In France, speaking of race remains taboo. The term noir—used to describe Black individuals—often prompts discomfort, whispered or replaced with the English “black” in a bid to soften its impact. And yet, when Agatha Christie’s novel was renamed in 2020—retitling Les Dix Petits Nègres to Ils étaient dix (“They Were Ten”)—defenders rallied behind the banned slur, arguing for cultural preservation over sensitivity. In a nation that claims colour-blindness, Blackness is paradoxically both hyper-visible and systematically unspoken.
France’s insistence on universalism has historically submerged Black histories beneath a homogenised national narrative. Iconic figures and events tied to the African diaspora—Toussaint Louverture, the Haitian Revolution, Frantz Fanon—remain peripheral, overshadowed by canonical French names like Napoleon and Victor Hugo. In practice, Blackness becomes a curated aesthetic rather than a subject of genuine reflection.
Recent developments offer cautious hope. The Centre Pompidou’s landmark exhibition Paris Noir: Artistic Circulations and Anti‑colonial Resistance, 1950‑2000 spotlighted over 150 Black artists, from Africa, the Americas, and the Caribbean, many of whom had never featured in French collections before. With more than 300 works—including painting, photography, and multimedia—the exhibition exposed the overlooked influence of Black creators on modernist and postmodernist movements
Curator Alicia Knock framed the show as both a corrective reckoning and a hopeful blueprint. “This exhibition tells a story that has been unpacked everywhere but France,” she noted—and it arrives symbolically as one of the Pompidou’s final public offerings before a five-year renovation
Yet the exhibition’s sprawling scope came at a cost. While visually abundant, it risked rendering nuanced resistance mute amid the sheer volume of works. Familiar names—Wifredo Lam, Beauford Delaney, Faith Ringgold—crowd the rooms, their presence eclipsing lesser-known artists whose stories remain underexplored
At the same time, Jean‑Claude Barny’s biopic Fanon shone a spotlight on the pivotal anti‑colonial psychiatrist Frantz Fanon, tracing his journey from Martinique to Algeria—a powerful indictment of France’s colonial legacy Despite its cultural importance, the film saw a limited release—roughly 70 theaters across France, many screening it just once—prompting accusations of marginalisation
Still, public interest defied the odds. Thousands flocked to attend screenings, demonstrating readiness for stories challenging the nation’s self-mythised narratives :contentReference[oaicite:5]{index=5}.
Taken together—Paris Noir’s ambitious display and Fanon’s critical lens—France is flirting with racial visibility without embracing its full meaning. The exhibition celebrates art but sidesteps deeper histories. The film claims political ground but softens Black identity. Neither fully confronts the lived realities of colonial power embedded in France’s psyche.
The real question now is not recognition, but authority. Whose stories are authorized? What dimensions of Black history are rendered visible—and whose remain relegated to quiet corners? Unless France commits to embracing the radical, the local, and the pivotal voices of its colonial past, its cultural narrative will remain curated, not confronted.
Conclusion: The journey toward equitable representation in France reveals a deeper problem—not of seeing, but of narrative control. Black presence in museums and film does not equate to Black agency in national memory. For genuine progress, France must be willing to relinquish its curated myths and confront uncomfortable truths. Only then can Blackness be both visible and understood.
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