Landscape of Nothingness
PAST
Ask visitors who travel to Lubbock by motor vehicle how they remember the West Texas Llano Estacado, and they would probably reply something like: flat, empty, nothing.
Together with my family, I have called West Texas my home for over two decades. The spare, endless horizon, the enormous sky with its gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, and the landscape appealed to me then, and is still fascinating to me now. In short, I feel that on the vast plains of the Llano Estacado I can breathe; it is liberating, and I can be creative.
The Texas Llano Estacado, translated as “Staked Plains,” is a mesa—a semi-arid subregion of the High Plains of the continental U.S. that stretches southward from the Oklahoma border for about 250 miles and measures 150 miles east to west. The total area comprises 37,500 square miles—larger than the state of Massachusetts—with Lubbock being the largest city of the region at an elevation of 3,256 feet. The Llano Estacado is perceived as flat, but in fact it slopes nearly uniformly from the northwest to the southeast at a rate of only ten feet per mile.
The Llano Estacado was first described by Spanish explorer Francisco Vázquez de Coronado, who traveled north from Culiacán, Mexico in 1541 in search of gold. In a letter to the King of Spain dated October 20, 1541, Vazquez wrote of the Llano Estacado:
"I reached some plains so vast, that I did not find their limit anywhere I went, although I travelled over them for more than 300 leagues [1,035 miles] . . . with no more land marks than if we had been swallowed up by the sea . . . there was not a stone, nor bit of rising ground, nor a tree, nor a shrub, nor anything to go by." 1
More than 300 years later, in 1852, United States Army captain Randolph B. Marcy guided an expedition in search of the headwaters of the Canadian and Red Rivers and had similar impressions as Coronado. In a report to his superiors, Marcy noted that the Llano Estacado
“is much elevated . . . very smooth and level . . . without a tree, shrub, or any other herbage to intercept the vision . . . The almost total absence of water causes all animals to shun it: even the Indians do not venture to cross it except at two or three places." 2
Still later, although further north, Robert M. Pirsig, author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, described his experience of the Great Plains during his epic 1968 motorcycle journey:
“ . . . . I suddenly notice the land here has flattened into a Euclidian plane. Not a hill, not a bump anywhere. This means we have entered the Red River Valley. We will soon be into the Dakotas. . . . 3
“I have a feeling none of us fully understands what four days on this prairie in July will be like. Memories of car trips across them are always of flatness and great emptiness as far as you can see, extreme monotony and boredom as you drive for hour after hour, getting nowhere, wondering how long this is going to last without a turn in the road, without a change in the land going on and on to the horizon.” 4
Pirsig’s impressions came to him while riding his motorcycle, and he wrote that he noticed the change of topography because the motorcycle provided a more intense experience of the natural elements as compared to a car.
Pirsig travelled westward from Minneapolis, Minnesota and entered the Great Plains in North Dakota, but if he had made his trip from Dallas heading west towards Lubbock he would have noticed no gradual change. Instead, he would have been confronted by the cliffs of the Caprock Escarpment, the geographical transition between the rolling terrain of Central Texas and the high plains of the Llano Estacado. Once he climbed the Caprock Escarpment, Pirsig would have found an agricultural landscape, largely dominated by cotton, often grown in enormous irrigation circles watered by wells from the subterranean Ogallala Aquifer.
Yellow House Canyon, Texas, - Escarpment
More than fifty years after Pirsig’s trip, the ability to experience the landscape of America has changed vastly, especially due to technology. The information age has changed the way we live and learn. Skimming information from website to website is often favored over reading a long article online (like this one) or in print. Today’s cars are equipped with the latest audio, video, and wi-fi equipment, and the driver of the automobile is often the only one who looks at the road and landscape if they aren’t distracted by an incoming call on their cell phone. With self-driving technology, even the driving of an automobile might soon become obsolete. Electric car manufacturers such as Tesla, among others, have built-in autopilot systems that are revolutionizing the way we travel by car. The question remains—what will we do with the “gained time” while not paying attention to the traffic? Work more? Take a nap? Play air guitar as Tesla enthusiast Joshua Brown suggested? Brown lost his life while driving (with the autopilot on) his Tesla near Williston, Florida while apparently watching a Harry Potter movie, when his Tesla Model S hit an 18-wheel tractor-trailer, which the Tesla autopilot system could not detect because of its white color and the weather conditions at the time. 5
Electric motorcycles are similarly on the rise, but for now an autopilot feature seems to defy the purpose of riding one. Motorcycles and their gear have evolved as well; today’s motorcycles are vastly more powerful machines than in Pirisg’s time. Helmets can be equipped with wireless phone and communication systems that enable motorcyclists to make and receive calls, communicate with their pillion co-rider and two wheeled travel companions, all while driving. If they are not in communication or on a call, they can switch to their playlist and listen to their favorite music or books on demand. These days, riders’ garments are equipped with the latest cross ventilation technology, and if a chill comes up, they can turn on their heated vests.
