Dia Foundation is Philippa de Menil, the daughter of Dominique de Menil and the granddaughter of Conrad Schlumberger, a French inventor.  We’ll touch on Philippa now, and get to know Dominique much better in a later article I plan, which will continue my celebration of Texas Women.

     Anyone who ever worked in the oil fields knows that “Schlumberger” is pronounced “Slumber-Jay,” and thousands of big blue trucks carry the name to every nook and cranny of the world.  These blue trucks come back loaded with money from the nooks and crannies and send it to Houston, where a whole building full of CPAs decides what to do with it, to keep from paying those nasty old taxes.

     Philippa de Menil married an art dealer named Heiner Friedrich, and, with art historian Helen Winkler, the three of them set up The Lone Star Foundation, which evolved into the Dia Art Foundation.  Philippa sat on the board, but her main job was providing Schlumberger money. The word “Dia” comes from the Greek word meaning “through” and was chosen to indicate the truckloads of money that left Schlumberger, passed “through” the Dia Foundation into the hands of unrecognized, but possibly deserving, artists.   The foundation provided funding for artistic projects that might otherwise never see the light of day.   Some critics suggest that would not have been a bad thing. 

     Donald Judd considered himself unrecognized and deserving and immediately became associated with Dia.  They provided him with stipends, studios, archivists and “walking around” money.  Lining up at the trough with Judd were Joseph Beuys, Dan Flavin, Agnes Martin, John Chamberlain, Andy Warhol, and dozens of others.  Judd presented the “Art for the Masses” idea, and the Dia Foundation eagerly stepped forward to fund the exercise.

Prada, an art installation in the desert near Valentine, about thirty-seven miles northwest of Marfa.  Micheal Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset, two German artists, did the installation with Prada's blessing.

     Judd put Dia’s money to good use.  The Chinati Foundation provided internships for deserving artists, funded an annual “October Art Weekend” in Marfa, and imported art dealers and celebrities from all around the country for immersion into the West Texas art scene.  Judd bought and coordinated renovation of several buildings, invited artist friends to show their work in Marfa, and learned to weld while he worked on some rusty Cor-Ten steel sculptures—the only art he actually built in Marfa.

     In the nineteen-eighties, I read about an incident involving Judd that took place near Marfa.  I have looked for mention of it, but cannot find anything about it on this electric machine. I will recite the story from memory, and if it turns out to be untrue, don’t tell anyone.   It is far too good a story to ignore.

      A student of Judd’s did a sculpture to represent the Virgin Mary, or the Virgin of Guadalupe, or the Angel of Goliad.  I’m not sure which, but one of the Mexican Virgins that are so deified because they are so scarce.  The sculpture was done with “found pieces,” bits of rag and tin and sticks, and perhaps a stone or two.  It was very much to Judd’s liking, meeting his criteria that art stand unequivocally on its own, not represent anything, and occupy real space, not illusionary space.

      Judd explained to the young artist that sculpture was not designed to be a lasting thing, at least not this particular sculpture, because it was not a concrete box or an aluminum cube.  The highest and best use of the virgin sculpture should be “Performance Art,” or a “Happening.”  In either case the piece would be destroyed in a blaze of glory, purified by cleansing flames.  Judd, as always, was very convincing and soon the artist trainee was ready to put a match to his work.  Judd’s genius for grasping an opportunity served him well.

If you are unsophisticated, you might not recognize this as art.  These cars were selected and placed by an artist, and probably paid for by Schlumberger money.  The train comes by every two hours or so and the whole scene becomes "Performance Art."

      Art dealers, movie stars, writers, critics, and movers and shakers from coast to coast were invited to Marfa for “A Happening Performance of Art.”  All arrived at the Midland/Odessa Airport and were met by Judd, in an air-conditioned Greyhound bus outfitted with a full bar, a bartender, and classy cocktail waitresses.  After several happy hours on the bus, the dignitaries were put up for the night in and around Marfa.  The next morning, at a civil hour, breakfast tacos were served at the Chinati Foundation and everyone was loaded back on the bus—the bar was open—and transported to the north bank of the Rio Grande, where a scaffold-like stadium had been erected.

     The sculpture of the unrecognizable virgin had been installed on a flat raft and was tethered to the bank, upstream from the stadium.  The plan: Set the raft adrift and afire simultaneously.  As the flames consumed the virgin and the raft drifted along the international boundary, the highest level of performance art would be achieved when the whole installation sank gently beneath the waves, sizzling and smoking as it dropped out of sight directly in front of the tipsy celebrities assembled on the makeshift grandstand.

