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For these Mexican firefighters, finding migrants' bodies on the border prepared them to help in the Texas flooding recovery

For these Mexican firefighters, finding migrants' bodies on the border prepared them to help in the Texas flooding recovery

CNN27-07-2025
Pulling dead bodies of migrants and their children from the raging waters of the Rio Grande along the US-Mexico border is something a group of Mexican firefighters from border town Ciudad Acuña are used to.
Techniques honed during routine searches, like sticking a PVC pipe through a mound of debris to smell the decomposing scent of bodies, proved invaluable after the devastating July Fourth central Texas flooding along the Guadalupe River.
Cristopher Herrera and Jorge Fuentes, members of rescue group Fundación 911, were some of the earliest first responders that arrived to assist in the search and recovery efforts. Their group is trained for specialized search and rescue situations along the Rio Grande, a river migrants from Central and South America cross hoping to start a new life in the United States.
The rescue group stepped up to help in Texas despite the strenuous immigration climate in the US, marked by deportation flights, ICE raids and court cases playing out across the country.
'This is not about politics or borders or anything like that,' Fuentes told CNN. 'It's about people helping people, and it's a community helping another community. Politics … doesn't come into play when human lives are at stake.'
Herrera had a day off on July 4 when the scale of the flooding in Texas came into the public eye. When his group of firefighters with the Ciudad of Acuña's fire department found out what was happening in Kerr County, they immediately began coordinating plans to help in their WhatsApp group.
Roughly a month before the catastrophic flooding, some of the firefighters of Fundación 911 held training exercises with the Mountain Home Volunteer Fire Department in central Texas. When they started to understand the level of devastation, one of Fundación 911's leaders called the Texas fire department asking if they needed help.
The next morning, the Mexican fire department began gathering equipment, vehicles and supplies, Fuentes said.
The Acuña firefighters were able to enter the country lawfully, with three requiring a provisional permit to work as humanitarian aid workers, Herrera said.
Less than two days after the Guadalupe River surged, these Mexican firefighters arrived in Texas to aid in rescue and recovery. They were comprised of two groups: Fundación 911 and firefighters working with the Ciudad of Acuña's fire department.
Fundación 911 is a nonprofit group of firefighters united to gather donations of materials and equipment from fire stations and other emergency response stations to give to different corps in Mexico that don't have the money to acquire them.
Many members of the group had family in the region, which helped them understand the level and scale of the flooding, Herrera said.
At least 136 people were killed in central Texas during the historic July Fourth flooding, among those dead were girls from Camp Mystic along the Guadalupe River. More than a summer's worth of rain fell into the area that night, catapulting the surrounding area into chaos.
Wading through the raging waters of the Guadalupe River after the flooding presented a new challenge for the group of firefighters from Mexico. The Fundación 911 firefighters worked in collaboration with the Mountain Home Volunteer Fire Department across Kerr County, hunting up and down the Guadalupe River for signs of life.
'When we saw the situation there in Kerr County, it was totally different. It's a natural disaster, an emergency,' Herrera said. 'It was completely different than a Rio Bravo rescue,' referring to the river's name in Mexico.
Unlike the Rio Grande, which has significant sections of raging currents, in addition to still waters, the firefighters had to brave through a river full of fallen trees, cars, mobile homes and other forms of debris, Fuentes said.
'The amount of water that came down the Guadalupe River was completely out of proportion to what we had in mind,' Herrera said. 'Here was not only a search in the water but also debris removal and a little bit of investigation.'
The Guadalupe River tested these firefighters' knowledge and experience with search and rescue tactics, he said.
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The crews spent six days in the country, and the majority of the search and rescue operations were held over the first few days of the flooding. As rescue operations wound down, the priority shifted to a recovery mission heading downwind along the river.
As they looked for bodies, the group of firefighters began using a technique they use along the Rio Grande where they stick a PVC pipe through debris to see if they can smell a decomposing body, Fuentes said.
The decision to help in the Texas flooding was personal for Fuentes, who put himself in the shoes of parents worrying about the whereabouts and safety of their children lost in the floods.
As a father of two, Fuentes stressed he would have wanted all of the help he could have in the search and rescue missions.
When Ismael Aldaba, the president of Fundación 911, called, 'It was a no brainer for me,' Fuentes said. 'I immediately decided to go over and help.'
The devastation and the reminders of all that was lost stood out to Aldaba.
'A lot of the challenges that we've seen here we've never seen in any of the emergencies we've had before, not to this magnitude,' Aldaba told CNN. 'It's amazing to see personal items, clothing, 20 to 25 feet stuck on the trees.'
One of the main motivations for the group of firefighters during their recovery missions was to locate the missing Camp Mystic girls during their six days along the Guadalupe, Herrera said.
'If it had been my daughter, I would be here day, afternoon and night until I found her,' Herrera said.
Helping out in Texas with these search and rescue efforts was an unforgettable experience, especially because of the warmth from locals, Herrera said.
The Latino community in Kerr County welcomed the Mexican crews with open arms, offering them houses, places to sleep and bathe, Herrera said. Each day, locals gave them food, fresh water and desserts.
'They took us to a person who did our hair for free, took us to nurses who put us on IVs and other things. We had a person who gave us a massage to relax us because of the high stress we had in the flood situation,' he said.
'To think that the whole community was grateful that we were there, and not only the Latino community, but all the people who came wherever we stopped, they thanked us,' Herrera said.
Fire departments across the state from different counties and cities including Dallas, Arlington, Plano and Corpus Christi extended their hands to meet them personally, Herrera said.
The Mexican group exchanged techniques and experiences while working under the Mountain Home Volunteer Fire Department, teaching each other new skills, including the PVC pipe technique to find bodies.
The bond the two groups of firefighters forged stems from a mutual calling to serve the greater good, Herrera said.
'If you arrive at a fire station in the United States and want to talk to someone, they will always welcome you with open arms,' he said. 'That vocation to serve in all emergency services, especially the fire department, is a very beautiful thing. It fills you with joy – they adopt you as if you were one of them.'
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It's been a month since the deadly Texas floods. Survivors are grappling with trauma – and still waiting on financial help
It's been a month since the deadly Texas floods. Survivors are grappling with trauma – and still waiting on financial help

