The painter was walking from one exhibition room to another. Each new stride seemed to arouse his fury even more as he saw, hanging on the walls, new reasons to seriously maim people. The fearful flock of assistants could hardly follow him. Only the curator seemed detached, oblivious of the accumulating pressure that was soon to cause some explosion. Actually, she thought she was perfectly aware of what was going on. Artists are like that, she reflected, big walking egos just hungry for more ego fodder. They taught me that at school. The Artist Ego : How To Use It For His Or Her Own Good. He'll run out of steam eventually. All of a sudden, the painter made a half-turn and charged at her, shouting, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY WORK ? She lost a shoe. She was flying in the air like a rag doll. She landed on one of the assistants, a nice boy she would have to thank later. But not now : her body hurt. She had just added a chapter and a couple of bruises to the Artist Ego saga. The painter was on at her again, less violently this time. MY PAINTINGS ARE NOT LIKE THIS, I DON'T USE THESE COLOURS ! She was still looking for broken bones. Colours. Oh, yes, colours. She was on her feet again, a breathless brave little solider, returning his stare. The colours, we changed them, so what ? You waived you rights about this, Article 9 of the contract. This is your signature. Violet is out of fashion, so is Orange. Green is in, so is Navy Blue. You like it or not, we did the right thing. She beckoned to one cowering assistant to come over, Jerôme, don't be shy, you are the project manager on this colour job, aren't you ? Jerôme, who had spend a wholly innocent week spreading Green and Navy Blue acrylic on unmarketable Violet and Orange patches, was