PRINT Summer 1994

Roni Horn

A WEEK AGO I WAS driving through a Texas night—and I found myself peering, relentlessly, into Texas.

Texas darkness is deep. It exceeds the visible. It exceeds the measurable. It presents things perceptible only on the scale of Texas or bigger.

And while I was contemplating the properties of Texas darkness, I began to muse on Donald Judd. Judd—the place; Judd—the geology; Judd—the darkness; Judd—the dust.

Texas dust is big and ubiquitous. It’s complex and delicate too. When I walk upon it, as I am bound to do, I hear the strangely distant and loud grinding of the dust under my leather soles. Each step makes a sound that inhabits the darkness—an echo without repetition or end.

Ditto to the dust and darkness is Texas desert—big, ubiquitous, deep, and immeasurable. Texas desert is quiet and open and relentless. Relentless in Texas Is nothing other than relentless. Because Texas goes on and on and on. Relentless here is definitive.

Here is Texas darkness, Texas dust, Texas desert. Together they bring me to Donald Judd. Not the darkness, not the dust, and not the desert—but the depth, Immeasurable—the relentlessness, immeasurable—and the ubiquity, equally so.

Still, in this still Texas night I see those singular places where the darkness does not reside when I look up and see a star or two stating the sky. And we sat once, Don and I, In a Texas night and noted the perfection—simple—and the openness—complete—of the darkness and one star in a Texas night.