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The Blue Hour—l’heure bleue, shichoshoku, blaue Stunde—is the threshold between night and day, light and dark. It’s not a moment. It’s a state of becoming. In cultures around the world, it’s a time of ambiguity and potential: when shadows stretch long, colours deepen, and everything looks a little more haunted. A little more honest.

 

This exhibition inhabits that liminal space—the in-between where memory rots and reinvents itself.

 

In The Blue Hour, art becomes a form of psychic surgery. A salvage. A séance. A  car sits like a mobile confession booth—its surface scrawled with thoughts, obsessions, and raw narrative fragments. This is the artist’s diary as vehicle, as wreckage, as monument.

 

Stained glass panels stand like brutal saints or spectral warriors—broken light refracted into armour. They aren’t decorative; they’re protective. Sacred. Violent in their stillness. They suggest the fight to survive beauty, to weaponise fragility into structure.

 

In the paintings, nostalgia curdles into obsession. Soviet space dreams are pulled down from their Cold War pedestal and interrogated—turned inside out, smeared with longing, absurdity, and loss. These are not patriotic fantasies; they are elegies for futures that never arrived. A cosmic mourning, rendered in pigment.

 

And in the operating room, we find ritual. Precision. Bloodless violence. An artist paints surgical procedures with forensic detail and emotional detachment, transforming the clinical into the intimate. It’s grotesque. It’s tender. It’s transcendence through the blade of realism.

 

The Blue Hours is not a theme—it’s a condition. 

This is twilight as methodology. Dusk as emotional terrain.

Not quite night. Not yet day.

Just blue. Just becoming.

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Ellen Vrijsen​ - Shirin Nekou​ - Aron Mathe​ - Yann Laissy (Pache)​ -

Laura De Coninck  - Nina Van Denbempt - Nathan French - Jean-Marie Mahi