Travelling in the company of Old Masters in shifting roles as observer, listener or sometime companion, this page is kept as a quiet pastime. It is part notebook, part informal journal, a collection of phone images and reflections drawn from encounters with old artworks and places where the past still lingers.
All pictures are taken by me, and all thoughts written during slow travels and unhurried visits, where time allows for second looks and quiet returns.The works and spaces gathered here were made in a world different from ours, yet they continue to ask things of us—not answers, but attention; not certainty, but time. These pages offer no final word, only a shared space in which looking, questioning, and returning might still matter.
Yvo Reinsalu

Frans Hals (1582-1666), Portrait of a Woman with a Fan, c.1640, Oil on canvas,  59 x 80 cm, The National Gallery, London

Frans Hals infused portraiture with a vivid immediacy that redefined its possibilities within Haarlem’s artistic tradition.His broad, visible brushwork conveyed the illusion of life in motion, setting him apart from his many contemporaries. In this portrait, that vitality appears not just in fabric handling but in the woman’s facial expression and pose immediacy. Hals didn’t freeze his subjects in rigid symbolism; he captured them as if mid-thought, mid-presence. The freedom of his technique was deliberate—expressive of status, character, and lived reality. His portraits broke from emblematic formality and introduced profound psychological immediacy into the genre.

The woman in ‘Portrait of a Woman with a Fan’ is depicted with a subtle complexity that resists fixed interpretation. Her costume—dark silk, crisp lace, and a feathered fan with a gold mount—places her firmly within Haarlem’s elite, yet Hals doesn’t reduce her to a display of wealth. Her expression is composed but not cold, her eyes meeting the viewers with guarded curiosity. There is a tension between formality and individuality: the stiff structure of her dress contrasts with the softness in her features and the slight parting of her lips. Hals offers no overt narrative or symbolism—just a fleeting presence, attentive and dignified, suspended in time

The artist did not simply document Haarlem’s elite but gave them a kind of immortal charm. In works like this portrait, where the woman is not known by name, Hals still conveys her historical presence with compelling human dignity. She represents a type—married, wealthy, self-possessed—but also utterly singular. Scholars find this duality central to Hals’s contribution: He honours the Haarlem portraiture tradition while redefining it, introducing a more intimate, vibrant, and less didactic approach.

Diego Velázquez (1599–1660), Portrait of a Man, late 1630s, Oil on canvas, 65.3 x 76.3 cm, Apsley House, London

Velázquez most likely painted it after his first Italian journey (1629–1631), an experience during which he encountered the most influential legacies of the High Renaissance. In particular, he closely studied the works of Titian (c. 1488/90–1576) and Tintoretto (1518–1594), whose portraits left a profound impression on his later career. Their influence is palpable in this painting—not only in the compositional restraint and dignified bearing of the sitter but more significantly in the technical handling of paint and light.

The sitter remains unidentified, though José Nieto Velázquez, aposentador mayor to Queen Mariana of Austria, has been suggested. The pose, the restrained black costume, and a white golilla collar offer little in the way of specific identity. The absence of attributes and the painting’s careful ambiguity suggest that Velázquez may have been working as much on a technical and conceptual exercise as on a commissioned likeness. The work is best seen as experimental, shaped by his effort to rethink portraiture under the influence of Venetian models.

What makes the portrait remarkable is its deliberate painterly economy. The figure is built with broad, fluid brushwork, while the face is softly focused, never over-defined. This is a calculated non-finito approach, not an unfinished painting. Velázquez understood how the surface would resolve into clarity from a distance and how artificial light—especially candlelight—would animate the face. The white lead beneath earthy pigments catches the glow, giving the sitter a lifelike presence. This subtle technique, rooted in the Renaissance formulae, was adopted by many Baroque masters.

During his second Italian journey (1649–1651), Velázquez reaffirmed his admiration for Venetian painting by acquiring works by Titian and other sixteenth-century painters for his patron, King Philip IV. ‘Portrait of a Man’ reflects this enduring influence—an intelligent experiment shaped by a deep understanding of Renaissance technique and the psychological depth that defines the finest portraiture.

Antonio Canova (1757 – 1822), Napoleon as Mars the Peacemaker, 1802-1806, Marble sculpture and gilded bronze, 345 cm, Apsley House, London

Commissioned at the height of Napoleon’s power from the most celebrated sculptor of the era, the sculpture was intended to immortalise him through the visual language of antiquity. It is known that Napoleon gave five sittings to Canova. Yet in portraying Napoleon as a heroic, nude Roman god, the sculpture strips away everything recognisable: not the general, the ruler, or the modern revolutionary, but an abstracted figure frozen in idealised myth.

