Through Ce qui berce et ce qui noie, Catherine Morin offers a painted passage through our contemporary beliefs, those swallowed whole without pause, pulled in by our insatiable need for meaning. Her canvases unfold between healing rites, conspiratorial fables, and a thin veil of spirituality, tracing a world stretched taut, where the soul reaches for calm even at the expense of reality. 

She tells of a time poised between mysticism and exhaustion, torn apart by belief, drawn toward the sacred, yet fumbling for repair. Water, the apple, medicinal plants recur as symbols, but clarity is never granted. A quiet irony flows through her work, not to mock but to expose the slippages, the moment when care hardens into command. The mystical here is neither refuge nor escape, but a language held in suspension, spoken when certainties collapse and the invisible insists.

First trained in photography, Morin has for decades cultivated a painter’s practice fed by keen observation. Her vision, tender yet incisive, lingers where meanings blur.