This will never come again

I am in my mother’s apartment, disassembling and redistributing what took her a lifetime to build, and I am crying. She hasn’t died, but her recent diagnosis of progressive frontal lobe dementia confirms that the slips of language, wobbly legs, and confusion mark the beginning of an end. Surrounded by shelf after shelf of art books, meters of weaving yarn and fabric, a loom untouched for several years, and dishes kept more for their beauty than utility, I feel the weight of her experience and ambitions and think, This will never come again.

As if to underline that point, a photograph grabs my attention- in it my mother and I lean toward one another, head to head facing the camera, jubilant at the end of the week of the first Magdalena USA festival now 20 years ago this past August. She took a week off of work to volunteer and avail herself of workshops, Gilly’s in particular. My mother threaded through the whole festival, signing participants in, attending every performance, and hand-dying and stitching the scarves presented to Jill, Gilly, and Julia at the Closing Round. The memory of my 20 years ago mother on top of the memory of the festival whispers, This will never come again.

The 2005 Magdalena USA festival would simply not be possible here in 2025. The US has entered its own dementia, paranoid about its borders, hoarding its resources, and lashing out violently at the least provocation. I would fear for international artists coming for a festival in this moment, IF I could get them clearance, and post-pandemic, people seem hesitant about gathering. I’m immensely proud of how we gathered 20 years ago, with all its hiccups, because the festival represented generosity and whole hearted exchange, which I do believe can come again, after some intense discomfort.

Thankfully, folks in the Magdalena network have modelled many ways to channel discomfort, so I’m getting back to packing up.

Vanessa Gilbert