Visit To The Aids Quilt Has Deeper Meaning The Second Time

We had just walked across the Seattle Center grounds, stopping at the Food Center for something to eat and circling the fountain to people-watch.

It was a busy day at the Center, a sunny and warm Saturday afternoon in 1988 at the height of this town's tourist season. The mood seemed irrepressibly upbeat, incompatible with grief.

We had come to see the quilt, but it felt like a day at Folklife or Bumbershoot, the Center's Memorial Day and Labor Day celebrations.

The festival spirit died abruptly at the door to the Seattle Center Arena.

I remember it was dark when we entered the building, and suddenly quiet, as if someone had lowered a damper on all the revelry outside. It was a hush I didn't know outside of a funeral home, the kind of quiet only the sight of a dead body can inspire.

As we walked through the stands and entered the main floor, a single, echoing voice could be heard. A woman stood at a microphone proclaiming the names of the dead, a kind of roll call at the gates of heaven or hell.

Before us lay the quilt, a football field of mismatched material, from the ornate to the austere, covering the floor and spilling over the railings, overstuffing the arena.

The communal wake had begun.

I was living in Walla Walla, managing my grief in isolation, when the International AIDS Memorial Quilt, sponsored by the Names Project, made its Seattle debut. I came back to town that weekend not knowing what to expect, not knowing how to mourn with others.

Denial surrounding my own future rendered the event incomprehensible; I had not yet been diagnosed. Why did people want to wrap themselves in grief and make such a spectacle of AIDS?

When I attend the opening of Seattle's second showing of the quilt next weekend, I'll bring a deeper understanding of what it means to live with, and die from, AIDS.

Three years ago, I was on the defensive. When I first entered the arena, I half expected to be entertained, like I had entered an art gallery, or an exhibition barn at the county fair.

As we wandered across the floor, scrutinizing photos and memorabilia, I realized we were part of the display. As mourners and celebrants, we took center stage.

I had come, hesitantly, to find one panel in particular, not even knowing whether this death would be represented. After 20 minutes I grew desperate in my search, turning cold inside from guilt for not having sewn one myself.

I retreated into denial when my former partner, Allen DeShong, died in October 1987. I was reluctant to publicly grieve or share the loss with others who knew him, or with others who had lost people they loved to the same disease. Now it seemed imperative that his life be represented in the quilt, that his name and badge stand with the others in the arena.

Someone more resourceful than I had sewn a quilt in his honor, and I found it at last in a section featuring people from the Seattle area. Nearby were the panels of several friends who had also died in the past year.

Art is never so moving or complete as when it transcends words, thoughts and emotion. The quilt is art in its simplest and most effective form: raw, innocent and direct, devoid of any pretensions of the artist.

Maybe because they're so intricately personal, revealing intimate anecdotes of people's private lives, the panels achieve an honesty and purity rarely found in art. The viewer becomes voyeur, stealing a glimpse at the soul of both the artist and subject.

The mood was somber, respectfully quiet, in the arena. But if the quilt show is a public wake, it surpasses the function of the traditional funeral. Instead of dressing in black and parading past an embalmed body, mourners are given a chance to celebrate the lives of those who have died.

There's nothing staid about the design of these quilts. Among the photos, name and dates, you'll find Barbie dolls, feather boas, Mardi Gras masks, stuffed animals, merit badges, pearls and wedding rings - any trinket that tells a story.

If there's nobody you knew personally depicted in the quilt, you'll probably recognize a few names. Rock Hudson is honored in the display, along with Liberace, Ryan White, comedian Wayland Flowers, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe and director/choreographer Michael Bennett.

There are 14,000 panels in the entire quilt, each entry measuring 3 feet by 6 feet. With its walkways, the quilt covers more than 8 1/2 football fields. Only a portion of the patchwork, about 1,600 panels, will be on display at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center next weekend.

More than 2 million people have seen the quilt, which has been displayed in full on the Capitol Mall in Washington, D.C., and on a smaller scale in cities across the nation.

The entire quilt represents 13.2 percent of all AIDS deaths in the United States and 2.8 percent of deaths around the world.

The quilt, which began in San Francisco in 1987, continues to expand. In the United States alone, it is estimated that more than 1 million people have been infected with the virus.

The quilt's boundaries, then, seem limitless.

----------------------------------- WHEN, WHERE QUILT WILL BE DISPLAYED -----------------------------------

The International AIDS Memorial Quilt, sponsored by The Names Project, will be displayed Friday through Sunday at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center.

Opening ceremonies begin at 6:30 p.m. Friday, with introductions and performances by the Seattle Men's Chorus and the Seattle Women's Ensemble.

Visitors can view the quilt until 10 that night or from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. Saturday and 9 a.m. to about 4 p.m. Sunday. A closing ceremony will be held at 4:30 p.m. Sunday.