For centuries women were left at the foot of the trees: women as roots, meant to feed the fruits of other lives — fathers, husbands, children, that eternally free masculine who instead climbs every tree and from up there looks into the distance, grows, conquers. It looked like an eternal sentence, the worst kind because blessed by every power.

And yet some women rebelled and took hold of the trunk as if it were the best part of themselves; they dug in their feet and, climbing from branch to branch, reached another point of view. The volume gathers anonymous photographs from the author's own collection.