Acrylic on canvas, 50 × 60 cm
Every summer, when schools close for the holidays in Belgium, our family sets off on a long journey.In Belgium, schools and kindergartens begin their summer holidays at the same time—from July 1 until the beginning of September—so for almost two months the children are always traveling with me.
This summer we’re exploring Russia, and on our way home we’ll spend some time in Turkey. Last summer, however, was dedicated to one of my favorite kinds of travel: discovering the regions of France.We left Belgium, drove north of Paris to visit Monet’s Gardens in Giverny, then continued to Étretat and followed the coastline through Normandy and Brittany. We never drove for more than two hours without stopping. Every small harbor, lighthouse, botanical garden, medieval street, or dramatic stretch of coastline deserved its own pause.We visited Cherbourg, explored the Normandy landing beaches, admired countless lighthouses, wandered through quiet coastal towns, and eventually reached the unforgettable Mont Saint-Michel before continuing south through Rennes. Beyond that lay another region of France, but we deliberately decided to save it for the summer of 2027. Most likely we’ll continue our journey along the Bay of Biscay.One thing stayed with us throughout the entire trip: the wind.
Not a gentle sea breeze, but a powerful, cold Atlantic wind that seemed to sweep through every street, every harbor, and every cliff. It was especially noticeable in Brittany, where the peninsula faces the open ocean. The old towns are built with houses standing close together and narrow streets, and you immediately understand why—people have been building them this way for centuries to shelter themselves from the relentless wind.
The Belgian and Dutch coasts are windy too, but France feels different. There is a deep respect for history there. Old buildings are carefully preserved, fishing villages have kept their original character, and as you walk those narrow streets, it’s easy to imagine yourself living in the nineteenth century.
What impressed me most was the contrast. The sea looks incredibly soft, almost magical. Light glides across the water, making the waves seem as though they were made of silk. Yet only moments later the sea can become wild. The waves rise with incredible force, and the wind is strong enough to make you lose your footing. It’s a contrast that’s almost impossible to describe.When I returned home, I didn’t want to paint a specific place. I deliberately left out trees or recognizable landmarks that would make the landscape easy to identify. Instead, I wanted to capture the feeling itself: the calm, almost weightless sky, the endless rhythm of the water gently swaying first one way, then the other, and the invisible presence of the wind—something you cannot see, but can feel in every brushstroke.That memory became “Normandy Wind.”