Instead of weapons, Napoleon holds a gilded figure of Nike, the Greek goddess of Victory, atop an orb in his right hand and a staff in his left. Mars, the Roman god of war, is imagined here as a bringer of peace, having laid aside his arms. But the allegory failed to resonate. When the statue arrived in Paris, it was met with discomfort and rejection. Napoleon himself disliked it. To the public, it seemed remote, inappropriate—even absurd. Canova’s refined classical idiom could not express the radical modernity Napoleon embodied.

Napoleon’s lasting legacy was not rooted in military grandeur but in the dangerous energy of Enlightenment thought—ideas that threatened to dismantle the stagnant, post-feudal world of Europe. After his downfall, the statue was sold to Britain and installed in Apsley House, the London home of the Duke of Wellington, surrounded by relics of the Napoleonic Wars. Though it may appear a trophy, it is far more complex: not a monument to a defeated man, but to a defeated idea—one that remained alive, unsettling the European order for decades to come.

Napoleon deeply divided his age. To some, he was a tyrant; to others, he was the Athenian hero of modernity, the embodiment of transformation. Canova’s mythological statue fails to portray the man, but in that failure, it preserves something more powerful: the unresolved legacy of revolution that haunted the entire 19th century.

Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), Portrait of Baldassare Castiglione (copy after Raphael), 1630, Oil on oak,  90.2 x 67.5 cm, The Courtauld, London

Peter Paul Rubens’ reinterpretation of Baldassare Castiglione’s portrait by Raphael is not a mere copy but a reinvention that embodies the essence of the Baroque—energy, movement, and transformation. The Baroque was not just a stylistic shift but a new way of thinking, breaking from Renaissance restraint to engage the viewer more directly.

Rubens’ obsession with Renaissance masters shaped his artistic journey. He did not copy their works passively; his paintings functioned as visual diaries, a means of understanding their approach to humanism while infusing it with new vitality. This process of study and reinvention made him one of the fathers of the Baroque. He absorbed the balance and idealism of the Renaissance but amplified it with dramatic light, dynamic forms, and psychological intensity. His engagement with past art was not about preservation but about transforming old ideals into something immediate and theatrical.

The Baroque emerged in a world where art was no longer confined to courts and churches but flourished in a thriving market economy. Rubens was at the forefront of this shift, running a vast studio that produced works on an unprecedented scale. In this context, ‘copying’ took on a new meaning—it was not about replication but adaptation and expansion. His version of Castiglione’s portrait reflects this approach. Rather than preserving the courtly grace and introspection of the original, he infused it with the Baroque’s hallmark dynamism. His brushstrokes are more fluid, his contrasts sharper, and his psychological depth more intense.

Rather than a copy, Rubens’ version is a translation and an assertion of the Baroque’s power to redefine tradition. It is a testament to the era’s boundless energy, proving that even within an established framework, new life could be breathed into art. His work demonstrates that painting is never static; it is a dialogue between past and present, where old spirits are revived with new force, making them more compelling, alive, and relevant to their time.

 David Teniers the Younger (1610–1690), The Smokers, 1633, Oil on oak, 31.3 cm x 53.2 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp

The theme of smoking men was immensely popular in 17th-century Dutch and Flemish genre painting, particularly in Haarlem and Antwerp. Adriaen Brouwer (c. 1605–1638) was possibly  the first to explore smoking in genre compositions. His tavern interiors, depicting men drinking, smoking, and engaging in crude behaviour, were groundbreaking for their unfiltered realism. His approach moved away from earlier moralising representations of low life, instead portraying his subjects with an immediacy that resonated with viewers. The immense popularity of these scenes led to widespread copying and imitation, both during his short life and long after his death.

David Teniers the Younger (1610–1690) was among the most dedicated followers of Brouwer’s style. He knew Brouwer personally and engaged closely with his subjects, later replicating some of his compositions, which had become highly sought after. ‘The Smokers’ (1633) is a direct continuation of Brouwer’s legacy.

On the surface, it depicted an everyday social activity. Still, it also functioned as a vanitas symbol—ephemeral and insubstantial smoke served as a reminder of the fleeting nature of pleasure and life itself. Smoking was also linked to melancholy and introspection. Many of Brouwer’s and Teniers’ figures appear lost in thought, their expressions tinged with weariness, suggesting that the act of smoking was not only a sign of indulgence but also of anxiety or existential contemplation. This connection to broader societal concerns is particularly relevant in the context of the Eighty Years’ War and the Thirty Years’ War. Taverns, filled with soldiers, mercenaries, and displaced civilians, became places of temporary escape from the uncertainties of life.