CNN

time4 hours ago

  • CNN

It's been a month since the deadly Texas floods. Survivors are grappling with trauma – and still waiting on financial help

Nine-year-old Cole Morris cowered in between his grandfather and seven of their family members, whispering prayers as rising floodwaters lapped furiously at the stairs of their attic. 'Are we going to die?' Cole asked his grandpa, his brown eyes wide with panic. Barry Adelman thought they might. But he swallowed the truth, forced a smile, and hugged his grandson tightly. 'I told him that we were going to be just fine,' Adelman told CNN. 'I was scared to death, but I wasn't going to put fear in our grandson.' If the water had risen higher, it's likely his family wouldn't have survived, he said. At least 135 people, including more than 35 children, were killed in the catastrophic Central Texas flooding on July 4 that ravaged the region, including campsites filled with sleeping children. Since that harrowing night, Adelman has felt haunted. He's grappling with symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, he says, compounded by the emotional toll of watching his family attempt to rebuild his grandmother's home — where, since 1968, four children, nine grandchildren, and countless great-grandchildren have gathered joyfully. He can't stop replaying the image of body bags being pulled out of rescue helicopters, or the expression on a woman's face as she clung to a tree 25 feet above the ground – alive, but having lost her husband and two children. Prev Next By morning, when floodwaters receded, Adelman's home was destroyed and their family's yard littered with over 40 vehicles. A 5-year-old's body was found on their property. Dozens of survivors clung to trees around them, stranded and separated from loved ones carried off by the river. 'The look of loss on their faces was really penetrating,' Adelman said. 'I'll never forget that look.' As he struggles with the lingering trauma – the screams for help, the near-drowning – he and his family are also navigating the financial fallout of an unexpected natural disaster, having lost their matriarch's home and six of the family's vehicles. One month after the Texas floods, some survivors are sounding the alarm, pleading for help they say still hasn't arrived. Others are emerging from the nightmare with the support of a community rallying to clean up the devastation on their own. It's a long and uncertain road, burdened by complex insurance claims, government red tape, and financial strain. It's also a psychological struggle – a quiet battle with the pain that stubbornly lingers for survivors after witnessing death and coming dangerously close to it. 'It just feels surreal, almost like I'm not supposed to be here,' Adelman said. 'Like I was in a murder scene and it was trying to get me, and now I'm suddenly dropped back into the real world.' For many survivors who lost their homes, it remains unclear how much support they'll receive from the Federal Emergency Management Agency and other government programs. Even if help comes, it won't be quick. The average FEMA home repair payment for the flooding disaster is about $8,000, Madison Sloan, the director of the Disaster Recovery and Fair Housing Project at Texas Appleseed, told CNN, according to her analysis of FEMA's most recent public data. This figure can be much higher or lower depending on the level of loss. But no matter the figure, it's unlikely it will be enough. 'FEMA assistance is not intended to fully repair the home, it's intended to repair it so the home is safe to live in,' Sloan said. 'FEMA assistance can be hard to access and FEMA routinely sends denial letters. If you've just been through a disaster and you get a denial letter, that's a huge burden.' 'The system is not set up as a safety net,' she added. 'It's set up to fill gaps in insurance and for people who can't afford or don't have certain kinds of insurance, there is not much there for them, besides private donations.' Adelman's 94-year-old grandmother, Betty Matteson, didn't have flood insurance because it was 'nearly impossible to afford,' according to Shannon Swindle, Matteson's granddaughter and Adelman's sister. A week after the flood, Matteson was interviewed and assigned a case number by FEMA at an emergency disaster recovery center, where other charities were also on hand to help survivors apply for assistance, Swindle said. '(My grandmother was told) the highest amount she could get for her house would be $43,600, but also would get more for personal items lost and also money for temporary housing, if approved,' Swindle told CNN. FEMA assistance is capped at $43,600, according to Sloan, but few families ever receive the full amount. The family was told it could take weeks to get a response and initial denials aren't uncommon as FEMA requests more information. Flood survivor Bud Bolton, a resident of Hunt, Texas, says the aid has been painfully slow, and in some cases, nonexistent. 'The state and county are helping us none,' Bolton told CNN. 