How a Small Team Is Bringing the AIDS Memorial Quilt into Sharp Focus

On a recent morning in an unmarked, unfinished San Leandro storefront, Michael Berg and Will Roczkos crouch over a bright blue block of AIDS Memorial Quilt panels. Each of the eight panels in the block, made by people to honor their loved ones, contains an impressive array of creative embellishments: spray paint, rhinestones, intricate hand-stitching, and photos — inside plastic sleeves or printed right into the fabric.

Berg and Roczkos are the first two volunteers working on a redigitization project with Roddy Williams, the manager of the 54-ton quilt. The process includes photographing every block, entering metadata, and redesigning the current database. Funded by a grant from the Jonathan Logan Family Foundation, Williams expects the project to take eight months.

In much the same way that the HIV/AIDS pandemic has had a rolling, unending impact on millions worldwide since HIV was identified in 1981, the influence of the 500,000-panel quilt continues to evolve. Conceived by San Francisco activist Cleve Jones, the first AIDS Memorial Quilt panels were made in 1987. Each panel measures three by six feet, roughly the size of a human grave.

Panels are then sewn into 12-by-12-foot blocks by Gert McMullin, the so-called mother of the quilt, who thoughtfully creates a miniature crazy quilt in every block, joining panels with similar colors and patterns. When publicly displayed, viewers can read panels from any side of the block.

While sections are always loaned out for public displays, most of the quilt is stored in a warehouse a 10-minute drive from the makeshift photography studio. Heavy quilt blocks catalogued and carefully folded sit in stacks on ceiling-high shelves. A few requisite ladders are scattered throughout the skylight-lit space.

Survivors continue to make and send new quilt panels to the warehouse all the time. It’s also common for families cleaning out an attic to find a panel made many years ago and to contribute it now, including in the parcel notes and ephemera about the person who died of AIDS.

Williams notes that some families make multiple panels for their loved one, like John Politano Jr.’s parents. Politano died of AIDS in 1986 at age 25, and his parents made a second panel in the late 1990s to continue his legacy. Currently, details on the second panel appear blurry online. But once new photos are taken and uploaded, anyone will be able to read their open letter to their child, which includes a moving description of the impact of public quilt exhibitions.

“Your first panel has faded through constant use, and that is okay. You see, if your panel did not get used, or was not seen by people from all over the country, then the message would not get out,” it reads. “AIDS is real, and real people die from AIDS. This new panel that Ma and I have made for you is different from the first, but the message is the same. You are our son, and we love you!”

An unfolding project

Williams became the quilt’s manager 23 years ago in Atlanta, Georgia, where it was housed from 2001 until it returned to the Bay Area in 2021. The Library of Congress assumed responsibility for the over 200,000 photos, letters, news clippings, and other mementos that loved ones included when sending panels to the quilt caretakers.

In the U.S., more than 630,000 individuals have died of AIDS. Globally, the disease has killed 40 million people, with an additional estimated 40 million living with HIV.

In the past year, President Trump obliterated major global HIV/AIDS prevention and care programs by shuttering USAID and freezing foreign aid, which impacts projects like PEPFAR (the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief), instituted in 2003.

Quilt volunteer Roczkos noted that because of the current administration’s devastating actions, preserving the quilt and increasing accessibility to its handmade tributes feels more urgent than ever. “More people will die now,” he says, gesturing at a panel he’s gently cleaning with a tape roller, readying it for a photo.

Since its inception nearly 40 years ago, the quilt has been thoroughly documented, both the individual panels and the increasingly large-scale public displays. Even if someone has never seen the quilt panels on display, they may have a mental image of blocks spread across the National Mall in Washington, D.C.

During the first years of the COVID-19 pandemic, when physical exhibitions were suspended, database searches skyrocketed, with survivors of a new plague looking to the quilt for solace. (In 2020, McMullin and volunteers even sewed cloth masks using fabric leftover from quilt panels.)

Berg is one steward who’s worked on the project from the beginning. Over nearly 40 years, he’s held a variety of roles, including president of the board of directors for the NAMES Project, the quilt’s original moniker. He even photographed the quilt back in the late 1980s.

“Of course, the technology has improved,” he muses.

In recent years, Williams has received several emails every week asking for high-quality photos of a loved one’s panel. While every panel is technically viewable online, small details are often blurry; the images were taken long ago, with lower-resolution cameras.

One evocative email from a parent asked whether Williams could share high-resolution photos from a quilt panel because a house fire had destroyed all other remaining photos of their son. Williams individually responds to every request by physically climbing a tall ladder, carrying a block to the floor, gently unfolding it, and photographing the desired panel.

A stitched-together story

To replace all of the images currently online with higher-resolution photos, Williams is actively seeking support. Volunteers work in pairs to clean each block and mount it vertically to be photographed. The work requires a lot of physicality, both kneeling over a block placed on an enormous stress mat, and moving around its circumference, bending and stretching to remove stray threads or tidy up the endless messiness of glitter.

Blocks with felt embellishments are managed separately, as pressed wool collects extensive debris, especially when displayed outdoors or on a lawn, and requires intensive cleaning.

Once a block is ready to be photographed, a cord is pulled taut through its grommets to vertically position it against a thick black background panel. Four large white numbers attached to one side of the backing panel are changed out, depicting each block number, the cataloging system for a project of this magnitude. Caretakers remove any last bits of dust or debris with yet another tape roller on a comically long-armed handle.

As seasoned volunteers like Berg and Roczkos fall into a rhythm, the entire per-block process can drop to between three and six minutes. Over two recent days at the studio space, the two men cleaned and mounted 90 blocks for photos.

This massive undertaking ensures that the physical panels, and all the lives they honor, will be preserved and accessible to all, for all time.

“This is how volunteers help tell the story of the quilt,” Williams says.