‘The Smokers’ embodies these contradictions—pleasure and transience, indulgence and unease. Rather than a straightforward moralising work or a simple celebration of simple leisure, it captures a world shaped by excess and uncertainty, reflecting the broader anxieties of 17th-century Europe.

Jan Verhoeven (1600-1676), Portrait of Rombout Heyns, known as Smets (standard-bearer of the city-militia (Kloveniersgilde) of Mechelen, after  1630, Oil on canvas, 203 x 125 cm, Museum Hof van Busleyden, Mechelen

This portrait, painted shortly after the depicted man  Rombout Heyns’s death in 1630, is a posthumous commemoration of an event that had shaped Mechelen’s public memory for fifty years. It refers to the English Fury of Mechelen in April 1580, during the Eighty Years’ War, when Calvinist rebel forces from Brussels, supported by English soldiers and Scottish mercenaries, captured the city. Mechelen’s churches were plundered, religious images destroyed, and both civic and private property looted. The city’s militia guilds—including the kolveniers (arquebusiers), Sint-Jorisgilde (crossbowmen), and Sint-Sebastiaansgilde (longbowmen)—were unable to defend the city.

Yet one figure stood out in later accounts: Rombout Heyns, also known as Smets. At the time of the attack, he had just been appointed alferis (standard bearer) of the Kolveniersgilde. According to tradition, Heyns retrieved the guild’s banner from enemy hands—an act that was remembered by the guild as a moment of rare resolve amid helplessness. The standard, which Heyns is shown carrying in the portrait, was said to have been designed by him in the Burgundian style and became a powerful symbol of the guild’s endurance.

In Verhoeven’s painting, Heyns appears as a young officer at the height of his symbolic role, dressed in full ceremonial attire before the Oud Schepenhuis, where the kolveniers had housed their Gildencamer since 1611. The banner over his shoulder is the painting’s focal point, rendered with precise colour and heraldic structure. The stylised costume and broken perspective reflect Verhoeven’s focus on symbolic narrative over realism.

By the seventeenth century, guilds like the Kolveniers, once founded for urban defence, had become more ceremonial bodies. They played central roles in Joyous Entries, religious festivals, and civic rituals. Verhoeven’s posthumous portrait of Heyns shows how such guilds used painting to preserve memory, assert continuity, and project civic identity.

Adriaen Brouwer(1605/06 – 1638), Old Man in a Tavern, c. 1632/35, Oil on  oak, 35 x 28 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp

A man has dozed off by the warmth of a stove, overcome by drink, while a couple in the background engages in a quiet act of seduction, observed by a lurking figure. The scene is intimate and immediate, lacking the exaggerated moralising found in many contemporary depictions of tavern life. Instead, Brouwer presents human behaviour as it is—unguarded, impulsive, and deeply felt.

Brouwer’s biography and artistic practice are inextricably linked. Born in the Southern Netherlands, he trained in the North, in Haarlem, where genre painting also thrived. While Dutch genre painters often embedded their scenes with clear moral messages, Brouwer’s work is less didactic and more visceral. His paintings are defined by their emotional depth, sharp psychological insight, and free, rapid execution that suggests spontaneity and urgency. His ability to capture fleeting expressions and raw emotions earned him admiration among artists, even as his own short life remained unstable.

Brouwer’s tavern scenes, often dismissed as crude, were, in fact, deeply reflective of the world he inhabited: a war-torn Low Countries, where life was unstable, pleasures were fleeting, and hardship was a shared reality. When he returned to Antwerp, where this painting was made, he had already established himself as a master of the ‘tronie’—a study of human character and emotion. His quick, sketch-like technique, using cheap earthy pigments, was deeply admired even by Peter Paul Rubens, who acquired at least sixteen of his paintings.

The quietness of the moment—the slumped figure, the flickering firelight, the voyeuristic background figure—suggests a melancholic undercurrent, reinforcing the transience of pleasure and the vulnerability of human nature. More than just a depiction of daily life, it is a meditation on exhaustion, indulgence, and the fragility of existence—subjects that Brouwer, living on the fringes of society, knew all too well.

 Jacob Jordaens (1593–1678), The Cupid and Psyche, c. 1645,  Oil on canvas, 160 × 260 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp

The myth of Cupid and Psyche was one of the favourite subjects in mid-17th-century European art, capturing the Baroque fascination with sensuality, drama, and divine transformation. The story, drawn from Apuleius’ ‘Metamorphoses’ (‘The Golden Ass’, IV, 28 – VI, 24), tells of Psyche, a mortal so beautiful that she incurs Venus’ jealousy. Sent to make her fall in love with a wretched man, Cupid instead falls for her himself, setting the stage for trials, betrayal, and eventual divine union.

