The Chinati Foundation is a trip when first encountered, I knew my daughters would catch the ride. We turned right to start the self paced tour, despite the arrows indicating left was the correct direction. The field blocks could wait for the end, it was approaching 90 degrees, I wanted them to see the buildings first, while their minds were cluttered. The untitled Flavin lights, Donald Judd's two enormous converted artillery sheds of perfectly placed aluminum sophistication, the car crash sculptures, and the coolest dance floor ever installed, all surrounded by the desert dirt, scrubby bushes, stickers like razors, and big red fire ants. They were glad they wore their western boots.
The creative gush was immediate, scenes of long hallways with diagonal fluorescent tubes of light --peach with green, yellow with blues, silloutes of dashes and lashes, then opposites, in six old converted barracks. Then more shadows and installations and intentions along the gravel path; one building was a meticulous replica of an abandoned Soviet schoolhouse by Ilya Kabokov called School No. 6. It was transcendent, their red patriotism, their red nostalgia, their love for their red children. We are all uniquely, and essentially, and eventually, the same. Just wanna learn, just wanna make something, just wanna feel good, just wanna go, just wanna rest, we walked on.
The field blocks seemed like big concrete doll boxes for some reason, the shades and shadows were alive, it was their home. One after another, the arrangements interested us in some way, the placements, the surroundings, the sky, all working to inspire whoever or whatever, whenever. But only there, in that place. There is no other Chinati. We walked 8,000 steps according to one of my favorite daughters, we were dazed and unconfused, we were hot and unbothered, shattered and uncluttered.