Angie Andrews writes:

On the phone, last January, I almost choked when you told me you were dying. Stunned, I grappled for words – what could I say? What does one say when one is shattered, silenced by the enormity of such devastating news?

I tried to hold back the tears as I heard you say you would not paint again. There was such finality to it! No more... the pain that must have caused you could not have been alleviated by any medicine.

You suffered, yet you accepted your fate and came across stronger and calmer for it. We loved you then; we miss you now.

My childhood memories of you will not fade. Only one year older than me, my closest cousin, we played together and pranked together. We were both of mixed nationality: you were Italo-Maltese, while as an Anglo-Maltese, I would visit you in every time I stayed with my grandparents in London.

I can still recall you being upset over a dead fledgling we found in Dulwich Park one day. You were distraught.

At home, your bedroom was ever so tidy; you were proud of your drawings and gave me my first art books on drawing trees, hands and horses. Although I enjoyed drawing, I never got around to the horses or the hands, for that matter. You would go on to excel.

We would both enjoy playing the piano together. Your favourite tune was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Although I took formal music lessons for longer , I knew you were the better player.

Later, you would tell me to stick to writing and even introduce me to anthropology at University. I’m still grateful for that!

Dear Isabelle, you were always ready to encourage others, that is a fact. Now, I remember you in symbols present all around me.

On the day you died, I went for a walk in Virginia Water, an area you loved. In my sorrow, I managed to lose my way. A little deer came out of the bushes in the woods and stood there in loveliness, grace and serenity. In a curious way, I felt consoled. I thought of your elegance, wisdom and sense of discretion and knew, even then, that Heaven had gained a prize.

Rest in peace, dear Isabelle.

Here is a copy of the poem I had sent you in a collection last February . I wrote it two years ago as a tribute to artists everywhere; little did I know I would be releasing it in your honour today.

Unravel the Artist

The new artist buds; the poet explodes,

The writer defined, emotions implode.

Inroads; new paths, new roads

Insights exposed; talents unfold.

Tastebuds tickled, savoury-sweet;

Hors d’oeuvres, light words, sweet little treats

For those who dare seek recipes rare

Inspired by chefs who serve to share

A reprieve from ills, from sores so raw,

From horrors amassed by a world at war.

Invite initiates to a world at play

Paring off battles, cries and dismay;

The artist seeks not to ignore, inks to inform

The canvas ripe for thoughts to perform

A symphony of sights, through colours neat,

Through a banquet of light, feed new delight.

The artist, the poet, a chef for the night,

Offers relief to recharge for the fight

Against terror, injustice, crimes old and new

This is the artist; this is the view.