A series of invisible twists of fate brought these photographs into my hands. As I was strolling around the Place du Jeu de Balle in Brussels, in the final moments of the flea market, just before the refuse lorries arrived, I picked up an abandoned photo album from the ground. It is a small album, made of simple plastic sheets holding together a collection of colour and black-and-white prints. It shows a young couple with a child, a home in an isolated house, a pastoral life, a close-knit family living in harmony with nature, close to the silence of the animals, as if gathered in a circle around a fire.

Daily life slips away in the ebb and flow of tranquil days, with no apparent events, only the passing of time and the secret beauty of intimate gestures. The colours fade into black and white and spring gives way to winter. The threads of life flow into a horizon without a script.

There is no story, nothing is named, the faces will remain anonymous and the painting will always remain unfinished. No certainties; the silent beauty of these images can only stimulate our imagination.