All of this “technological progress” has made travel more comfortable, and enables motorists to travel longer without taking a break. With all the possibilities of entertainment—or distractions, depending on your perspective—the landscape becomes secondary, demoted from scenery to a distraction. Because of advanced technology, motorists and motorcyclists become less aware of their surroundings. The landscape of the Llano Estacado, and other thinly populated areas of the Great Plains from Mexico to Canada, becomes non-existent, unspectacular, monotonous, boring. It becomes the Landscape of Nothingness due to the unwillingness of the motorist to escape the information and comfort cloud.
A former student of mine once argued that there is beauty on the Llano Estacado, saying, “You just have to look long enough.”
Because of the speedy flow and the amount of information we must process on a daily basis we have become skimmers. Our minds, and consequently our eyes, tune out quickly unless something spectacular grabs our attention. We get bored and lose interest in quick succession. In today’s 24/7 information age, “looking long enough” simply isn’t an option that most people are willing to consider. Some people cannot, or choose not to, listen to themselves. To them, silence is more often than not unbearable; it’s the silence that screams. Or with colors, there are only neon colors, not pastels or the subtleness of monochrome images. The gradation of blues in the spectacular West Texas sky go unnoticed—people look but do not see.
The North American Landscape, including the Llano Estacado, was conquered by white settlers who had to quickly adapt to the landscape in order to survive. Early settlers on the Llano Estacado looked for clues in the landscape and vegetation that would help them survive. Many were farmers who, by necessity, had to develop a deep understanding of the Llano Estacado landscape and climate. The act of staking claim, however, was a European understanding of the claim as inalienable; once a stake was claimed, by European law, they had the right to defend that claim. This concept of private land rendered the land inaccessible to Native Americans who had limited concepts of property or property rights. Either you owned land, or you didn’t.
Certainly, designated areas like national and state parks are great ways to explore landscapes and nature, but they also isolate, and tell one exactly where one can explore and where they cannot. In the state of Texas, 95.8% of all land is in private hands. This American—and especially Texan—culture stands in stark contrast to some European countries. In Switzerland, for example, there is a term called “das Wegrecht”, loosely translated as “right-of-way,” which means that anyone can walk along paths on private property for leisurely purposes. Those passing-through rights mean that anyone can enjoy a scenic hike; you don’t need to own the land that you are walking or hiking on. This sends a culturally important message: while you may own the property, you never have the exclusive right to experience it. In general, Continental European rights of property allow for everyone the right to traverse private in order to experience nature. Although there might be signs posted that disallow hunting on private property, there are no signs posted that warn of “NO TRESPASSING” to pedestrians who want to walk or hike through private property.
Because of their British roots, Anglo-Americans have always had a different understanding and conception of private property. Thus, Americans have never been able to legally explore the North American continent as did Lewis and Clark did in the early 19th century. It is important to note that, during their journey, Lewis and Clark discovered that Native Americans had a similar understanding of property rights as continental Europeans. This leads to a different understanding of the contemporary North American landscape, which by necessity, relies on national and state highways. As such, most people experience the American Landscape by motor vehicle. Highways and parking lots have become the quintessential American landscape that cultural historian J.B. Jackson critiqued in his ground-breaking writings. It’s not a coincidence that Jackson preferred to explore the American landscape on his motorcycle.
