The Secret Anarchist

Although largely shaped by the relatively recent art invasion and lately hyped by articles in Vanity Fair as well as the iconic image of Beyoncé’s jump in front of Elmgreen & Dragset’s gimmick Prada store in the middle of nowhere on Route 90, Marfa still bears all the [more]

Although largely shaped by the relatively recent art invasion and lately hyped by articles in Vanity Fair as well as the iconic image of Beyoncé’s jump in front of Elmgreen & Dragset’s gimmick Prada store in the middle of nowhere on Route 90, Marfa still bears all the archetypes of a far west Texas town, and remains a prime example of Americana shaped by patriotism, religion and machismo. Paradoxically, there is a remarkable amount of progressive minds and the most striking of them are not necessarily to be found in the art community.

Brit Webb, an 84-year-old gentleman who runs the gas station on the main street, is a brilliant example. Mr. Webb is a great storyteller gifted with a flawless memory. Originally from Clyde, Texas, Webb is the tenth of 13 children. He grew up on a cotton and peanut farm until he was 15, when he left his hometown in order to help his older brothers repairing ranch vehicles in Marfa. Although he hadn’t finished grade school, Webb was admitted to Marfa High School. He then joined the Air Force, and got married while stationed in Sacramento, California. The couple went back to Marfa and Webb completed a BA in Education soon after. From then and for the next 30 years, he taught or supervised the education of thousands of West Texas kids. Webb and his wife adopted four kids, all of them with life stories that are beyond belief. The sort of incredible adventures that can only happen in the transcendence of the everyday or in novels.

I met Brit in the little back room of his gas station. His ‘office’ was full of world maps, press clippings from satirical newspapers, cheesy wedding portraits of his now multi-generation tribe, dusty and yellowed pictures of his many loved-ones. A black and white picture of Brit’s wife Laurel from the ‘50s that he had pinned next to a similar portrait of another woman caught my inspecting gaze. He explained that the ‘other’ woman was his high school sweetheart. Brit seemingly nourishes a secret passion for Michelle Obama, and the portraits of the First Lady blended harmoniously with the rest of his sanctuary. A photo of George W. Bush glued next to a series of monkeys photographs marked a moment of epiphany. The list of Brit’s wall mischief is endless. The more stories I was told over the course of the two hours we spent together, the more Brit revealed the virtues of a discrete and sweet anarchist.