Definirla como artista es simplificar demasiado su historia, porque si bien el arte ha sido siempre su esencia, el ser humano nunca abandonó el centro del ritual.
Siempre dispuesta a tender la mano, a ayudar a conocidos y desconocidos, a enfrentar grandes tormentas, que fueron demasiadas.
Vencía siempre mi poca elocuencia verbal con las charlas telefónicas de tres horas, y luego los primeros ensayos con los programas de chat en nuestras Mac.
Allí nos embarcamos en mil proyectos, algunos avanzaron, la mayoría se diluyeron, o como decía en el párrafo anterior, sucumbieron al poder de las tormentas, aquellas que invocábamos pero no podíamos domar.
La imagino recorriendo el desierto, en los alrededores de Pinyon Pines, regresando a su bella casa estudio de Palm Canyon Drive, a la que tanto quiso, y que le quitaron de una manera tan siniestra y terrible.
Pero no la imagino como un fantasma triste y errante, no sería Liz, va susurrando poemas de Allen Ginsberg.
Camina lentamente, para poder ir recordando sus bellísimas canciones, y la noche del desierto se convierte en un breve paraíso.
Y llega el final, y uno no quiere decir adiós, y se abraza a la música y a los recuerdos, inicia el duelo, hasta que sea el momento de colocarse la sábana del fantasma, entonces cantar las canciones de Liz juntos.
A few days ago I said goodbye to my old friend Liz, and although the farewell was somewhat anticipated, it was still immensely sad, like all goodbyes.
To define her as an artist is to oversimplify her story, because while art has always been her essence, the human being never left the center of the ritual.
Always willing to lend a hand, to help both acquaintances and strangers, she faced great storms, which were far too many.
She always overcame my lack of verbal eloquence with three-hour phone conversations, and then with the first rehearsals using chat programs on our Mac.
There we embarked on a thousand projects, some progressed, most faded away, or as mentioned in the previous paragraph, succumbed to the power of the storms, those we summoned but could not tame.
I imagine her wandering through the desert around Pinyon Pines, returning to her beautiful studio home on Palm Canyon Drive, which she loved so much and was taken from her in such a sinister and terrible way.
But I do not picture her as a sad and wandering ghost, that wouldn’t be Liz, she whispers poems by Allen Ginsberg.
She walks slowly to remember her beautiful songs, and the desert night becomes a brief paradise.
And the end arrives, and one does not want to say goodbye, and embraces the music and the memories, begins the mourning, until the time comes to wear the ghost's sheet, then sing Liz's songs together.
Disfrutá la música de Liz Gilbert en Soundcloud / Enjoy Liz Gilbert's music at Soundcloud
