Speaking of the blank page’ anxiety is an understatement: it’s simultaneously the vision of both the empty and the filled. The absolute void of an anechoic chamber or, on the other side, the blank potentiality’s full of an idea ahead. The only comforting fact in a blank page is that the artiste could, in a way, confine his anguish on it. Laying down there just ahead of us, with all the necessary tools exposed around it, to fight it and tame it: some kind of arena. For the music composer, this arena is not limited by a frame, but by the musical stave: five infinite lines crossed by the composer’s imagination, dropping here and there the musical scores. At both ends of theses fives lines: the performers on one side, the auditors on the other. Alone inside these musical staves, the composer is kind of trapped, as long as the actors who makes and receives the artwork doesn’t convert theses five lines into a vibrant structure.