The artist

Vincent lives in Brussels, but his eye belongs to the cities he passes through.

 

He does not photograph what they show, but what they conceal: a presence half-glimpsed, a gesture held in mid-air, a moment stolen before the crowd closes over it.

 

In every street there is something that slips past those who move through it too quickly. It is this unseen part, a soul rather than a face, that he tries to hold on to.

 

His practice rests on waiting rather than staging. He walks a street, pauses, lets the city unveil itself in its own time, and seizes what will never happen the same way twice. The same devotion to the ephemeral runs through all his work: in human presences swallowed by the anonymity of the city, and in torn posters, the remnants of messages that once promised permanence, undone by time layer after layer.

 

In both, the true subject is never quite what is shown, but what is fading away: a moment closing, a surface crumbling, a trace that asks only to vanish. The aim is not to fix the city in place, but to steal from it, just once, what it will never show in quite the same way again.