Motorcycle at speed with highway beneath
In his 1957 essay, “Landscape 7,” Jackson wrote that “The more drastically we simplify the vehicle the more directly we ourselves participate in the experience of motion and space. On a motorcycle, one feature after another of the familiar world is left behind, until the motorcyclist enters a world of his own, new and at the same time intensely personal. He feels the surface beneath him, hears the sound in progress and has an intense rapport with his vehicle. With this comes a sensation of at last being part of the visible world and its center.” 6
For Jackson, modern automobiles don’t allow a deeper connection and understanding of the surrounding landscape -- vehicles simply get us from A to B more quickly and more comfortably than other forms of travel. Yet, not without some irony, the deep understating of landscape and nature of our pioneer forefathers has turned more often than not into ignorance. For thousands of years mankind was able to live without the use of fossil fuels. The inexpensive and ready supplies of oil led to excessive use of unsustainable and environmentally damaging fossil fuels. For the better part of the 20th Century, our understanding was that energy is cheap and lasts forever, but now we all know better. Living in the comfort zone within our climate-controlled homes makes us less connected to the land and climate we inhabit. We all know that that non-renewable energy is limited; we must seek innovative renewable energy resources through technologies that lead to a more balanced connection between nature and humans. To do that, we need first to understand the landscape in which we live.
PRESENT
“In West Texas there’s a great deal of land but nowhere to go” 7
Donald Judd
Donald Judd’s work in Marfa—his masterful manipulation of space, his use of daylight, the simple directness of the use of his materials within Marfa, Texas, and at his Ranches south of Marfa in the rugged landscape of Pinto Canyon and near the Chinati Mountains close to the Rio Grande and the US Mexican border—are unparalleled.
Because of my interest in Judd’s work and the landscape of West Texas, I uprooted my life in my magnificently mountainous homeland of Switzerland more than two decades ago, because I chose to live and work here, on the flatlands of the Llano Estacado. I was mystically drawn to West Texas because of its landscape—a landscape that Donald Judd so rightfully recognized as minimalist—and this “landscape of nothingness” is reflected in my own work.
The house for myself and my family references both the natural landscape of the Llano Estacado and human interventions in that landscape. The land here is defined by a seemingly endless and flat horizon line that surrounds us. This visual experience gives the impression that the landscape is infinite. Looking at the horizon I see 80 percent sky and 20 percent ground. This contrast of sky and ground—both limitless—inspires me to create spaces of air and openness. The distinction of interior and exterior space is blurred as the landscape flows from the courtyard into the interiors spaces and vice versa allowing landscape, light, and climate to be a constant part of one’s experience and living. Xeriscape gardening reduces water consumption and helps restore native vegetation—I’m often surprised by what can grow in West Texas.
We covered our home and studio in corrugated iron, a material that’s most often used in West Texas for utilitarian buildings. Although underappreciated and often found twisted like tumbleweeds around abandoned farmsteads, corrugated iron is in fact a fascinating, efficient, and versatile, durable building material. It’s simple. Minimal. Like the landscape.
The house, designed in collaboration with artist Carol Flueckiger is based on the traditional building type found in the Southwest, the courtyard house, and responds to the West Texas climate conditions of wind and sun. In the morning the large sliding glass doors and clear story windows allow the morning West Texas sun to fill the living space with bright streams of sunlight that fall across the space like bold paint strokes. During a thunderstorm water cascades from the corrugated iron roof onto the patios and into the grassy central courtyard—a reminder that water is precious and arrives as a spectacle in West Texas.
Courtyard, House on 21st Street
My recent architectural design work for the Lubbock Artist District applied the adaptive re-use concept and basic economical materials with regional traditions. With this idea we brought back vitality to an underused and dilapidated part of the city.
Charles Adams Studio Project, South facade
An experimental design build project called the Sustainable Cabin, conceived with faculty colleagues and realized by students, addressed ecological and economical concerns as the main concept. In addition, the project examined the issue of size: how much room a human really needs in an increasingly populated world which will be pushing 10 billion human habitants over the next decade.
For me, creating architectural design solutions that can take place in unexpected, seemingly unimportant places that are too often overlooked is a challenge that I embrace and love.
