Jon Revett compares and contrasts two monumental works of art, Amarillo Ramp and Cadillac Ranch, and discusses their possible futures.
I grew up between two giants—not the beanstalks and bone-crushing breed, but the Land Art kind. Ant Farm’s Cadillac Ranch and Robert Smithson’s Amarillo Ramp. Both turned fifty in the last year, as did I, and it’s common to reflect on one’s past and future at the half-century mark. These pieces represent opposite sides of the conceptual-theory coin that dominated the early-1970s art world. Their influence on my thinking cannot be understated, and their joy, wonder, and mystery have impacted countless patrons. These works have grown to mythical status and should be preserved.
My experiences with Amarillo Ramp are well-documented. The earthwork was built in 1973, and I first experienced it twenty years later. Since then, I have written articles, given lectures, and done podcasts about it. I didn’t understand the power of art until I stood atop the gently sloped, broken circle of dirt, hidden deep in Texas ranchland. This experience was transformative for me, but the sculpture itself remains elusive. Anyone can visit it, as long as the weather and I (as its only tour guide) cooperate, but it is not an easy trek. The difficulty and distance emphasize its meditative quality and provide a pragmatic understanding of time and space through the lens of Smithson’s ideas of entropy, but also limit its audience. Currently, I estimate about fifty people visit Amarillo Ramp per year.
In contrast, a survey was recently done that estimated more than 1 million people per year get out of their cars to visit Cadillac Ranch, a public art installation by Chip Lord, Hudson Marquez, and Doug Michels, members of the art group Ant Farm. Built in 1974 alongside Route 66 (now I-40), these ten classic Cadillacs are buried nose down at an angle. I first visited the Ranch as an angsty teenager because it was close enough to my house to ride my bike there and catch amazing sunsets, but like many, I didn’t realize it was art. Despite not fully understanding it then, the work holds a special place for me as it does for countless others. Today, it’s ready-made for Instagram. Cadillac Ranch is undeniably part of popular American culture.
Despite the cultural importance of the sculptures, their futures are unknown. There are no set plans to continue their influence. Both have issues with access: Amarillo Ramp has too little, and Cadillac Ranch has too much. Time has also taken its toll on both works. The lake surrounding Amarillo Ramp is gone, and the sculpture has eroded. Local flora and fauna have invaded and distorted its original form. Cadillac Ranch is both fading away and growing. Half a century of visitors have stolen parts and smashed windows, reducing the cars to shells. Parking and trash are major problems, but spray-painting the cars has become a ritual for visitors. As a result, the paint covering the cars is so thick it sloughs off in huge, stratified sheets. While this spray paint is an unplanned attempt at relational aesthetics, the cars look like they have tumors.
My lengthy relationship with these works has fostered conversations with Ant Farm and the Holt/Smithson Foundation about possible futures, but nothing has been resolved. While we have discussed many possibilities for Cadillac Ranch, in a recent phone call with Lord, he said that the current opinion of Ant Farm is to let Cadillac Ranch fall apart. Allowing the cars to crumble and collapse under the public’s abuse may be an appropriate response. The work documents the fleeting rise and fall of the tailfin, so perhaps the lifespan of this sculpture should follow this pattern.
Robert Smithson was a prolific writer, and the copious verbiage he left for us has allowed many of his works to live on. Unfortunately, he died in a plane crash during the construction of Amarillo Ramp, leaving the care of his art and legacy to his widow, Nancy Holt, who had her own art career to maintain. I was in contact with her until she passed in 2014, and the Holt/Smithson Foundation was created to manage both artists’ estates. Lisa Le Feuvre, director of Holt/Smithson, has this to say about Amarillo Ramp: “For its future, a museum steward is essential to enable public access and to ensure the artwork remains true to the artist. The journey to Amarillo Ramp is important, and for its long life, an easement is required. Smithson was not an advocate of explanatory and fixed interpretations: he was for an art that opened dialogue.”
My thinking aligns with this dialogue. The current owners of both works have asked me to help figure out what to do with them. The owners and I recognize the immense impact they have had on visitors, imprinting sloped-car and broken-circle shapes on our collective psyche. We share the opinion that these are the high-water marks of American contemporary art and are “for the people.” For this reason, the works need to be preserved in some fashion, but what that looks like is open to debate.
A common response is that Amarillo Ramp should erode back into the earth as a manifestation of its entropic inspirations. Contrarily, in one of our final phone calls, Holt refuted this idea and told me if I ever received funding to rebuild it, to do so. However, reconstruction would require a considerable amount of money, which could be used for better purposes, like establishing a formal system for tours and landscaping.
Despite the cultural importance of Ant Farm’s Cadillac Ranch and Robert Smithson’s Amarillo Ramp, their futures are unknown.
An early black-and-white image of Amarillo Ramp by Wyatt McSpadden shows the blackened form of the earthwork becoming a sumi brushstroke in a field of off-white water. This gestural mark is diminished in its current state. While restoring the lake would be almost impossible, cutting and removing mesquite, cactus, and other large plants on and around Amarillo Ramp would redefine its form. Wind blowing across the grass surrounding it looks like waves, a reminder of the water that was once there.
I respect Ant Farm’s wish for Cadillac Ranch to disintegrate, but to be fair, the plethora of public pilgrimages has given it a life of its own. It deserves a brighter future, but the damage to the cars is almost at a tipping point. In an earlier conversation with Lord, he said the most important part of the work is the line of sloped cars against the flat horizon. He considered the original cars to be readymades, and it is important they remain there, eliminating the option of replacing the old ones with “new” ones.
The irony of applying Smithson’s entropy to Cadillac Ranch is not lost on me. If Ant Farm decides to let it fade away, so be it. If they do disappear, I propose a new monument to Cadillac Ranch made from casts of the original models in a durable material like bronze or concrete. Casting them would preserve the interaction of the Ranch and the horizon, ensuring the silhouettes remain true to their original forms by protecting them from damage and theft and allowing the ritual of spray-painting the new monument to continue.
While I consult with the owners of the works and maintain dialogue with both Ant Farm and the Holt/Smithson Foundation, I have no official title or paid position. My meditations on the sculptures’ futures stem from my unique history with them. Preservation plans will require serious research and funding to become a reality. What I have provided here is a starting point to provoke a dialogue.
Works of art can be like our children. We create them and send them off into the world. Amarillo Ramp and Cadillac Ranch are two sculptural progenies that have grown to a superhuman scale. They are as relevant now as they were when they were made, providing a conceptual framework to overlay debates du jour. They deserve to live on to inspire others to appreciate and care for these giants, so I can say farewell to them.
