AIDS: If Only

The exhibition opening was held in a gallery which rested on what could be called a boundary, a division, or a property line that divided "old Atlanta" from the "black part of town." The year was 1986. The month was January. Midtown Atlanta was an emerging entity which housed a new and defiant sub-culture yet maintained an old South sensibility. The corner of Peachtree Street and Ponce de Leon Avenue was no longer the sole hub of "Sock," (so named by local culture because he indiscreetly placed a sock in his pants in order to "enlarge" what he believed would please his audience) a homeless, bleach-haired, gay entrepreneur who scalped money from people and handed passers-by The Creative Loafing, the local epistle of all that was Atlanta subculture and sometimes a discarded copy of The Village Voice, while standing on the corner of Ponce and 14th. A year earlier, RuPaul had arrived on the Hot'lanta scene and made his debut, draped in calf-high, rusted leather combat boots and virgin white bridal toile, at Weekends, a Midtown 24/7 club four nights a week and for fifty bucks a night plus tips — only to return to The Big Apple a year later to become Manhattan's top queen of the club scene. Midtown was no longer the only supposed gay part of town nor was it necessarily the other part of town.

The gallery I speak of, Nexus, was still in the process of renovation — an old factory building with distressed remnants of gang sloganry on the exterior's brick surface. The tags produced by my town's inner city gangs read something like a fast-paced Pollock drip painting, albeit in a hastily wrought monochromatic pallet. The interior of the gallery could be labeled early shabby sheik with portions of the plastered wall surface painted a fauxturquoise marble. No matter how hard folks tried to make this space what it was not, it would always be what it had always been. A tall, gaunt man was greeting people at the gallery's entry; directing them up the narrow, dimly lit stairway. As I climbed the dark, wooden steps to a supposed heaven, my feet and legs vibed to the bass vibration of the too early in the night music of The Human League because people were still way too sober and it was way too early for anyone to wrap their heads around what was wanting to take place. The second floor main gallery was splattered with blue neon light. The Mars black ceiling was lit like a fireworks display. Profiles of a dozen Birds of Paradise, housed in a tall, glass cylinder vase and resting on a round table in the second floor foyer, danced in the shadows — the flora would have looked much kinder if only Calla Lilies had been included.

What was also lurking in the shadows and looming like armed, somber sentries, were one hundred works of art produced by one hundred gay men. The exhibition had no title and perhaps this missing element was intentional. It certainly was reminiscent of DaDa--a private mystery encouraging public discovery. The exhibition opening was slated from 7:00 p to 9:00 p — at least that was what was printed on the grey cardstock invitation I received three weeks ago. My former watercolor professor was one of the exhibiting artists. That's why I'm here. A mild and quiet man in his early fifties, I later realized that his violent and violet tinged paintings were his most sublime expression. I was early. It was 8:30 p. If only I was a bit later in my arrival. If only I had worn black. Should I eat some shrimp? I was wearing winter white and I did not want to spill cocktail sauce on my DKNY (everyone was in some kind of designer, post punk/new wave, black retro uniform). I began to notice small smatterings of people entering the gallery just like the salty smell of the catered brine shrimp and Ritz crackers filtering through the space.

I intuited that this was an underworld event that would eventually turn into a cluster fuck that would travel, later in the night and like powdered cocaine and en masse, to another dark loft in the same part of town that only people wearing only black who were trying to be artists but who were really only working in restaurants would understand (or for that matter be invited to attend). Chains and hoops and spikes crafted from a myriad of alloys dangled from ears and noses and eyebrows. Post Sex Pistols, post Halston/ Studio 54, and early Calvin Klein attire were rampant but were only displayed in black. The B-52's were grouped in a corner. My Love Tractor friends solemnly leaned against the cold brick walls wondering why they weren't the opening gig. Natalie Merchant was in a far away corner. Michael Stipe walked through the main gallery. Green eye shadow brazened his cheekbones. His Salvation Army shirt sleeves were languidly draped below his wrists. He saw me and without hesitation or provocation, lit a lightly filtered kiss on my eyebrow and said, "Welcome home, Elizabeth." R.E.M. played later in the night... Radio Free Europe rocked the house.

If only my friend was with me to see this frenzied carnival of sorts. He promised me he would be here. He would tell me how to be. He would fetch my white wine. He would tell me to breeeaathe. We could be small together and lean up against the cold brick walls together and simply watch together. He would softly lean into me and place his big, warm hands in the side pockets of my white denim jacket. His long fingers would wrap around mine and I would feel okay. He would whisper something in my ear despite the competing symphonies that enveloped this space. I only know that in this dark and cold auditorium was a collision of art, music, angst, anger, and raw energy feeding raw pain — a percussive tension was flooding the space, exacerbating the mood and screaming to the drowning sex drum of Enigma.

It's 9:00 p. I am no longer early but am only now blending into the collective media of people, images, and clatter. Alone. I am alone. If only. Only me:

Only my eyes on the artworks that protest back to me. No other voices telling me what they think of the work or that they only like that one or that that one can only mean this or if only the artist had used more color and why did he do it that way and if only he had had AIDS he would understand and if only he had priced it lower he would buy it and if only his partner would allow him to have it he would hang it above the daybed in his loft and if only there wasn't barbed wire around the image and "let's get out of here and go to 688" and if only I understood I would not be here....

I am consumed with watching black-clothed herds of men, the blue-black surfaces of leather reflecting off of more leather and silver metal, that I only really see the white light bouncing off of crystalline glasses of white wine. If only I could understand the imagery.

If only I could absorb the meaning of the acrylic-paint on gun metal, the barb-wire wrapped phallus, linen-draped breasts, Kaposi's Sarcoma, Larry Kramer's Heartsong, reminiscing about weekends spent on Fire Island, and sanguine-hued ribbon tails.

If only I liked the cheap white wine. If only I could fake conversation. If only art wasn't roaring so loudly in my head. If only I could hear my own voice. If only the canvasses had a sweeter message. If only I could stop crying. If only I knew why I cried. If only I could stop. A tightly gaunt and leather bound man, standing next to me and looking at the same composition littered with bilious green heartbreak and painted by my watercolor professor, offered me a linen handkerchief, the fabric lightly brushing my cheek, and said, "If only you understood." If only.

Reflection:

This writing is in memory of the many friends I have had in my life as an artist who have lost their lives to AIDS. I "broke" the rules and threw social currency to the wind by even entering this art/music space in the mid-80's. The experience was pivotal in my work with RAIN (Regional AIDS Interfaith Network) and supporting many families in completing even more 6' x 6' voice tapestries that are threads in The Names/AIDS quilt based in San Francisco, CA.

What I wrote in response to this gallery experience in 1996:

An artist's worst enemy is apathy. I once left an exhibit that deeply disturbed me. I was angry, upset, and even felt a degree of betrayal in response to the artists' work. It took some time, but I came to realize that the artists, in their portrayals of controversial subject matter, had been successful. In retrospect, the collective works caused me to ponder, meditate, pray, think, react, and respond. I still think of the content of the art work ten years later.