I thought I would select my current abode in Brussels as the topic of this weeks poetry corner, following WH Audens Gare Du Midi there is an interesting account of a trip to Brussels from an FT writer .
Alas I suspect both of them do not know the delights of hidden Brussels that I know,there is one area of Brussels which is hauntingly beautiful more Parisian than Paris itself. but no vistors ever find it, even the Belgians themselves I suspect.
Gare du Midi
A nondescript express in from the South,
Crowds round the ticket barrier, a face
To welcome which the mayor has not contrived
Bugles or braid: something about the mouth
Distracts the stray look with alarm and pity.
Snow is falling.
Clutching a little case,
He walks out briskly to infect a city
Whose terrible future may have just arrived.
~~W.H. Auden
I began to wonder what sort of person Brussels would be, if a city could become a person.
Brussels would not be a cool, haughty beauty, like Paris, nor an irresistible seductress like Seville, nor even a dynamo of industry and creativity, like Barcelona.
Brussels would be a person with a lived-in face, the lines of WH Auden, the nose of actor Stephen Fry, the eye pouches of deputy prime minister John Prescott.
This person would have a messy, even dodgy past.
A breakdown of some sort would have occurred.
She would look her age.
Facelifts would not be part of the picture. She would almost certainly be a heavy smoker.
Such people can be warmer and more rewarding than the perfectly presented ones.
Brussels does not present or advertise itself especially well. Arrival at the Gare du Midi, a hellish place like the basement of a huge factory with spectacularly bad signposting, is an indication of the perverse, grungy side of the city.
Brussels has one of Europe's great galleries, the Musée des Beaux Arts, but this treasure-house - home of Rogier van der Weyden's "Lamentation", Brueghel's "Fall of Icarus" (which inspired Auden's poem), Lucas Cranach's "Adam and Eve", and vast acreages of Rubens - gets a fraction of the publicity of places such as the Louvre, the Uffizi or the Prado. An enormous advantage is that it is usually pretty empty.
Belgium seems self-deprecating not just about its greatest museum but also about its artists.
The late 19th and 20th century sections of the Musée des Beaux Arts yield some fine and fascinating work, not just James Ensor, a painter with a novelist's eye for character and atmosphere, who moved from realism to expressionism, like a cross between Ibsen and Strindberg, but the Belgian fauves including Rik Wouters, an outstanding colourist who died too young in 1916.
Then there is art nouveau.
The museum-house of Victor Horta is a gem. You get a sense of art nouveau as not just a collection of stylish objects but as a complete aesthetic style, a way of combining western industrial techniques with an oriental refinement and delicacy of line and living.
But getting there is made to seem absurdly difficult. When you arrive at the underground stop (the Brussels metro must be the scruffiest in western Europe), you are faced with an incomprehensible map suggesting you need to take another tram.
In fact the museum is an easy 10 minute walk. It's almost as if someone doesn't want you to get there. This is another of Brussels' quirks - the city, a psychoanalyst's delight, that deliberately makes the least of itself.
One area where Brussels doesn't underplay its attractions is food. If you haven't done a Mr Creosote on a combination of mussels, chips, chocolate and waffles, then I strongly recommend two restaurants we discovered pretty much by chance in the Place Sainte Catherine.
This is one of those attractive squares you come across at random in Brussels, like magnificent Brabant Gothic churches next to dual carriageways. The Place Sainte Catherine is near the old fish market, on the non-touristy side of the lower town. It sports a perfect pair of bistros.
Alas I suspect both of them do not know the delights of hidden Brussels that I know,there is one area of Brussels which is hauntingly beautiful more Parisian than Paris itself. but no vistors ever find it, even the Belgians themselves I suspect.
Gare du Midi
A nondescript express in from the South,
Crowds round the ticket barrier, a face
To welcome which the mayor has not contrived
Bugles or braid: something about the mouth
Distracts the stray look with alarm and pity.
Snow is falling.
Clutching a little case,
He walks out briskly to infect a city
Whose terrible future may have just arrived.
~~W.H. Auden
I began to wonder what sort of person Brussels would be, if a city could become a person.
Brussels would not be a cool, haughty beauty, like Paris, nor an irresistible seductress like Seville, nor even a dynamo of industry and creativity, like Barcelona.
Brussels would be a person with a lived-in face, the lines of WH Auden, the nose of actor Stephen Fry, the eye pouches of deputy prime minister John Prescott.
This person would have a messy, even dodgy past.
A breakdown of some sort would have occurred.
She would look her age.
Facelifts would not be part of the picture. She would almost certainly be a heavy smoker.
Such people can be warmer and more rewarding than the perfectly presented ones.
Brussels does not present or advertise itself especially well. Arrival at the Gare du Midi, a hellish place like the basement of a huge factory with spectacularly bad signposting, is an indication of the perverse, grungy side of the city.
Brussels has one of Europe's great galleries, the Musée des Beaux Arts, but this treasure-house - home of Rogier van der Weyden's "Lamentation", Brueghel's "Fall of Icarus" (which inspired Auden's poem), Lucas Cranach's "Adam and Eve", and vast acreages of Rubens - gets a fraction of the publicity of places such as the Louvre, the Uffizi or the Prado. An enormous advantage is that it is usually pretty empty.
Belgium seems self-deprecating not just about its greatest museum but also about its artists.
The late 19th and 20th century sections of the Musée des Beaux Arts yield some fine and fascinating work, not just James Ensor, a painter with a novelist's eye for character and atmosphere, who moved from realism to expressionism, like a cross between Ibsen and Strindberg, but the Belgian fauves including Rik Wouters, an outstanding colourist who died too young in 1916.
Then there is art nouveau.
The museum-house of Victor Horta is a gem. You get a sense of art nouveau as not just a collection of stylish objects but as a complete aesthetic style, a way of combining western industrial techniques with an oriental refinement and delicacy of line and living.
But getting there is made to seem absurdly difficult. When you arrive at the underground stop (the Brussels metro must be the scruffiest in western Europe), you are faced with an incomprehensible map suggesting you need to take another tram.
In fact the museum is an easy 10 minute walk. It's almost as if someone doesn't want you to get there. This is another of Brussels' quirks - the city, a psychoanalyst's delight, that deliberately makes the least of itself.
One area where Brussels doesn't underplay its attractions is food. If you haven't done a Mr Creosote on a combination of mussels, chips, chocolate and waffles, then I strongly recommend two restaurants we discovered pretty much by chance in the Place Sainte Catherine.
This is one of those attractive squares you come across at random in Brussels, like magnificent Brabant Gothic churches next to dual carriageways. The Place Sainte Catherine is near the old fish market, on the non-touristy side of the lower town. It sports a perfect pair of bistros.
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