Belgium for Thanksgiving 2012, Part 7 and done.

Just to close the out the Flemish art theme, I saw some original Bosch paintings. And some other guys who painted equally weird things.

That guy in the first image is pretty famous. I believe he’s called The Mailman. When I went downstairs to the gift shop I became super-ultra-jazzed because lo and behold, a Christmas ornament!

He’s felty and glittery. His earflaps are beaded. I’m going to cut his little beak and put a small piece of paper in there that looks like an envelope and then I’m going to hang him beside my Chinese articulated Christmas shrimp ornament in my kitchen, thus creating a small collection of seriously weird ornaments for a holiday I don’t celebrate. My life is a Samuel Beckett play.

The rest of these images here are what’s now left that didn’t fit in the other blog entries.

A wine cask I saw in a liquor store window. If it didn’t weigh so much and wasn’t so cumbersome, I might have considered buying it because of the nifty doodles all over it.

The Museum of Music in Brussels. Designed by Horta. Shocker! I loved it.

Cool mural:

Niche with fountain beastie in it:

Architectural details:

The oldest bar in Brussels. It’s from the Renaissance. You have to walk down a creepy corridor/alleyway to get to it. Why must the city planning from the past have loads of places rife for pickpocketing and molestation? It’s almost like they wanted petty crime to happen.

As we exited the bar, behind was a tiny garden with big thorny vine trees, and sitting in the tree right next to my head was… a chicken. A freaky-looking chicken, just looking at me with it’s spooky velociraptor eyes. I thought it was fake. It was not fake.

Startled lion:

A sign for a children’s clothing store:

Some wrought iron from various buildings that made me happy:

The Brussels Cathedral. Also polychrome. Also distinctive windows.

Fox sculpture. He dustay.

In Bruges we went past a German Christmas shop. Holy macaroni, the Germans get Christmas on a level that mere Americans cannot understand. It’s in their blood or something. I ended up getting Cricket’s mother some creche trees there.

Alright, look at this picture.

Story from my childhood time. When I was three, four and five, The Moomins was writing her Master’s thesis on 15-century Flemish painters, so she would take me with her sometimes on reconnaissance missions to various churches and cathedrals in France, Holland and Belgium. I went to a Jewish day school, so I didn’t really know any non-Jews and you know, with kids you don’t explain everything to them all the time. So I kept seeing this guy on a cross with the word “INRI” over his head. I assumed it was an European spelling of the name “Henry”, so I called him Henry. For years. Only when I was about eight did anyone bother to tell me that he was not Henry. So when people yell the expletive, “Jesus H. Christ!!” I get very excited because maybe they called him Henry too! (They never do, but I keep dreaming.) Moving on.

They really, really, really like mushrooms in Europe. The one with the white stalk and red cap with polka dots on it. I saw them portrayed all over. Gnomes and mushrooms.

The Ghent train station had pertinent ceiling paintings. I kinda want to paint those all my workplace ceiling, see if anyone notices.

And finally, The Moomins and I wandered into a building and promptly died from the awesomeness of the interior. There’s a birdcage elevator! I love those! Why did we get rid of those?

That’s it. We now return to random postings about bad typography and the horrors of reality television.

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