Jacob Jordaens interpreted this theme multiple times, distinguishing his work from that of Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), whose earlier versions were marked by fluid movement and idealised classical elegance. Jordaens’ approach was more robust and human, emphasising dramatic contrast, physicality, and expressive gestures rather than ethereal beauty.

This version captures Cupid at the moment of hesitation, poised between obedience to Venus and his own growing love. The warm palette, dramatic lighting, and realistic flesh tones heighten the emotional tension. Other paintings by Jordaens also explored different aspects of the myth, from Psyche’s Father Questions the Oracle in the Temple of Apollo, which sets her fate in motion, to Psyche Received by the Gods, symbolising her ultimate transformation.

Some of the greatest painters and art patrons of the 1630s and 1640s embraced the Cupid and Psyche theme. It is known that Charles I of England and his wife, Henrietta Maria, favoured the subject in their collection, commissioning paintings on it from both van Dyck and Jordaens. Later, Queen Christina of Sweden commissioned another version from Jordaens. However, Jordaens also produced Cupid and Psyche works for Antwerp’s elite and even for his own home, demonstrating his deep engagement with the myth.

While Rubens infused the tale with classical grace, Jordaens grounded it in the weight and movement of everyday life. His Cupid and Psyche paintings, ranging from intimate to triumphant, reflect the myth’s lasting appeal as an allegory of love and fate.

Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640), Venus Frigida, 1614, Oil on oak, 142 x 184 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp 

This popular composition reflects the early Baroque’s dynamic reinterpretation of ancient themes by drawing inspiration from antique sculptures, particularly the Hellenistic prototype attributed to the 3rd-century BCE sculptor Doidalsas of Bithynia. Originating in Asia Minor, this model was later brought to Rome, where it was widely copied. The Crouching Venus type, depicting the goddess surprised during her bath and modestly covering herself, was highly prized in Renaissance Italy, where collectors sought Roman versions. Rubens, familiar with such sculptures through his Italian studies, transformed this pose in ‘Venus Frigida’ by depicting the goddess not as a delicate beauty but as a shivering figure, stripped of sensuality and overtaken by physical discomfort. This shift aligns with the Baroque emphasis on emotional immediacy and dramatic contrasts.

The title ‘Venus Frigida’ references the Latin phrase ‘sine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus’ (‘without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus freezes’) and the proverb ‘Sine Cerere et Libero friget Venus’ (‘Hunger and thirst cool love’s ardour’), reinforcing the connection between love, sustenance, and pleasure. The goddess, huddled with a putto and accompanied by a satyr clutching grapes, appears vulnerable and exposed, her usual divine presence replaced by pathos. Unlike idealised Renaissance representations, Rubens infuses the scene with tension and expressive movement, hallmarks of the emerged Baroque style.

By 1614, Rubens had firmly established himself in Antwerp after years in Italy, where he studied classical antiquity and Renaissance art firsthand. His adaptation of antique models, particularly his reinterpretation of the Crouching Venus, demonstrates his ability to animate static forms with lifelike vitality. The painting’s expressive brushwork, nuanced flesh tones, and dramatic composition highlight his technical mastery. Likely created for a patron interested in classical scholarship, ‘Venus Frigida’ is an early example of Rubens’ ability to merge erudition with Baroque sensuality.

Maerten de Vos (1532-1603), Episodes from the life of Saint Anthony (Altar of the Guild of Saint Anthony and Saint Hubert), ca. 1594, Oil on oak, 280 x 212 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp

Maerten de Vos was one of the leading Flemish artists of the late 16th century, working amid the religious and artistic upheaval following the Beeldenstorm (1566), which stripped Antwerp’s churches of countless artworks. This late artwork draws on the enduring Netherlandish artistic tradition while incorporating influences from his extensive Italian training.

Commissioned by the Brotherhood of Saint Anthony for their chapel in Antwerp’s Church of Our Lady, ‘The Temptation of Saint Anthony’ was part of a now-fragmented altarpiece, with lost shutters depicting Saints Rochus and Hubertus. The painting captures the saint’s legendary struggle against demonic temptation, a theme long favoured by Northern artists. De Vos, however, transforms the scene with his synthesis of Flemish precision and Italian dynamism. Standing in tense contemplation, Anthony is surrounded by grotesque creatures—distorted bodies, twisted limbs, and hybrid forms. These unsettling demons, very  sexualised or bestial, reflect an established iconographic tradition visualising temptation as an assault on both body and soul.

