Programming

Captorama
As I enter Catherine Préfontaine's studio, I notice the deployment of a punctuation on the walls. An enigmatic form is repeated. It seems to be the weight of a shadow that rolls over itself. My eyes glide, rest and scrutinize; glide, rest and scrutinize. I approach and discover a swarming of marks, signs, scribbles and scratches unwinding on the wall. I follow the trajectory attentively and absorb myself in each of the details that crackle before my eyes. There is little to see but this little is multiplied and becomes immense. My eye exercises, adapts and captures the erased features, the repentances and the blanks that disappear one after the other. Rubbing, crumpling, crashing. The work resounds. It noises, buzzes and whistles. By dint of looking, I see more and above all, I hear. I have the strange sensation of being inside a sound. I see its vibration and its undulation. Catherine Préfontaine's graphic and hypersensitive universe seems to emerge from a state of deafness, from a temporary deafness caused by too much noise, too many stimuli, like someone deafened by a cannon shot. Plunged into a sound vacuum, she amplifies the silence that surrounds her until it becomes visible and plays, with a twisted pleasure, to translate for the look an exacerbated listening.