Jones made the first panel to commemorate his friend Marvin Feldman in February 1987. The early panels were not elaborate and mostly created by spray-painting names onto bedsheets, but as word of the project spread, the contributions became increasingly creative and varied. Jones was joined by fellow activists Gert McMullin and Mike Smith, who were motivated by their own anger and desperation after losing loved ones. The duo needed a way to ‘reach out to people so that they see this as part of their problem, part of a nation’s problem’. With the help of a team of volunteers, they set up a workshop.
People in mourning would come to them, often without any sewing ability, and they would listen to their stories, then help them to create panels. They recognised that having a space and outlet for grief was important, as was the way someone specifically chose to memorialise their loved ones. Smith says each panel captures a life, as well as a relationship. McMullin, today dubbed ‘the Mother of the AIDS Quilt’, tells me that most of the first panels were made by gay men, for gay men. Once the quilt became front page news, and people became aware of it outside the sanctuaries of urban gay neighbourhoods like the Castro and Chicago’s Boystown, mothers and fathers began to make panels for their sons. Because of the stigma of the illness at the time, many families did not publicly discuss their losses. With the normal grieving process interrupted, the difficulty of processing death and the sense of isolation became profound. In choosing the quintessentially American folk art of quilting, Jones had chosen something ‘warm and comforting’, a symbol of cosy domesticity to subvert how the media and public perceived gay people as dangerous. The word ‘quilt’ spoke to him of ‘castoffs, discarded remnants, different colours and textures, sewn together to create something beautiful, useful and warm’. He thought it would be good therapy for people deep in grief, and a helpful tool to bring the media’s attention to the cause. He was right.
By October of 1987 there were 1,920 panels. They went on display at the National Mall, a park in Washington DC, home to the Lincoln Memorial and national museums. Iconic photos taken at the time show them stretching out into the distance, revealing, as Jones had hoped, both the scale of the loss and the individual humanity of each irreplaceable life. The National Mall is ‘a place that’s known for its monuments; they’re made of stone and steel,’ he said. ‘We took a monument there that was made of cloth and thread, and sewn by ordinary Americans. It was an extraordinary testament to what we went through’.