An entire room becomes spell and sanctuary: seven metres long, three metres high, assembled by hand from the pages of We Are the Witches, magnified to engulf the body. This immersive environment begins in stark black and white, awaiting the touch of women who enter, linger, draw, inscribe, return —the walls themselves becoming a living palimpsest of collective memory.

As colour accumulates, chaos blooms: an artwork in perpetual becoming, co-authored, unruly, impossible to fix. At weekend’s end, it disappears—its destruction underscoring the transience of revolt and the impossibility of containing women’s imagination.

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At its core is herstory: the radical memory of the witches, women exterminated in their millions through a church- and state-orchestrated femicide still unacknowledged today. They were the spinsters and the rebels, the midwives suppressed by the rise of patriarchal medicine, the women who would not bend to a male god, the Beguines who dared to live without men and were despised for it. This room refuses their erasure. It stages a collective rite of remembrance and resistance, where women become both witness and artist, restoring the witches not as relics of superstition, but as ancestors in revolt—alive in colour, alive in us.