She was an unique character, different on many levels from anyone I had known up to that point in my life. I sometimes thought of her as a sliver of what was beyond the horizon of the Caribbean Sea; a little treasure that came to our shores and called it home for 4 years. She fell in love with my culture, people, music, mountains and art. Filled with wonder and boundless energy, she rode her bicycle up and down the tiny winding roads of the countryside to the shop on the corner, the beach 4 miles away.

A few things she contributed to my artistic thinking stuck with me as I moved through life, my view of things changing with the number of years I accumulated. One was a question she asked her students from time to time. “Could you still be an artist without vision or hands, could you still be an artist if you were locked away?” Life has come to another circle for me as now I find myself asking that question and where it had always been a “Yes”, it is now I realize, dependent on much more. I am led to deeper thoughts, through labyrinths I never knew would rise up from this once quiet question.

I lost track of her for 15 years and through divine intervention, destiny, or the constant need for life to fulfill circles, I found her. We would talk a few times a year, and our conversations always included those sunny and vibrant days back on the island and the people we mingled with. She was still very much consumed by her work and we shared ideas and stories. She told me of her current theme or experiments, describing her most recent work in details that painted vivid images in my mind.

It’s been 16 years since we reconnected. I now walk these winding tunnels chasing the answer to the question’ “Could you still be an artist…?” She no longer knows she’s an artist. Her eyes are fine and all limbs function perfectly, but her mind has betrayed her and it’s sad, and I am sad, but I’m also angry. She no longer engages in my island stories, she forgot about the pen she gave me a few years ago for my birthday, and the last pieces she labored at now sit unfinished in a corner. She is leaving behind the self she knew, so my question becomes “Is she still an artist?” She gave me a question to ponder many years ago, but I only interpreted it on the physical level not the metaphysical. Now I think of her true self as being locked away and unable to engage the creative.

The circle is closing on that chapter. The eye that saw the “art of world” is darkening fast and I am forced to somehow put meaning and understanding to the transition of one circle to another. A friend is now lost in a place I cannot enter and I watch and listen in disbelief. She no longer has much to say, but there is only one way I can remember her; she was an artist and is an Artist, always.