The sign on the wall describes a woman wearing a white shirt. It is clear in the street, and in the space of a sentence or so. It is composed of fragments of stories, the formal and silent shorthand of an esthetic language. It is not a corpus considered as foreign, fragmented in order to be displayed, studied and “quoted” by a third party; nor is it the “spectator” of a lost world, who transfers his or her “soul” in order to work on the machines producing his or her body.