Celebs

Dear Céline,

By

Are you back in your home and lying there on your daybed by your pool a bit dented from everything that has happened to you over the past few days? Being sung to by fans in front of your hotel? Eating pizza in the Dior headquarters with Maria Grazia Chiuri where you tried on the dress that took a thousand hours to make? But especially your performance on the Eiffel Tower to conclude the opening ceremony. You gave the term ‘la rentrée’ a totally new meaning.

In your documentary, which I immediately devoured this weekend, you showed yourself in a self-imposed prison. Because if you couldn't perform, then of course your fans weren't allowed to see you having a good time with your children. Total nonsense, of course, because eating ice cream with your loved ones bears no relation to concerts of your level. But you didn't think it was appropriate and so you stayed at home, in your own palace that exuded taste and order but which was far from a vibrant life.

As if your self-imposed confinement wasn't enough, your body stepped it up a notch. Your stiff-person syndrome worsened, causing you to cramp up, resulting in epileptic seizures. We see two of them in the documentary. The body locking up, with only two eyes that seem to shout ‘help me’ to those around them. I know these moments. My daughter has them too. I recognise the superficial calm as I saw in your treatment team, meanwhile with a decisiveness that betrays a supreme state of alertness. Saying it will be fine, petting calmly, but meanwhile timing how long the seizure lasts and keeping ready the spray you can take out of the seizure if it lasts too long. No matter how severe my daughter's seizures are, I never had to use the spray. Your doctor administered it twice. And your seizure lasted more than 15 minutes.

I watched you struggle with your voice. Still singing at a level I dare not even think myself near in my most hallucinatory dream, but for you at a level that is intolerable.

What happened between the end of the documentary and last Friday, I don't know, but you were there. You were there. Your voice maybe a little lower, but you were singing the angels from heaven that night. One of whom was undoubtedly sitting invisibly in the front row, blowing you a kissing hand with your secret code.

I thank you for giving me hope,

May