May 16, 2025
The Fantasized Life of Stella R.
by Lilia Mahfouz
As a teenager, Stella was already convinced she possessed a prodigious artistic soul. Her vocations were numerous. At thirteen, she discovered Niki de Saint Phalle and her “Nanas.” She was captivated by these oversized, powerfully expressive works. The impact was such that she declared her intention to abandon school to devote herself to creating a grand contemporary art piece. Her parents had to negotiate: the baccalaureate first, then, if her desire persisted, enrollment in the Fine Arts.
Nonetheless, to practice in advance, she spent several weekends crafting Nanas from Fimo clay, purchased at Rougié & Plé. Stella quickly realized the complexity of the task. She shifted to less demanding, more minimalist works: lovely mauve bananas. The resemblance of her bananas to eggplants did not bother her in the slightest. The artist insisted on engaging the viewer’s subconscious. That year, she also took up pottery, transforming her bedroom into a studio, as well as clay sculpture, further contributing to the destruction of her room. Her parents were rewarded for their patience with some very avant-garde pieces: distorted plates with referenced names like “This Is Not a Plate” or “Time Has Made Me Soft.” But her most enigmatic work would forever remain a life-sized female bust, completely flattened, missing an arm, titled “Venus of the Milanese Cutlet.” Whether due to weariness or a sudden epiphany, the artistic fever vanished abruptly. The grand works fell into oblivion.
At sixteen, during a report on Saint-Germain-des-Prés, she fell under the spell of the mythical Juliette Gréco. Stella set her sights on becoming a myth herself. She dyed her hair raven black, found a tight-fitting charcoal dress. A very pale foundation and a bright red lipstick completed the look. She presented herself at various cabarets renowned during the era of Boris Vian and Sartre. However, most of these venues, if they hadn’t disappeared, were mere shadows of their former selves. Only heavy drinkers of the night and a few lost tourists lingered there. Nonetheless, she managed to convince the owner of “La petite Cave,” who claimed to perpetuate the zazou spirit, to give her a chance. The owner, an obese old alcoholic, was amused to hire this young girl who claimed to be of age and fancied herself as Gréco, with her discount store costume and budget makeup. Since she insisted. That very evening, half-lit by a red strip-club light, before an audience of about ten shadows, the new Juliette performed her set: poetic songs of her own composition, a cappella, as she had no pianist. In truth, she recited the text more than she sang, for she lacked any vocal talent in that regard. She had convinced herself that style was paramount. Her style was extremely poorly received. She heard some exclamations like “Enough already, you're annoying!” and “Take it off!” Worse still, she realized she was the subject of a terrible misunderstanding when a voice shouted: “Go back to Michou!” That was the end of the drag act and the end of a myth.
At eighteen, despite her antics, Stella obtained her baccalaureate with honors. She immediately granted herself a sabbatical year to complete the writing of a play, with a capital “P.” Dreaming of being a modern-day author and tragedian, she embarked on a long monologue, titled: “Winter Duo in Solitude”; a title she found both mysterious, paradoxical, and poetic. Clearly, this savvy marketing would not fail to intrigue and instill an irresistible desire in enlightened amateurs to come and listen and applaud her. This ambitious project had the merit of interesting the director of a small venue in Avignon, for a slot in the Off festival. He was all the more interested as she offered to pay the rental fee in advance, more than he had asked. Another stroke of genius to ensure the deal. Her parents had agreed to finance the costly venture, as they never refused her anything. Alas, her monologue, though not devoid of sensitivity, bogged down in emphatic and nebulous sentences. As interest waned, spectators ended up exchanging glances and whispering among themselves before discreetly slipping out. One evening, tired of what is known in the trade as flops, Stella allowed herself to embark on a delightful improvisation. She recounted her discovery of contemporary art, her experiences with Fimo clay, then the works she had created in clay, never imitated, never equaled. The audience laughed heartily. Stella followed up with her beginnings as a realistic singer, dressed as Juliette Gréco. The audience was in stitches. To finish, she improvised around several childhood anecdotes that came back to her memory, equally delightful. The performance ended with applause. That evening, Stella was convinced she had discovered her true calling: stand-up comedian. She began to dream of seeing her name shine on the front of the Olympia in blazing letters.
Don't ask me what became of Stella R. The most outlandish rumors have circulated about her. Some even claim to have seen her in a subway corridor selling mauve bananas sculpted from soap. Who knows? In my own poorly organized memories, she is nothing more than a dream that evaporates. It is not impossible that on a rainy evening, I might have fantasized this absurd story.