'I know people that lost their homes and sleeping in their cars still because they are not getting any of the funding. We don't need toilet paper, bottled water, and few necessities and gift cards. We need financial help and are not getting it.' Homeowners and renters in 10 counties are eligible to apply for federal disaster assistance if they were affected by last month's flooding. This includes survivors with losses in those counties, even if they do not live in those counties or in Texas, according to FEMA. The State of Texas and the US Small Business Administration may also be able to help with serious disaster-related needs, temporary lodging, basic home repair costs, personal property loss and disaster loans, FEMA said. FEMA has not responded to CNN's request for comment. Survivors can also request public assistance through the Texas Division of Emergency Management, the American Red Cross, 211 Texas, and local charity organizations. As Adelman and Swindle's family awaits FEMA's reply, they say they are receiving the most support from local and distant Texas communities that have stepped in. 'We need help. All kinds of help. Financial support, supplies, clean-up help, or even just sharing this story with others who might be able to give,' Swindle wrote in a GoFundMe campaign for her grandmother that has so far raised more than $75,000. The estimated cost of repairing their family's home is $600,000. Volunteers from Cypress Creek Church in Wimberley, Texas, learned about the family when a regular customer at Swindle's business submitted a prayer request at the church. Since then, a team of volunteers has visited the house three times a week to remove cabinets and bathtubs, clear areas where water had pooled and mold began to grow, and tear out the drywall. The owners of the Full Moon Inn in nearby Luckenbach, Texas, also rallied a large team to assist with the cleaning process for a day. 'Without all of you, none of this would be possible,' Swindle wrote in the GoFundMe campaign. 'You have done more than offer money. You have given my grandmother hope.' Though the family is thankful for the help they've received, frustration and uncertainty weigh heavily on them as they await answers from the government. 'We want clear answers on when the electricity will be restored and how. There's a lot of information that is needed when faced with rebuilding and in many cases we can't move forward without that information and approval,' Swindle said. Their concern goes beyond their own struggles; they are troubled by the thought of other survivors who haven't been as fortunate in securing assistance or receiving donations that could mean the difference between recovery and despair. Many people who lost their vehicles and only had liability insurance can't get to work, adding another layer of hardship. Meanwhile, people with disabilities are left without vital medical equipment, including walkers, wheelchairs, canes, and hearing aids. Swindle believes the road to recovery will be long and difficult, with survivors left to shoulder much of the burden themselves. 'People move on. Volunteers go back to their daily normal lives, but the people affected are still knee-deep in it and will be for months and, in some cases, years to come.' Keli Rabon's two sons, ages 7 and 9, survived the floods that devastated Camp La Junta, a Texas summer camp for boys. She says her younger son, Brock, now lives in a constant state of anxiety and needs mental health care. 'Today, my sons are physically safe, but for our family, the storm is not over,' Rabon said during a committee hearing in Kerrville, Texas, on Thursday. 'Brock scans every room for higher ground. He checks the weather constantly. He battles nightmares of water dripping from the ceiling or his mattress being wet. His fear is so profound that he's now anxious about the tsunami in Hawaii. He lives with the terror that no child or any person should have to carry, but so many of us now do.' Brock's cabin flooded so severely that the children and counselors had to cling to the roof rafters to survive. Rabon noted since her family was only visiting Kerr County and has since returned home to Houston, they haven't been offered any mental health support — something she believes is a serious oversight. 'If you get to enjoy the fruits of tourism, but then don't support the tourists when a disaster happens, that just doesn't make sense to me,' Rabon told CNN. Adelman has returned to Hunt three times since the flood. During his first visit, he watched as cadaver dogs combed the riverside, searching for the remains of those still missing at the time, 27 of whom were children. Seeing this triggered his first panic attack. Adelman has not been offered mental health resources through the government but has seen a therapist twice on his own. Weeks have passed, yet he still fights tears when watching videos of his grandmother's neighbors in Hunt, painstakingly piecing their lives back together. He struggles to return to work, hold simple conversations, or quiet the constant replay of every vivid detail from that night. 'Every day it gets a little bit better,' Adelman said. 'But I don't know if I will ever be the same.'

