Brussels in autumn doesn’t ask for your attention.
It earns it in layers. It’s not the kind of city that jumps out with grandeur.
It unfolds slowly, like a cigarette lit in the corner of a quiet bar, smoke curling toward a window cracked just enough to let in the gold of a dying afternoon.
The trees around the Atomium had turned, some overnight it seemed. Gold, copper, wine-dark red.
A palette you’d expect on an oil painting or a designer’s scarf, not scattered across a park beneath a giant chrome daydream from the fifties.
You walk through it and feel like you’re caught between the future they imagined and the autumn we actually got.
That’s Brussels. Always a little off-center.
Almost familiar.
The sunsets here are serious. Not dramatic, composed. The kind of light that rests gently on rooftops and slips across the canal like a secret.
I watched the sky lean orange, then purple, then into that electric blue that only lasts ten minutes and makes even graffiti look holy.
Joshua Campbell
Director