An exhibition by Émilie Frèche,
a curation by Elizabeth Mabin

In March 2025, I’m staying at the Villa Medici as part of a residency to begin work on my next novel. I live at the far end of the garden, where the residents stay, in an apartment with a terrace that overlooks the umbrella pines in the park and, beyond them, the Villa Borghese. Gigantic, magnificent pines—very different from the ones found in the south of France, which grow as thick as mushrooms and under which I grew up—but still, my childhood is right there, within reach, to the point that on the very first evening, I know I could do nothing else but gaze at them. But I have a book to write, and I set to work on it—only the words won’t come, or come with difficulty. I know why. Writing has become occupied territory. A space that belonged to me until then, but which has been colonized by those who’ve rewritten history, so I’ve lost my footing—and my voice along with it. I settle down on the terrace, open my watercolor set, and start painting. I paint with a brush what is both in front of me and within me—and what no one will ever be able to take from me. I return to Paris. I no longer write. I paint. I paint, paint, paint just as I write—with the same frenzy, obsession, and necessity. It’s the same story, anyway—yes, always the same story I tell: the injustice done to us. And here’s a new one that’s happened to me: the umbrella pines in the South are falling ill, while others are being consumed by flames—all threatened with extinction. I used to think they were invincible. But no, they’re just as fragile as we are. Now they’re lying there, and something has been set free—I’ve started writing again.