The invisible

Wednesday, with South Berlin-North Berlin, I was part of a festival organised by the English Theatre Berlin, speaking singing switching on switching off my lights on a wide black wooden floor, in front of a scattered audience.

Thursday, I took advantage of my artist pass and attended a long evening of performances.

At the break, tight and stiff in the middle of the others, I recognise seated in front of me one of the official photographers of the theatre, that was there the day before for my reading.

I look at him, his eyes turn towards my face, go through, unwaveringly empty, as far as I am concerned.

I turn over, accepting my incognito solitary writer destiny. The slender silhouette of a young woman with long brown hair appears in the right shot.

The photographer’s voice, exactly behind me, leaps and takes its chance :

“You are… ? I took photos during your performance… oh there’s never enough light… yesterday there was the performance of a French girl (he says “girl” indeed). It was very French, very French… she was changing the lights and every time I was hoping she would finally throw something decent, but no, she stayed in the dark all the time… but you would have liked it. Hum, if you want I can have your photos ready sooner, instead of having to wait for the theatre to deal with it… here is my card…”

To distinguish between the voice of the optical obsessed from the one of the night seducer – or from the bashful lover

and to continue to speak from the darkness.

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