No More She Is

Description

Suddenly the unthinkable. In an instant, the heart shattered. The brain gasping for air. Losing a child in her first babbles, at the dawn of her discovery of the world, a few months after creating a space for her in the household where she was awaited like an angel's promise, is a gaping wound from which one does not know when or how to recover. So, if like Thierry Maillard, you are a pianist and composer, you must tear your hands away from your face, drag yourself to the piano, refuse to prostrate yourself. And let all the tears of your body flow through your hands. Start by brushing the keys, and hear that it is her whose portrait you are sketching. Her and her first laughs, her and her warm breath, her in her terribly present absence, her beyond the silence, her whose disappearance fills you with emptiness. This is how Thierry threw himself headlong into an elegy for June. Time was abolished, muffled, suspended. Melodies emerged one after another, obvious, necessary, unsuspected. Not a handful, but a true bouquet. Two dozen immaculate roses to share with his close friends. Thomas Bramerie first, who had experienced a similar ordeal, Yoann Schmidt too, the familiar rhythmic shoulder. And a brother in breath, Stéphane Belmondo, flugelhorn and trumpet, rarely heard at this level of restrained emotion. To put words to the unnameable (no language has been able to conceive a word for losing a child), a poet singer, David Linx, on four occasions, equally thrust into the essential. We knew it, "music is the healing force of the universe." Solos, duos, trios, quartets, quintet, no matter, the intensity of the feeling is the same. For his wife Olivia, for his children Ilona and Liv, for us and our most intimate share of humanity, with this "No More She Is," Thierry Maillard makes us vibrate in tune with June's soul.