Maggie Wingfield, RIP

I was walking out of a gallery on First Fridays, in full solo wander mode. Lots of people. Interesting art. No one to wait for or catch up to. I saw an old college friend, Linda. 30 years ago we had lived in back to back apartments on West Grace Street. Our kitchen sinks were on either side of the wall, and we would signal each other with water patterns. She was from exotic Northern Virginia, very urban with a German B grade movie star mother and a sweet daddy. She was friends with a real junkie, a fascinating alcoholic, a very handsome and brilliant man, a talented woman with Lupus, and a wild woman who went for two terms with the Peace Corps to Patagonia. We tried to stay in touch, but our child bearing was not synced. I started early, long before anyone I knew. Then Linda married a man who was climbing the corporate ladder, and they moved to the suburbs to raise children. Heck, she still has children in high school. Cripes.

So she sees me and turns to me with a solemn look. After the brief exchange of pleasantries, she asks if I saw the December VCU Alumni magazine. I hadn't.

She said, Suzanne, Maggie died. She was in San Francisco and she died. It didn't say how. I knew you needed to know.

I loved Maggie Wingfield. She was brilliant and wild and full of creative passion when we were both 19. Maggie had a mean streak and loved to make jokes about people who had flaws. But I loved to sit on the front porch with Maggie and call out to our friends on the street. She liked my painting, which I was at the time, for some reason, doing in my apartment instead of the studio. She was from Virginia, deep Southside, I think. She talked about her sister Maria (pronounced Ma.rai.ah) and her daddy, whom she loved. I think her mother was dead. Maggie was funny and smart and particularly admired Susan Sontag.

Maggie and me, making faces

Maggie was sexually ambiguous. She had an affair with a married professor and also with a woman in our building. I think she ended up preferring women, but we lost touch so I don't know. I also don't know anyone who knew her after she left town. I only saw her once, when I was working at the museum and she came to see some friends. She was incredibly thin and nervous. She told me that she was on a special diet and no longer had periods, because her body didn't need them, or something like that. She had on a fur coat.

I want to do something special to mourn Maggie. She flamed out, that girl. I hope she left plenty of provocative art and some great stories. I am sure I'm not the only one left standing in her wake, still watching.

Perhaps your soul is now at peace, Maggie. You were worth it all, and totally unforgettable. I love you still.