A Creative Inheritance: Remembering Dawna
Beneath a curtain of heavy afternoon rain, I drove, both hands gripping the steering wheel, heading to my friend Carly’s home to visit. The world seemed to blur and glisten as I guided myself up the off-ramp and pulled to a surprisingly easy stop at a red light.
At the red light, I checked my phone to see a text from my older sister. A text I knew was coming, and I felt an electric spark travel from the crown of my head and completely sizzle out by the time it reached the balls of my feet. My childhood art teacher, Dawna Kinne Magliacano, had passed away peacefully, surrounded by her family, friends, and loving husband Joe, the day prior. Instantly devastated, I burst into a series of small sobs—reaching aimlessly for napkins in my middle console to dab at my eyes so I might finish my attempt to drive in the pouring rain.
I made it safely to Carly’s home and peacefully snuggled her daughter Luca on the floor who eagerly, in the way a ten-month-old can—showed me her favorite book. A small board book of embroidery illustrations I bought her a few weeks back—full of insects, foods, and household items. The simple interaction brought me back to tears because I knew Dawna’s joy for textile arts was continuing on because of how much she inspired me.
I was about ten years old when I first met Dawna. She taught art lessons to a frankly really annoying group of homeschooled children that I joined on Tuesdays. I felt immediately seen by her. She regarded me as a serious artist, and I took immense pride in that. Growing up homeschooled, I never had the full-out experience of being a teacher’s pet, but I felt that way under her guidance.
My favorite memory of Dawna barely involves art at all. In class, we worked on projects, and some of the other students began to parrot their parents' political views in the way that very sheltered children often do—with an insane air of confidence while barely even knowing the meaning of the terms they uttered. I tried earnestly to tune out the conversation, as it involved the constant misogynistic, racist hate speech that was directed at Michelle Obama during my adolescence through womanhood. But to my surprise, Dawna stood straight up and told everyone to "shut up." With her hands on her hips, she told my peers that they were simply regurgitating racist hate speech from their parents and that they didn’t know anything about the world at all yet. I was so shocked.
In the time and place where I grew up (Bible Belt + mostly white homeschool circle + Obama’s first and second terms), the occasions of someone standing up against racism were so few and far between that I surged with a sense of pride that the woman I admired so much was also full of such tenacity. In addition to the scarcity of non-conservative adults that I grew up around, I didn’t know any other women in my city who made a living from their own art in their own beautiful studio that highlighted local artists while also teaching several mediums of art. She lit a fire in my heart of the future I could create for myself.
Until meeting her, I always believed I would have to move away from Tennessee to be taken seriously as an artist or pursue a creative field. She showed me the value in investing in your local art scene and having your family close. I spent a lot of my childhood modeling myself after her. From taking up oil painting to creating sculptures, dolls, and collages—I found myself craving her nod of approval both in person and through social media as I grew older and began my next sixteen years of creative work. I wrote in my diary years ago that the very first person (after my mom and dad, of course) I’d thank when I got an Oscar for costume design is Dawna.
I was a bit fearful of her when I was a girl because I thought art seemed to effortlessly flow out of her, while I found myself so plagued by perfection. I loved her studio. It felt perfect and sacred. I was scared to touch anything, terrified I’d mess something up—which, looking back, feels like the most accurate reflection of who I was as a child: careful, eager, and deeply reverent of the creative world she welcomed me into.
It was in more conversations with her as I grew up that she expressed that she’ll always still be a student. She was so eager to explore new artistic styles, workshops, instructors, and skill sets. Over the years through Facebook comments and messages, I’ve been encouraged by her to always continue to create. During 2020, she gifted my mother with a beautiful painting of her holding my nephew, Zyrie. The painting has a home atop my parents’ fireplace mantel, waiting for its custom framing by my older sister at her frame shop.
I saw Dawna in June at her celebration of life, where she graciously hosted family and friends for the weekend at her beautiful home in Lascassas, TN, which is just a short drive from the house I grew up in. I made the drive down from Nashville with tears in my eyes and a large lump in my throat that turned into gasping sobs by the time I arrived, hiding behind a large purple quilt in her studio.
Visiting her home felt like stepping into a vision. In many ways, it represents what I hope to build for myself one day: a long driveway with dogs running to greet you, a big, welcoming Tennessee home with a wraparound porch, an adoring husband, family close-by and a fully converted studio space on a quiet piece of country land.
Once my sister and I caught up on life with Dawna, there wasn’t a dry eye among us. To be honest with you, I’m not sure I would have become a quilter if not for her. Her quilting wasn’t just technically good—it was exploding with a remarkable understanding of color, beautiful use of shapes to create illusions within the design, and a fearlessness for trying to apply new techniques.
I spent yesterday trying to push away any sadness—giving myself leisurely little tasks around the house like checking my email and cleaning out my spotless car with a sense of urgency that wasn’t required. But like most things, you can’t push big emotions around forever, so I slept through most of today, feeling heavy with grief as I tangled myself in my sheets underneath my favorite quilt and eventually bribed myself out of bed with the promise of baking my favorite muffins and taking a long, hot shower with the lights off.
There’s not a perfect way to say thank you to someone who inspired me for the majority of my life, but I did try my best to tell her how much she meant to me. I hate goodbyes; I have always refused them when I could. I’ve always hated relinquishing control when the circumstances were beyond me. Even though I’m more than halfway through my twenties, saying goodbye to Dawna felt like riding in the back of my parents’ sedan, sticking my hand out the window and waving a frantic goodbye to my childhood that was now hours behind me in a long car ride that I hadn’t yet gotten comfortable in.
As I write, I’m tucked under the first quilt I ever made at age sixteen. This quilt lives on the back of my sofa in my living room that I rarely use as more than storage or a place to peek out the window while I wait for an Uber. But tonight is different; tonight I write with my quilt tucked underneath my toes and nothing but the typing of my MacBook keys to accompany me. My sewing studio sits quietly at the back of my house. It’s a space that still feels surreal—as I spent so many adolescent nights cutting fabric on a tabletop I kept stored under my bed and sewing in my closet late at night when my sisters would bang on the wall because they were trying to sleep.
When I’m ready, I’ll return to my studio, cradling a mug of tea, and let the stitches flow the way Dawna inspired me — steady, soulful, and sure.