     The cocktail cuties freshened everyone’s drink and Judd signaled for the “Happening” to happen.  The raft started to burn and drift, but after the initial flare up, the fabric and wood parts of the hapless virgin quit burning and began to smolder.  The crew had not used enough diesel fuel.  Some plastic melted and smoked and stunk to high heaven and the metal parts warped. The raft began to burn vigorously, but soon the diesel fuel dissipated and the wet wood smoldered like the remnants of the solitary virgin.  The whole smoking, smoldering mess hung up on a sandbar and stuck there, fifteen feet off shore, listing and sputtering, stuck in the mud at a distressing angle.  Judd hurriedly loaded the bus and sent the celebrities back to Midland.

      Most of the working press who witnessed the “Happening” didn’t remember much about it.  Free booze does that to reporters. Those who did remember chose to be kind and wrote about the big sky, the breakfast tacos, even the Midland/Odessa Airport.  No one really panned the incident, partly because of embarrassment and partly because of ignorance.  The writers feared everyone else understood “Happening Performance Art,” and they didn’t.

     In the early eighties, oil prices went south and took Schlumberger stock along.  The nervous CPAs in that building off the Gulf Freeway in Houston pulled in their horns to weather the financial storm.  Among the horns they pulled in were Philippa’s.  This forced the Dia Foundation to rethink its priorities and to reorganize, asking Philippa’s mother, Dominique de Menil, to join the board.  It was decided to cease funding art in the desert wilderness, for at least a year or two.  Dia reneged on a promised $2.3 million grant to Donald Judd and the Chinati Foundation.

     Donald Judd did not take this lying down.  After all, that money was meant for art and it was his responsibility to protect it.  He threatened a lawsuit, and the Dia Foundation, in shambles financially because of over-spending and decreased funding, hurriedly settled.  The Chinati Foundation came out of the negotiations owning all the Marfa art and real estate and was provided with $800,000.00 to finish works in progress.

     At the time, Judd stated, “You could call it a divorce settlement, although I’m not entirely satisfied.  It’s not close to what they originally intended to do.  But it’s great that we’re free.”

     In Marfa, Texas, a million dollars will buy a whole lot of anything you might want.  The Dia Foundation poured more than four million dollars into Marfa in the years from 1980 to 1986, then, when threatened with a lawsuit, signed over everything they owned out there to Chinati and Donald Judd.

     I have not a lot of respect for Donald Judd as an artist or as a man.  Perhaps I’m too naive to understand his art, and I certainly cannot speak to his motives, but I have no admiration for his methods.  He approached the Dia Foundation with hat in hand and enjoyed their charity when he was broke and times were good for them.   He repaid their kindness by taking advantage at a time when they were defenseless and vulnerable.

     In the realm of art, I admire one thing he did.  He had a talent for renovation of older buildings.  He converted wool warehouses, motor pool sheds, and unused hangers into museums for the display of art, and he did fantastic work.  He sandblasted masonry walls, polished concrete floors, added windows and state-of-art lighting and made drab old buildings sparkle with new life.  He probably did nothing more than any competent fourth-year architecture student might have done, but he did the work and deserves the credit.

     He also put Marfa on the map.  His work and Dia’s money provided jobs for natives of the area and added zip to the otherwise stagnant economy.  Empty buildings that once lined the main streets are filled with art galleries, gift shops, and restaurants.  Older hotels--the Piasano and the Thunderbird--have been renovated.  A new motel, the El Cosmico, with vintage Airstream Trailers and Native American Teepees as guest cottages, beckons to the artistic traveler. 

     New, creative people have discovered and embraced the high desert climate and environment.  In this age of computers, artists and writers who can live wherever they please are moving into the area and putting down roots.    None of this would have happened without Donald Judd.  His motivations may have been purely selfish, but a lot of deserving people in a hot, dry, vacant, dusty corner of Texas benefitted from his vision.  I can’t fault him for that.

I believe this must be art, too.  No self-respecting sheep herder would build such a shoddy cabin.  How much do you suppose this thing cost Schlumberger?

How come Marfa, Texas Is All of a Sudden a Mecca for Art People and Such?

 

"Art should stand unequivocally on its own and simply exist."  Donald Judd

     Unless you are involved in the world of art, you probably never heard of Donald Judd.  Judd claimed to be an artist, and he may have been.   As every successful artist must be, he was a salesman.  He could sell just about anything to just about anybody, and to get the most money for the least effort, he learned to concentrate on selling ideas to rich people.  Ideas don’t cost anything, so he didn’t have to tie up a bunch of money in inventory. 

      For obvious reasons, poor people are not good sales targets, and rich people, especially those with second or third generation wealth, go around feeling guilty about being rich.  The second generation is uncomfortable with wealth and desperately wants to believe that they are smarter than poor people and deserve to be rich, so they are apt to buy ideas, especially ideas they don’t understand.  The third generation is comfortable being wealthy but feels obligated to make the world a better place by sharing. Judd discovered early on that the more difficult an idea is to comprehend, the more money it is worth.  He understood that a complicated idea couched in impossibly obtuse language and properly presented was priceless.