It's been a month since the deadly Texas floods. Survivors are grappling with trauma – and still waiting on financial help
It's been a month since the deadly Texas floods. Survivors are grappling with trauma – and still waiting on financial help

CNN

time4 hours ago

  • CNN

It's been a month since the deadly Texas floods. Survivors are grappling with trauma – and still waiting on financial help

Nine-year-old Cole Morris cowered in between his grandfather and seven of their family members, whispering prayers as rising floodwaters lapped furiously at the stairs of their attic. 'Are we going to die?' Cole asked his grandpa, his brown eyes wide with panic. Barry Adelman thought they might. But he swallowed the truth, forced a smile, and hugged his grandson tightly. 'I told him that we were going to be just fine,' Adelman told CNN. 'I was scared to death, but I wasn't going to put fear in our grandson.' If the water had risen higher, it's likely his family wouldn't have survived, he said. At least 135 people, including more than 35 children, were killed in the catastrophic Central Texas flooding on July 4 that ravaged the region, including campsites filled with sleeping children. Since that harrowing night, Adelman has felt haunted. He's grappling with symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, he says, compounded by the emotional toll of watching his family attempt to rebuild his grandmother's home — where, since 1968, four children, nine grandchildren, and countless great-grandchildren have gathered joyfully. He can't stop replaying the image of body bags being pulled out of rescue helicopters, or the expression on a woman's face as she clung to a tree 25 feet above the ground – alive, but having lost her husband and two children. Prev Next By morning, when floodwaters receded, Adelman's home was destroyed and their family's yard littered with over 40 vehicles. A 5-year-old's body was found on their property. Dozens of survivors clung to trees around them, stranded and separated from loved ones carried off by the river. 'The look of loss on their faces was really penetrating,' Adelman said. 'I'll never forget that look.' As he struggles with the lingering trauma – the screams for help, the near-drowning – he and his family are also navigating the financial fallout of an unexpected natural disaster, having lost their matriarch's home and six of the family's vehicles. One month after the Texas floods, some survivors are sounding the alarm, pleading for help they say still hasn't arrived. Others are emerging from the nightmare with the support of a community rallying to clean up the devastation on their own. It's a long and uncertain road, burdened by complex insurance claims, government red tape, and financial strain. It's also a psychological struggle – a quiet battle with the pain that stubbornly lingers for survivors after witnessing death and coming dangerously close to it. 'It just feels surreal, almost like I'm not supposed to be here,' Adelman said. 'Like I was in a murder scene and it was trying to get me, and now I'm suddenly dropped back into the real world.' For many survivors who lost their homes, it remains unclear how much support they'll receive from the Federal Emergency Management Agency and other government programs. Even if help comes, it won't be quick. The average FEMA home repair payment for the flooding disaster is about $8,000, Madison Sloan, the director of the Disaster Recovery and Fair Housing Project at Texas Appleseed, told CNN, according to her analysis of FEMA's most recent public data. This figure can be much higher or lower depending on the level of loss. But no matter the figure, it's unlikely it will be enough. 'FEMA assistance is not intended to fully repair the home, it's intended to repair it so the home is safe to live in,' Sloan said. 'FEMA assistance can be hard to access and FEMA routinely sends denial letters. If you've just been through a disaster and you get a denial letter, that's a huge burden.' 'The system is not set up as a safety net,' she added. 'It's set up to fill gaps in insurance and for people who can't afford or don't have certain kinds of insurance, there is not much there for them, besides private donations.' Adelman's 94-year-old grandmother, Betty Matteson, didn't have flood insurance because it was 'nearly impossible to afford,' according to Shannon Swindle, Matteson's granddaughter and Adelman's sister. A week after the flood, Matteson was interviewed and assigned a case number by FEMA at an emergency disaster recovery center, where other charities were also on hand to help survivors apply for assistance, Swindle said. '(My grandmother was told) the highest amount she could get for her house would be $43,600, but also would get more for personal items lost and also money for temporary housing, if approved,' Swindle told CNN. FEMA assistance is capped at $43,600, according to Sloan, but few families ever receive the full amount. The family was told it could take weeks to get a response and initial denials aren't uncommon as FEMA requests more information. Flood survivor Bud Bolton, a resident of Hunt, Texas, says the aid has been painfully slow, and in some cases, nonexistent. 