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in memory of kimberly bergalis by natalie de groot ann demeulemeester for robert mapplethorp katherine hamnett for all those who have died of aids pat cool for perry ellis in memory of rob parola in memory of jorge and terry by gianni versace
Always Remember: A Selection of Panels from the NAMES Project's AIDs Memorial Quilt cCeated by and for International Fashion Designers, pub. 1996.
Day of Mourning by Jill E. Stevens for her friend Jimi Ciulla
After contracting HIV, Duane Puryear became an advocate for AIDS awareness and gay rights. Anticipating his end, he created his own panel for the Names Project AIDS Quilt. A simple black and white design - his message is haunting…
"My name is Duane Kearns Puryear. I was born on December 20, 1964. I was diagnosed with AIDS on September 7, 1987 at 4:45 pm. I was 22 years old. Sometimes it makes me very sad. I made this panel myself. If you are reading it, I am dead."
For his whole story, check out this link:
Duane Puryear
Thanks to Richard Stabbert for alerting me to Duane’s story.
@rstabbert
I had the strangest dream the night before my trip to see the Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt, which was displayed — for the last time in its entirety — in Washington D.C. last weekend. I dreamt that I was at a party, and the host had provided a conjurer for our amusement. The conjurer was going to astonish us by bringing the dead back to life.
After some mishaps and confusion, the trick was performed, and the dead did come back to life. Friends and family began to appear, all somewhat ghoulish, but alive. Then things started to go unpleasantly haywire in a way only a horror film fan would appreciate. Finally, when the despair of the dream reached its apex, God himself appeared (in the form of an old New York cab driver!), and made all the zombie-friends into real-life people again, who, crying for joy, danced off to enjoy the thrill of being alive.
At that point I woke up, choking back tears, unable to speak. I was crying because I wanted it not to have been just a dream, but reality, as I made my way to the Quilt.
[...] In the morning, before rushing for the train, I looked out on the harbor from the roof-top garden of my friend's townhouse, and dreamed of the days when the men in my life who are now panels in a quilt would inspire me, conspire with me, laugh with me, or just eat and shop with me.
A counselor friend of mine recently told me that many of his young clients feel cheated at not being able to have the care-free sex the guys from the 70s had — the baths, the Pines, the anywhere-I-can sex. I understand that thought, but my sympathies lie with myself and my friends. We were cheated too — not out of sex, but out of a more meaningful experience. We've been cheated out of the companionships of the prime of our mental and emotional lives. We've spent more time at funerals than have our parents, and in some cases, our grandparents, instead of enjoying the richness of our friendships, the love and closeness that only the people you've known forever can bring.
For some of us, the Quilt is the only physical place in the world where we can be with these boys again. I've thought about the arguments that the Quilt takes time and money away from more needed AIDS causes. But I don't agree. Helping the living cope with death is a worthy cause, too, and ultimately it may make us stronger for helping in other ways. I know I was thinking this when I arrived at the Ellipse, behind the White House and in front of the Washington Monument, to see this incredible expression of grief and love that is the Quilt.
There were tears and reunions and solitude. There were plain panels and outrageous panels and silly ones and profound ones. I found the one I was looking for and snapped a picture, and I added a new name to the "Write-In" panel. But in a strange way, most of all I was glad to see the volunteers.
The volunteers were all dressed in white, and were walking around, many with packets of tissues, there to guide or answer questions. One wore a sticker which said "Emotional Support," and I started to cry just thinking that this stranger had come here so that it would be OK for people like me to cry.
I stayed a few hours and then came home. Sometimes it's hard to go on living when you think of all we've been through, and all we're going to go through still. But I guess if people care enough to make Quilt panels, if strangers care enough to help you cry, and if harbors and boats and little cafes and favorite boutiques can bring back good memories, I'll take another breath and see what I can do.
— Marc J. Reiss, "Lessons from a Quilt," OutWeek Magazine No. 18, October 22, 1989, p. 33.
The quilt was the brainchild of AIDS activists in the late 1980's who wanted to use names to memorialize the lives of people who had died of
#Atlanta will miss you but most important thing is that this treasure is in good hands
AIDS Memorial Quilt block by David Brown for twenty friends and loved ones lost to AIDS, block no. 3249.
First: Beginning of David Brown's submission letter for the quilt block Second: The quilt block itself Third: Brown's draft for the quilt text Fourth: Conclusion to David's submission letter.
Find David's dedication to each friend here.
Above: AIDS Memorial Quilt panel in memory of James 'Jimi' Ciulla, from block no. 3044. Below (left): Poem and letter sent to the Names Project by Jill E. Stevens in his memory. Below (right): Photo portrait of of Jimi c. late 1980s.