![How much House?, Birkhäuser [8] ¿Cuánta casa necesitamos?, Gustavo Gilli Press [9]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59dbcf31cd0f68a1402a231b/1588121055717-LVYEKQ0KPX5LRVE6ZF1W/books.jpg)
How much House?, Birkhäuser [8] ¿Cuánta casa necesitamos?, Gustavo Gilli Press [9]
FUTURE
As much as technology offers us comfort while travelling, there is an isolation, a lack of awareness of our immediate surroundings. And those surroundings are under a grave threat by dramatic changes that humans have wrought upon the climate. History will show if the year 2019, with the rise of climate activism, led by Greta Thunberg among others, will mark a watershed year. Will it be the year in which we (finally) took our environmental responsibility seriously? Or will we keep on ignoring it? It has now been 14 years since Al Gore’s documentary film An Inconvenient Truth premiered. The message after all those years is still inconvenient to most to us, and we all could have done more in the years since it premiered. Perhaps because we in Texas have no culture of das Wegrecht, we are in greater danger of not recognizing the need to preserve this landscape for future generations; it’s difficult to value a landscape that flies by you at high speed, from the comfort of an automobile distracted by modern entertainment technology.
Climate change has no boundaries, in the same ways that our economy is global—both are interdependent upon the cooperation of other nations. Winston Churchill once said that “We shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us.” The same might be said of every aspect of our environment, built and unbuilt. The past decade has dramatically revealed that we are changing the global climate and therefore the landscape—and therefore ourselves. These changes will certainly shape us, and hopefully inspire us to tackle one of the most challenging issues of the 21st century.
1 PBS, “The West - Coronado's Report to the King of Spain Sent from Tiguex on October 20, 1541,” Public Broadcasting Service, accessed March 7, 2020, https://www.pbs.org/weta/thewest/resources/archives/one/corona9.htm.
2 Art Leatherwood, “Llano Estacado,” The Handbook of Texas Online | Texas State Historical Association (TSHA), June 15, 2010, https://tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/ryl02.
3 Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values (William Morris and Company: New York, 1974), 25.
4 Ibid., 17-18.
5 See Rachel Adams and Annalyn Kurtz, “Joshua Brown, Who Died in Self-Driving Accident, Tested Limits of His Tesla,” New York Times, July 1, 2016, https://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/02/business/joshua-brown-technology-enthusiast-tested-the-limits-of-his-tesla.html.
6 J. B. Jackson, “The Abstract World of the Hot-Rodder,” in Landscape in Sight: Looking at America, ed. Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 206–7.
7 Donald Judd, Architektur, 3rd ed. (Münster: Westfälischer Kunstuerein, 1989), 33.
8 Urs Peter Flueckiger, How Much House?: Thoreau, Le Corbusier and the Sustainable Cabin (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2016).
9 Urs Peter Flueckiger, ¿Cuánta Casa Necesitamos?: La Cabaña De Thoreau, El Cabanon De Le Corbusier y La Cabaña Sostenible (Barcelona: Editorial Gustavo Gili, SL, 2019).
Urs Peter Flueckiger
Urs Peter “Upe” Flueckiger is a registered architect and a member of the Swiss Society of Engineers and Architects (SIA), and has practiced architecture internationally in Europe, North America, and Japan. Flueckiger is an expert on the cultural meaning and construction systems of modular housing, with particular focus on low-cost and ecological housing types. Flueckiger’s Master of Architecture thesis, Premanufactured Housing, or, Living in 6 1/2 ounces of pure architecture, examines the intersection between industry, domesticity, and modernity. A Full Professor at Texas Tech University’s College of Architecture, Flueckiger has led collaborations with the Colleges of Engineering and Art to advance Design-Build Housing as an interdisciplinary pedagogical platform that provides students first-hand experiences with how housing size, shape, materials, and construction relate to human experience, renewable energy sources, and resilience. Pilot (built) projects include an award-winning Artist studio and NGO space, and an experimental housing type called The Sustainable Cabin. Flueckiger’s most recent book “How Much House? Thoreau, Le Corbusier, and the Sustainable Cabin” (2016) draws on a rich archival and field-based analysis of how small housing systems are material and cultural constructs that shape and are shaped by context. Flueckiger is currently working on the second and expanded edition of his 2007 book Donald Judd Architecture in Marfa, Texas.