'The state and county are helping us none,' Bolton told CNN. 'I know people that lost their homes and sleeping in their cars still because they are not getting any of the funding. We don't need toilet paper, bottled water, and few necessities and gift cards. We need financial help and are not getting it.' Homeowners and renters in 10 counties are eligible to apply for federal disaster assistance if they were affected by last month's flooding. This includes survivors with losses in those counties, even if they do not live in those counties or in Texas, according to FEMA. The State of Texas and the US Small Business Administration may also be able to help with serious disaster-related needs, temporary lodging, basic home repair costs, personal property loss and disaster loans, FEMA said. FEMA has not responded to CNN's request for comment. Survivors can also request public assistance through the Texas Division of Emergency Management, the American Red Cross, 211 Texas, and local charity organizations. As Adelman and Swindle's family awaits FEMA's reply, they say they are receiving the most support from local and distant Texas communities that have stepped in. 'We need help. All kinds of help. Financial support, supplies, clean-up help, or even just sharing this story with others who might be able to give,' Swindle wrote in a GoFundMe campaign for her grandmother that has so far raised more than $75,000. The estimated cost of repairing their family's home is $600,000. Volunteers from Cypress Creek Church in Wimberley, Texas, learned about the family when a regular customer at Swindle's business submitted a prayer request at the church. Since then, a team of volunteers has visited the house three times a week to remove cabinets and bathtubs, clear areas where water had pooled and mold began to grow, and tear out the drywall. The owners of the Full Moon Inn in nearby Luckenbach, Texas, also rallied a large team to assist with the cleaning process for a day. 'Without all of you, none of this would be possible,' Swindle wrote in the GoFundMe campaign. 'You have done more than offer money. You have given my grandmother hope.' Though the family is thankful for the help they've received, frustration and uncertainty weigh heavily on them as they await answers from the government. 'We want clear answers on when the electricity will be restored and how. There's a lot of information that is needed when faced with rebuilding and in many cases we can't move forward without that information and approval,' Swindle said. Their concern goes beyond their own struggles; they are troubled by the thought of other survivors who haven't been as fortunate in securing assistance or receiving donations that could mean the difference between recovery and despair. Many people who lost their vehicles and only had liability insurance can't get to work, adding another layer of hardship. Meanwhile, people with disabilities are left without vital medical equipment, including walkers, wheelchairs, canes, and hearing aids. Swindle believes the road to recovery will be long and difficult, with survivors left to shoulder much of the burden themselves. 'People move on. Volunteers go back to their daily normal lives, but the people affected are still knee-deep in it and will be for months and, in some cases, years to come.' Keli Rabon's two sons, ages 7 and 9, survived the floods that devastated Camp La Junta, a Texas summer camp for boys. She says her younger son, Brock, now lives in a constant state of anxiety and needs mental health care. 'Today, my sons are physically safe, but for our family, the storm is not over,' Rabon said during a committee hearing in Kerrville, Texas, on Thursday. 'Brock scans every room for higher ground. He checks the weather constantly. He battles nightmares of water dripping from the ceiling or his mattress being wet. His fear is so profound that he's now anxious about the tsunami in Hawaii. He lives with the terror that no child or any person should have to carry, but so many of us now do.' Brock's cabin flooded so severely that the children and counselors had to cling to the roof rafters to survive. Rabon noted since her family was only visiting Kerr County and has since returned home to Houston, they haven't been offered any mental health support — something she believes is a serious oversight. 'If you get to enjoy the fruits of tourism, but then don't support the tourists when a disaster happens, that just doesn't make sense to me,' Rabon told CNN. Adelman has returned to Hunt three times since the flood. During his first visit, he watched as cadaver dogs combed the riverside, searching for the remains of those still missing at the time, 27 of whom were children. Seeing this triggered his first panic attack. Adelman has not been offered mental health resources through the government but has seen a therapist twice on his own. Weeks have passed, yet he still fights tears when watching videos of his grandmother's neighbors in Hunt, painstakingly piecing their lives back together. He struggles to return to work, hold simple conversations, or quiet the constant replay of every vivid detail from that night. 'Every day it gets a little bit better,' Adelman said. 'But I don't know if I will ever be the same.'

