A young man is standing face to the wall. He is sobbing, being consoled by friends. An older gay couple walk slowly, hands gripped together, supporting each other. Groups of young queer friends are arm-in-arm, united in grief. In front of them is the UK Aids Memorial Quilt, its panels sewn with images and messages: “Malcolm”, reads one, “I wish that I had known you longer.” Another panel is dedicated to “those rejected, denied, alone”. Another reads simply, “Dear Scott, I miss you so much!”
Over the past few days, more than 20,000 people have visited Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall to see the quilt. Many of those visitors have wept openly in its presence, spending hours in the space. The atmosphere has been hushed, reverential. Some said on social media later that it was the best thing they’d ever seen at the Tate.
The response suggests it is one of the most significant pieces of British art made in the past 40 years. And yet it is not like other artworks. It has countless makers, many unknown, many of whom will never have made or will make art again. It is unfinished, still being made. This art has no discernible monetary value, nor does it seek one: its purpose is much more transcendent. Until this display, the work had never been shown in its entirety in an art institution. It makes us question our understanding of what gets to be considered art. And yet, its future is unclear.
The UK Aids Memorial Quilt is part of the world’s largest community art project. It was founded by American human rights activist Cleve Jones in 1985, in grief and rage at the lives being lost to Aids. It is made up of commemorative panels that measure 6ft by 3ft, the size of an average grave plot. This is intentional: at the time, many of those dying of Aids-related causes were denied a proper funeral, either because families had refused to acknowledge them, or funeral homes would not take in their bodies.
Thequilt, known in the US as the Names Project, quickly grew. In the late 80s, Scottish activist Alastair Hume visited the US, saw the quilt and met Jones. On his return home to Edinburgh, he opened the UK chapter of the project. Panels were made by friends, partners, family members or colleagues of those who had died of Aids-related illness. They were even sometimes started by the person being commemorated, as a therapeutic act of making in their final days.
When finished, the panels were sent to Edinburgh, with documentation about the person commemorated. In those days, homophobia was entrenched, meaning the person was often only identified by a first name. Indeed, many panels are dedicated to those whose names could not be said. The panels were then sewn into blocks measuring 12ft by 12ft, with no hierarchy about the placing of panels. Those of recognisable names, such as Freddie Mercury or Bruce Chatwin, are placed among those who never sought fame.
The majority of panels commemorate gay men, but the quilt represents all who died from Aids-related causes, such as those who became infected with HIV through intravenous drug use, and those infected by contaminated blood, including children. Each panel is unique, some expertly crafted, others by those who had never worked with textiles before. Some panels are plaintive, raw in grief; others are soft and love-filled; some are defiant. There are panels that remember a loved one’s humour and sensibility, others that show the anger at their death, as well as anger at governmental and societal failure to respond to the pandemic. One panel was made, and then covered with a white sheet, with a note declaring “the Parents do not want this panel shown anywhere. The Stigma still exists – Until this changes this panel will remain covered.”
The majority of the panels were made before 1996, when new treatments made it possible to live a full life with an HIV infection. But the Aids crisis continues, with around 40 million living with HIV worldwide. Many millions are now newly imperilled due to President Trump’s cuts to USAID, threatening access to HIV treatments and services. Trump has also jeopardised future treatment breakthroughs by cutting funding to HIV vaccine research programmes at Duke University and the Scripps Research Institute. Globally, HIV stigma is still rife. The quilt galvanises as a call to action in the fight against HIV/Aids. When the Turbine Hall display opened on Thursday, Jones told the crowd that the quilt is “not just a memorial, but a weapon”.
This five-day display came about after I, on behalf of the UK Aids Memorial Quilt Partnership, emailed the director of Tate, Maria Balshaw. Across the duration of the display it was extraordinary to watch the coming together of people, communities and generations. Those who lived through the 1980s and 90s could mourn loved ones who had died, as well as process their often-repressed grief. At the time, even though friend after friend was dying, society at large expected them to carry on as normal.
For younger people, the emotional power of the quilt gave them a visceral insight into the trauma experienced by an older generation. All could reflect on the continuing legacy of these underacknowledged deaths, and the absence in our cultural and social lives of all that these people could have done.
Twenty-five years after Tate Modern first opened, it remains one of the most iconic spaces for art in the world. Before we installed the quilt , it was seen more as a grassroots protest project. But laid out on the Turbine Hall floor, in three long columns, the it revealed itself to also be a piece of art.
The implications for this are seismic. It is rare to experience art with multiple meanings that are deep and complex yet clear. There is no side to the quilt, no irony or knowingness to its essence. This is unusual in a British contemporary art landscape still dominated by the effect of the YBAs, a group of mostly straight artists who came to prominence in 1988, seven years after the first reported Aids deaths. I believe the ensuing dominance of the YBAs came about, in part, because of the cultural vacuum caused by Aids deaths. Bluster and cynicism won out over emotion and sincerity.
The quilt shows us what else art can do, other than be a career-building tool for profit. It has a purpose. It is also genuinely, harrowingly beautiful. Art can be both these things: purposeful and impactful. It can be made by those who have no interest in becoming part of the art industry – and still be of international importance.
My position is not anti-art. My husband is an artist, my parents were artists, I was a judge for the Turner prize in 2019. I believe in art as a life’s vocation, and that artists should be able to earn a livable wage from their work. Yet recent reports suggest that artists earnings are more unstable than ever. The current art industry infrastructure does not work for the majority of artists, only for a few star names and the high-powered galleries which represent them.
If we acknowledge that the UK Aids Memorial Quilt is one of the most significant works of British art of the past 40 years, the dialogue immediately changes. It asks us to reconsider the value system placed on contemporary art, where a work’s market price is what defines its worth. If we can break free from this obsession with art’s monetary value, we can perhaps move to a more enlightened, more nourishing, more compassionate relationship with art and art-making.
Pressingly, we must now ensure the future of this art. The quilt is currently in the loving care of a partnership of volunteers from six HIV charities. For nearly two decades it had been in storage, before the Quilt Partnership formed in 2014 to become its custodians. They currently have no funds to carry out vital conservation work. It has no suitable long-term home.
I believe the quilt should be seen as the next Prospect Cottage. Just like the successful 2020 campaign to save Derek Jarman’s home in Dungeness, we must now fundraise to preserve this vital part of our social and cultural history. It is not about the quilt entering a permanent collection like that of Tate or V&A, since it needs unique ongoing care. The quilt requires its own bespoke permanent home, where it can be properly stored, conserved and made available for research. We must act now to save this artwork as a weapon in the fight against Aids.
The quilt still grows. On Thursday, a new panel was symbolically added to the Turbine Hall display, to represent the many new panels that are being made. Panels that have been created by those who, for decades, have been too grief-stricken to face the task. Others are by young people, who want to commemorate a relative who died before they were born. Hopefully soon, the quilt will be on display again, both in London and around the country. Now, more than ever, we cannot forget its vital lessons.
