She is devouring.

It’s been over an hour.

We are seated in this large restaurant where they serve fondue specialties.

Between two huge bites, she talks.

She blurts out definitive statements.

The imposing figure is surrounded by her staff, young women who keep a low profile and adopt modest behavior to make way for their exuberant boss’s gluttony.

I observe her face, especially her eyes, which reflect nothing, her shameless behavior, and her complete lack of attention to others.

The creature has power and abuses it.

You can see she enjoys it as much as the thick slices of beef she throws into the broth before gulping them down.

The young artist waits.

She is in agony.

She despairs that the producer of her show might comment on what she presented earlier that afternoon.

The boisterous lady arrived, flanked by her team.

She attended while yawning a bit at the talented dancers’ efforts.

She had not a word for anyone, even during the long meeting where each collaborator bombarded the young woman with their unkind and uninsightful remarks.

It’s been months since the entire team  has worked towards the success of the upcoming show.

This conceited lady (is she even a lady?)  knows she holds her small world in her chubby hand. You can sense her desire to grip tightly.

Now she is diving into the fish, including the head.

Her voracity appears limitless.

I’ve seen the same thing everywhere throughout my career, the same despicable behaviors, the same arrogance, the same insatiable appetite.

The complete absence of genuine sensitivity, a tragic inability to love, to admire, or simply to respect that which surpasses you.

Why must it be that almost always, the most incompetent people find themselves in these key cultural positions where they have the power to decide an artist’s fate?

They have nothing to do with art.

What a delight for those without soul or talent to decide the fate of  those overflowing with it.

These people remind me of those detestable creatures seen overseeing fashion shows.

Awful gardeners of barely bloomed flowers that they strive to wither.

The cumbersome character is now at dessert. I sense this will take a while.

I leave my seat, preferring the company of friends happily chatting at the neighboring table.

The young artist appears a bit bewildered at the power table. I know she doesn’t care. Power doesn’t interest her; she simply has the legitimate ambition to realize what is a necessity for her, to create, express what weighs on her heart and haunts her thoughts.

I think of Nietzsche’s marvelous text, The Market Flies:

“ Slow is the experience of all deep wells: they must wait long before knowing what has fallen into their depths.”

Or again: “ The marketplace is full of solemn clowns – and the people congratulate themselves on their great men: they are for them the masters of the moment.”

Wisdom from one whom the flies ultimately drove mad.

We finally leave the restaurant. I observe from afar the antics of the advantageous woman. She seems finally sated but not yet, it seems, satisfied with the pain she continues to impose on the young woman.

A taxi is called for her. She is about to leave.

Turning around, she tells her: you can continue to do as you wish.

From the leftovers of her meal, she has finally released a bone, the one that, she knows, the artist will have to settle for to continue her path.

She climbs into her taxi, the suspension creaking under the weight of her exaggerated person.

The space is finally freed from her harmful presence.

We can breathe.

The young artist cries a little.

In her inner self, the dance of life continues.

In the distance, a stomach growls and expands, losing itself in belching in the desolation of its own night.

                                            Heddy Maalem