Now she sings, now she sobs
Excerpts from the life of Abbey Lincoln
Bumpy road confuse a body, lead a trusting soul astray. — Abbey Lincoln from “Straight Ahead,” 1961
The last time Abbey Lincoln remembered her lived identity was during her final weeks in hospice, in the middle of a routine visit by her longtime pianist Marc Carey. As soon as she saw his face, she recognized him, which was already rare for her at the time, and she affirmed tentatively, we have a show tonight? She assured him she would start gathering herself and the setlist, steam a gown, and be ready to perform by evening. A few moments passed in thick silence, a trapdoor between realms of consciousness. She looked at him again, and with a new, almost accustatory dagger of clarity, asked a more difficult question, I’m not at home, am I? No, Marc replied, and like a prisoner for whom recollections of freedom were too painful to indulge, she never recalled her name again.
Recall seems to be a matter of will and resolve to remain in character, to uphold the social contract, part farce, part inheritance, and with it retain a sense of continuity and purpose. When a soul goes absentee while still stuck in the body, it’s a sign it has endured one too many violations of that purpose and is no longer in agreement with the script it’s memorized on earth. This refusal could manifest as amnesia, madness, or catatonia; in each variation on the theme it’s the abdication of a ruse or muse that has become insufficient or fickle— cumbersome, arthritic. In Abbey’s case that muse was obsolete, it was a former version of herself possessive of such prismatic light it supplied her and her fans and there was some left over for private creative acts: painting, traveling, yearning, designing all of her own clothes.