     Donald Judd was born in Missouri, went into the army, and moved to New York City when his enlistment was up.  He got a degree in philosophy from Columbia University, and worked toward a master’s degree in art history.  From the late forties through the mid-fifties, Judd concentrated on painting, but he wasn’t very good and didn’t sell much. 

      He supported himself by writing art criticism for major magazines and discovered a talent for writing long, complicated, absolutely meaningless sentences.  For instance, he “found a starting point for a new territory for American art, and a simultaneous rejection of residual inherited European artistic values, these values being illusion and represented space, as opposed to real space.”  One of his basic premises stated, “art should not represent anything, … it should unequivocally stand on its own and simply exist.”

     The classic European idea of  ”representational sculpture” takes the position that a sculpture should represent something—a horse, a man, or a naked woman—and be recognizable.  Judd decided sculpting something recognizable was way too hard, so he went about selling the idea that representational sculpture was “old hat” and to be contemporary, sculpture must be unrecognizable.  Rich people jumped on that idea like a hen on a June bug. 

      Donald Judd continued to work with sculptures that occupied real space, stood unequivocally on their own, and simply existed.   He discovered that kind of art was almost as hard to do as art that actually looked like something, so he had craftsmen do the work while he thought up the ideas.  Because his work occupied space but didn’t look like anything, he named most of his works “Untitled” and dated them.  Examples are the stunning “Untitled 1976,” or the inspirational “Untitled 1982.”  Rich people lined up to dump money in his lap, hoping to get a chance to bid on something untitled.

     In 1971, Donald Judd needed to get away from it all.  The tension of making art to fill up space—not representational space, but real space—thinking up ideas to pedal to rich people, and doing it all surrounded by New York City, was wearing him to a frazzle.  He rented a house in Marfa, Texas, and moved out there for a vacation and a change of pace.

     As with most people who have never been exposed to limitless space, clean air, clear crisp mornings, and sunshine so bright it hurts your eyes, Judd was astonished.  Never, in his experience, had he been able to see farther than he could point.  Mountains hovered off in the distance and details were plain forty miles away.

     The people out there were different.  To start with, there weren’t many of them and they all dressed like Ralph Lauren.  Threadbare jeans, faded chambray work shirt, turquoise and silver belt buckle, scruffy straw hat and well worn, comfortable boots seemed to be the uniform of the day.  Everything moved in slow motion—the people talked slow, they stopped on the street to visit with each other, no one was in a hurry—for a New Yorker, this place was downright weird.

     Donald Judd got the inkling of an idea—he needed money and these poor people needed art.  He turned the idea over in his mind.  He toyed with it, nursed it, and the thought began to mature into a full-blown plan.  Donald Judd would bring art to the people, art for the masses.  What an inspiration.  Judd realized that only he could bring art to these people and, to do it, he needed to sell his idea to some billionaire’s guilty offspring.  No problem there—he had a list.

      Short-sighted individuals might think that Marfa, Texas, was a funny place to bring anything to the masses, much less art.  Perhaps Marfa wasn’t overrun with people, but it had advantages more populated areas lacked.  Marfa was available, and in the great scheme of things, with the right financial partner, it was affordable.

     The Dia Foundation provided Judd with money to buy an abandoned army base, Fort D. A. Russell, outside Marfa.  He purchased a 60,000 acre ranch, the Ayala de Chinati, and several older buildings in town.  Judd established the Chinati Foundation to oversee the operations and handle funding details, placing himself above crass financial matters. He stayed busy restoring older buildings.  Restoration can be an exacting and painstaking task, but it is not nearly so difficult if others provide the money.

     To get started on his “Art for the People” project, Donald went to the army base.  He restored two motor pool buildings and installed a hundred polished aluminum half-cubes, each six feet by six feet by three feet and precisely placed to best demonstrate the play of light and shadow as the sun moved over the structures.  Outside, in a field, Judd placed several large steel-reinforced concrete cubes.  Each was positioned with discipline to maintain a proper relationship with the others.  He fittingly named the installation “Untitled 1980-1984.”

     As storm clouds gathered on the distant horizon, Donald Judd was flying high.  Stay tuned.

John Chamberlain, one of Judd's favorite artists, did this.  It is on display at the Hirshhorn Museum in New York City.  In 1973, two three-hundred-pound pieces Chamberlain did were stored temporarily on the loading dock of a gallery warehouse in Chicago.  They were reported stolen, but it was discovered that the garbage men hauled them to the dump.