GHENT, september 8 2017, on a train to Limburg

 

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On my way home by bike at least two times a day, to or away from the city, I don`t watch the potpourri of eroded or restored facades. I glance at the sky.

 

Ann-Sofie and I bought our house in the Southstation district about ten years ago. An hollow box,  decripit, 3 meters wide, 5 floors high.

 

Our house is in good company of a twin sister on the left, narrow and rank and a building on the right, built for 20 years, stubborn, resuscitated for a generation or two.

 

Our house, a speciale case, a special story. We fell in love.

 

Just like our left neighbour, the house was built near the end of the 19th century. Only the cornice vouches the relationship between these two houses.

 

Mid sixties, an additional floor, licensed. A render of red stone strips, licensed. A plint of shining slates, licensed. The demolishing of these slates, works are put to a halt. We love our lapper cat.

 

Under the roof we sleep. Without shading we watch the sky and shadows on our painted stone walls. The pinnacle of our house. The house of Ann-Sofie and an architect/magician.

 

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On my way home by bike at least two times a day, I glance at the reflection of the sky through  my mirror cladded roof terrace.

 

An architect despises the word gimmick for it refers to the temporary thus the transient. Architecture should be eternal and resistant to time.

 

A magician embraces the word gimmick for it enables him to realize, unknowingly, an impossibility. A hidden and cherished friend.

 

On my way home by bike I glance at the reflection of the sky, the gray clouds, the gloomy weather or the bright sun It reminds me of the possibilities, the riches embedded in everyday life.

The reflection shows what is, but distorted. It’s a gimmick, it makes me dream and it`s perfect as it is.

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Smoke and mirrors