All I saw were dilapidated trailer parks and discarded trash in open fields. Certainly not a location for the famed Chinati Foundation I’d been reading about.
Just past the last rundown home I see a building that may be, could possibly be, the start of an art museum. I park in the gravel covered lot and walk inside. A hipster is sitting at a single desk at the far end of the room.
He stares but says nothing. I ask if am in the right place to see the “free art”.
“Just turn around, follow the dirt path to the left, and keeping walking for about a mile and half.”
It was early, before 9 am, and I have the place to myself. Brilliant morning light fills the sky. It’s one of those Sunday mornings where you turn on your local jazz station and lose yourself in the free flow of Coltrane.
When I saw the first blocks of minimalism, my mind wandered to new dimensions.
One can try to break down meaning with art such as this, the simplicity, the different formations, etc…
I prefer to let the art just be, to try to understand how I felt being in it’s presence.
I hear the saxophone play without reservation, the notes dip and sway between the stone blocks and up into the Texas sky.
It’s how I feel art.
