Experimental Meditations in Taylor Texas

Second Edition

Since my early twenties, I have been interested in curating spaces for people to convene around some sort of exhibition of art. To gather creative individuals and elements of likeness and contrast, some bit of alchemy, to watch what might unfold, and to learn what is possible. For the past 25 years, I have learned to love Texas for its constellation of artists, art spaces, and the expansive and mysterious landscape that lies horizontally between.

 I moved to Dallas when I was young, and it was amazing to see artists like Xinpeng Chen and Eric Swenson come from what felt like at times a city strangled by swirling mix-master super highways and a dizzying obsession with commerce. In Houston, where I once saw the entire shoreline on fire, I could go to experience Rothko paintings, illuminated by natural light, held sacredly between thick and cavernous walls as if they were as holy as the Sistine Chapel. And for those of us whose faith lies in the abstract, they are. And then there are the other constellations across geography and time: the Chinati Foundation, the Webb Gallery, Idea Records, Elevator Bath, Phillip Krumm, Ceremony Hall, Pauline Oliveros, Rick Reed, Art Pace, Domy Books, the Texas polka, the Tejano, the dancehall, and on and on. All of these constellations evolve, thread, and interweave into a narrative that may be as quiet as the deserts between them. Though these institutions are often humble and whispering, they are as dense, mystical, and vital to our living as the vast air between us.

I recently moved to Taylor, Texas for the second time in my life, after some need for solace from some challenging shifts in my existence, and coming to terms with myself, once again. I can see the train yard from the crumbling building I live in, I can watch the lights change from the main intersection of the town square, and there is a silence, that feels within itself, could birth hope. There is also a fog that comes in this time of year, from which I am sure you can see an impression of David Lynch's face within. I can walk around town and listen to polka at the antique stores, read through psychedelic horror novels at Curio Mrvosa, drink a cortado over, maybe too many hours of conversation, with friends at a Grateful Dead-themed cafe, or speak about our most current existential crisis with the town therapist at Black Sparrow. And this all happens within the two or three streets that make up what seems like a set piece of a downtown.

And I am still inspired to write an idea down next to my window, to ask a favor from a friend, just see how I might bring one energy to another energy, and to swirl it all around, and to see how Newton's third law might unravel, what might be revealed without assumption. So I am doing once again one of the few things I find worth doing, to create a conversation and inviting anyone who may be interested to join in it. And grateful to you all.