{"id":41383,"date":"2018-12-01T23:59:12","date_gmt":"2018-12-02T04:59:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.wendybrandes.com\/blog\/?p=41383"},"modified":"2018-12-02T22:35:25","modified_gmt":"2018-12-03T03:35:25","slug":"instagram-recommendation-the-aids-memorial","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.wendybrandes.com\/blog\/2018\/12\/instagram-recommendation-the-aids-memorial\/","title":{"rendered":"Instagram Recommendation: The AIDS Memorial"},"content":{"rendered":"

In honor of World AIDS Day, I’m going to say a few things about the The AIDS Memorial<\/a> Instagram account — one of the most important and moving accounts on the ‘Gram, in my opinion.<\/p>\n

CLICK TO VISIT THE AIDS MEMORIAL ON INSTAGRAM.<\/a><\/p>\n

I’ve been meaning to write about this account since last year, when I exchanged a couple of messages with the founder of the account, who I was surprised to learn lives in Scotland.\u00a0 I had the idea of doing a story for the Huffington Post but I procrastinated, in part because it’s a heavy topic, but mostly because I kept thinking, “What if I don’t do this story justice?” <\/p>\n

I feel strange writing about how devastated I felt as the AIDS epidemic raged in 1980s and 1990s, because, as sad as I was, I was on the outside of the tragedy, looking in. I was lucky enough not to lose anyone close to me. But I know many people who lost a family member; a partner; or dozens — sometimes even hundreds — of family members, lovers, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances.\u00a0 The distress I felt and still feel is nothing at all compared to their pain.<\/p>\n

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My program from Madonna’s AIDS fundraiser in 1987. Click to read more about how she was a leader in raising awareness.<\/p><\/div><\/center><\/p>\n

Still, the disease swept away a vast portion of the people I idolized from afar. In the early ’80s, when I first noticed the ever-increasing number of obituaries for very young men and then read about “gay-related immunodeficiency<\/a>”\u00a0 — as AIDS was originally identified — I was a high-school student feeling out of place in a small town in New Jersey. My No. 1 goal was to move to New York and be surrounded by fabulous avant-garde people. If those people happened to be gay men, so much the better. With gay guys, I could have fun with no worries about ulterior motives on their part, plus I had so much more in common with them than with straight guys. Who else would share my taste in fashion, film, music, theater, and art? So I would take the train to Manhattan with my one gay friend and one bi friend from school and we’d visit the Oscar Wilde Memorial on Christopher Street<\/a>. I would buy\u00a0publications like the Village Voice, the East Village Eye<\/a>, and Details magazine<\/a>, which I would read and re-read at home. I knew all of the people who made New York a scene — just not in real life, yet.<\/p>\n

And then, the men started to disappear. A lot of times, obituaries listed another cause because the stigma of AIDS was so terrible — remember, in 1987, Princess Diana generated shocked headlines for visiting the U.K.’s first AIDS ward and shaking hands without wearing gloves<\/a> — but it was easy to read between the lines as the leading lights of creative industries were wiped out. In fashion<\/a> alone there was Perry Ellis, dead at age 46; Willi Smith, at 39; Isaia Rankin, 35; Angel Estrada, 31<\/a>; Carmelo Pomodoro, 37<\/a>; Clovis Ruffin, 46<\/a>; Patrick Kelly, 35<\/a>, Chester Weinberg, 54<\/a>; Halston, 57<\/a>; Franco Moschino, 44<\/a>. But, as this article by Kam Dhillon points out<\/a>:<\/p>\n

“It wasn’t just designers but showroom assistants, stylists, photographers, creative directors, window dressers \u2014 an entire generation of creativity, completely decimated.”<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

“There\u2019s a finite fund of talent in any generation,” said fashion writer Holly Brubach to People magazine in 1990<\/a>. “There is an assumption that if a great designer dies, someone else will step in to replace him. But if AIDS keeps up as it has, we are going to be living in impoverished times. Each time a person of great talent dies, the landscape gets a little more drab.” <\/p>\n

Of course, the decimation wasn’t limited to the fashion world. This article from Vanity Fair covered the impact of AIDS in the 1980s on the beauty world, movies, dance, music, art, theater, and interior design<\/a> — and so many of those in New York. Just today, stylist Bill Mullen, a survivor of the era, mused on Instagram about the long-term effects of all the deaths on the city: “Sometimes when everyone complains about how bad New York is now with no Studio 54 or Mudd Club or whatever and fashion in a shambles and the art world only about money and dead magazines and so little style or substance or quality left, I think it wouldn’t be like this if those beautiful people were still here.”<\/p>\n

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#DearDiary, World AIDS Day. I moved here in \u201887 at age 22, and I remember thinking this was not the fabulous and glamorous and sexy Manhattan of my dreams. I used to envision the city as a fantasy of hope, but now the place that was going to save me was scaring me. I remember thinking that God was giving me a warning. When I see the current fashion of guys in mom jeans and baggy layered sweatshirts and plaid shirts and Eighties Euro tourist ski parkas like at Vetements and Balenciaga, I remember those beautiful men who weren\u2019t beautiful on the outside anymore no longer filling out their clothes. I remember deflated butts under denim flapping in the wind. I see bundled up skeletons with faces haunted by fears of mysterious unknown futures. I remember a photo assistant for Scavullo telling me of an actress being shot for a Harper\u2019s Bazaar cover who refused to be touched by the gay hair and makeup artists. I remember being taught safer sex at the beginning of every Robin Byrd show, and I remember Robin kissing every one of her guests on the lips. I remember a coworker who I knew was really sick talking to me and a drop of his spit flying into my eye. When the coworker finally left the magazine on forever medical leave, the following day his vintage 70\u2019s beaver coat was on my chair. When I visited him near the end, the sweet man had become very hard. I remember him not looking me in the eye. When I say I didn\u2019t have gay sex of any kind including kissing and hand holding until \u201898 and people say I should be glad because I\u2019d probably be dead, I feel nothing but sadness and regret and anger at my fears. In the end, your life will be judged by the quality of your memories. Not living is nothing to be proud of. Sometimes when everyone complains about how bad New York is now with no Studio 54 or Mudd Club or whatever and fashion in a shambles and the art world only about money and dead magazines and so little style or substance or quality left, I think it wouldn\u2019t be like this if those beautiful people were still here. I think that\u2019s the real warning. Remember. #TrueConfessions by #BillMullen<\/a><\/p>\n

A post shared by Bill Mullen<\/a> (@billmullenink) on