The Quest to Preserve Donald Judd's Marfa
The Quest to Preserve Donald Judd's Marfa

New York Times

time4 hours ago

  • New York Times

The Quest to Preserve Donald Judd's Marfa

IN THE SUMMER of 1968, a few months after his first retrospective at the Whitney Museum, the artist Donald Judd, then 40, went in search of a dry, open place to escape, as he later wrote in one of his many essays, 'the harsh and glib situation within art in New York.' For three summers he drove through Arizona (which was 'becoming crowded') and New Mexico ('too high and cold') until, in 1971, he found his way to Marfa, Texas, a remote ranch town 60 miles from the Mexican border. Over the next few years, he converted a pair of former airplane hangars and a quartermaster's office, relocated from a decommissioned military base at the edge of town, into living and working quarters, which he enclosed in a nine-foot-high adobe wall. By the end of the decade, he'd partnered with the Dia Art Foundation to buy the base for his and others' permanent art installations. (In 1986, after a falling-out with Dia, Judd established the base as a public arts institution called the Chinati Foundation, named for a nearby mountain range.) Then, from 1989 to 1991, as an economic downturn drove more businesses from Marfa's blocklong Main Street, he bought and restored a cluster of buildings to house his ever-expanding collections of pottery, textiles, rocks, furniture, art and books. An old Safeway became his art studio. An Art Deco bank, its entry hall as symmetrical as a Romanesque basilica, became an architecture and design studio. And in 1990, a two-story brick building — once a grocery, then a uniform shop — became an office where Judd could receive clients for the architecture practice he'd long dreamed of founding. Other than sandblasting a layer of paint from the street-facing walls (abrading an eighth-inch of mortar in the process), Judd left the turn-of-the-century building alone. Original pressed-tin ceilings, double-hung sash windows and longleaf-pine floors made an unusually delicate backdrop for plywood tables and desks — late entries in Judd's decades-long practice of furniture design — and rectilinear chairs in colorful plywood and sheet metal. For four years, until his death in 1994 at 65 from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, Judd filled the space with prototypes, technical drawings and site models for his projects, some of them realized, like the exterior cladding for an office complex over a railway station in Basel, Switzerland, and many of them not. The town has since become a place of pilgrimage for art enthusiasts and millionaires, who've driven real estate prices up and many locals out. At the same time, the buildings have become a monument to Judd's legacy. By 2011, though, the Architecture Office's second-floor windows, whose frames had started to rot after two decades of wear and tear, had been boarded up. 'It had a decrepit, forlorn quality,' says Rainer Judd, 55, the artist's daughter and president of the Judd Foundation, which she runs with her 57-year-old brother, Flavin, the foundation's art director. In 2013, the siblings completed a three-year restoration of the cast-iron building at 101 Spring Street in SoHo that Judd bought as a home and studio in 1968 for $68,000. Next, they decided to turn their attention to rehabilitating their father's properties in Marfa; the 5,000-square-foot Architecture Office, modest in scale and structurally stable, seemed a sensible place to start. Beginning in 2018, the foundation replaced the roof, repointed the walls, archived Judd's furniture, models and drawings and designed passive climate systems to protect those objects from Marfa's extreme desert temperatures. The Architecture Office became 'a test case for other projects in Marfa,' says the Houston-based architect Troy Schaum, who collaborated on the first phase of the restoration with Rosalyne Shieh, his partner at the time. Then, just three months before its opening in 2021, the building caught fire late one night. Flames burst up from the ground floor (insurance investigations never determined an exact cause) and spread through the timber trusses, gutting the structure. 'Even though nobody was hurt, even though it was all replaceable, to see all that labor and energy evaporate in 12 hours — I wasn't prepared for how emotional it was,' Schaum recalls. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.

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