Pages of Lumin

A while ago I was flicking through books in a gift shop, waiting for some people to surface from an exhibition. I was feeling a mite grumpy. The exhibition had been so rammed i'd given up on it, and now I had to loiter in a crowded shop, pretending to be interested in tidy displays of pencil sharpeners and posters.

I nestled into a small gap infront of the books and started to paw hopefully at intriguing-looking spines. Help, I willed the books. And they did! When I peeled open a copy of The wrong place by Brecht Evens, my grumpiness lifted. People nudged and jostled past me, hands reached above my head for heavy books, and I stood there oblivious, staring into the colourful scenes, engrossed, my feet locking unmovable roots into the ground.

I didn't notice my buddies had already left and were huddled outside the window in the street, kicking their feet. I don't know how long they had been there. I'd been lost in those pages for a while, and I shuffled out feeling guilty and entranced.

Wandering around town, I was still mulling over the images. I had so wanted to keep the book, but I always find it hard to justify buying anything that isn't edible. I don't like to accumulate stuff. But I still want to paw at those luscious watercolours. They look like beautiful, kaleidoscopic 'Where's Wally?' scenes. I don't really know what's going on in them but they are somehow hypnotic. Nightclubs, stations, parquet floors, parks, streets, shadows.. it's an alluring, quietly chaotic journey.

Here is his blog. He's Belgian, so only a little of it is written in English, but there are a glorious amount of pictures.