De Vos’s approach owes much to early Netherlandish artists, notably Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450–1516), whose visions of demonic chaos had shaped Saint Anthony’s imagery for nearly a century. Yet while Bosch’s figures evoke ambiguity and moral satire, de Vos imposes a more explicit narrative, emphasising the saint’s steadfastness amid disorder. The result is an image that bridges past and present—an expression of spiritual resilience in a time of religious and artistic crisis.

Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640), Landscape with a timber wagon at sunset, 1635-1640, Oil on oak, 49.5 x 54.7 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp, On short-term loan  from Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam 

By the mid-1630s, Rubens had already suffered from severe gout, limiting his travel ability and taking on physically demanding commissions. As a result, he withdrew from diplomatic service and large-scale projects, spending his final years with his family at Château de Steen, near Mechelen. His last paintings mark a shift in focus, revealing more about his private self than his long career as a court painter and statesman. The landscapes he painted at Steen—not intended for sale or public display—signal a turning point, showing an artist engaged in reflection, sensory experience, and an intimate connection with nature.

Unlike his mythological and religious compositions, which conveyed grand narratives, Rubens’ late landscapes are free from allegory or overt symbolism. They capture the passage of time, shifting weather, and the rhythms of daily rural life, yet have no central subject. These paintings are not mere observations of nature but meditations on transience, where the cycles of growth and decay become their own narrative.

Many Flemish landscape artists of his time explored woodland scenes, often inspired by Brussels’ Sonian Forest. While Rubens was aware of this Brabantian tradition, he moved beyond static topographical accuracy, instead emphasising movement, atmospheric change, and the passage of time. Despite the severe oxidation of the colours in this painting, his loose brushwork, dramatic skies, and complex, expressive colour create a scene that feels lived in rather than observed.

His last, smaller, private landscape works seem to be among Rubens’ most personal paintings, created without external demands or expectations. They reveal an artist aware of time and mortality, not with tragedy or melancholy, but with an ability to find beauty in change, in light, and in the act of looking itself. In these works, Rubens does not merely record nature—he translates his own experience of it, turning the landscape into a meditation on life itself.

Jan van Eyck (c.1390–1441), Saint Barbara of Nicodemia, 1437, Oil on oak, metal point, grisaille, 32.3 x 18.3 cm, KMSKA, Antwerp

This late medieval masterpiece by one of the key artists of the Northern Renaissance presents a monumental Saint Barbara seated before a Gothic cathedral under construction. The precision of the architectural details reveals the era’s fascination with sacred building projects, where cathedrals manifest both divine aspiration and social order. Her exaggerated scale elevates her above the world of transient labour, reinforcing her role as a protector against sudden death in an era of high mortality from plague, war, and poor sanitation.

The stonemasons, rendered in miniature, operate cranes and hoist stones, illustrating the labour force behind Europe’s great cathedrals—men who built temples they would never see completed. In the background, peasants, pilgrims, and wealthy women in typical 15th-century garments add realism, grounding the scene in the daily life of late medieval society. Their fleeting presence vividly proves Johan Huizinga’s ‘The Autumn of the Middle Ages’ ideas, where a world shaped by mortality sought permanence through ritual, devotion, and the grandeur of sacred construction. The cathedral mirrors Saint Barbara’s legend: imprisoned in a tower by her pagan father, she transformed her confinement into a symbol of Christian faith by adding a third window to honour the Trinity. The unfinished church tower is a metaphor for the human soul’s spiritual construction, always incomplete but striving toward divine perfection.

The contrast between the fully realised architecture and the ghostly, linear depiction of Saint Barbara reinforces the tension between the material and the spiritual, the eternal and the ephemeral. The work’s intimate scale suggests it was intended for private devotion, aligning with the late medieval shift towards personal piety and salvation amid a world defined by uncertainty, faith, and relentless architectural ambition.

Sint-Jacobskerk (St. James ) Church in Antwerp is an important example of Brabantine Gothic architecture on a cathedral-like scale, later enriched by Renaissance and Baroque additions. Only partially accessible due to ongoing restoration, it remains an eloquent testament to the city’s artistic and religious history. Its soaring nave and finely rib-vaulted ceilings embody the verticality and structural clarity of the late Gothic tradition, while Renaissance influence appears in the ornamented portals and 16th-century frescoes. The Baroque influence is most prominent in the high altar and side chapels, featuring numerous 16th- and 17th-century artworks, especially in the Rubens Chapel, which serves as his family mausoleum and is adorned with one of his altarpieces.

Construction began in 1491 and continued until 1656, a prolonged building campaign that reflected shifting stylistic and religious conditions in the Southern Netherlands. The design was initiated by Herman de Waghemakere (c. 1440–1503) and continued by his son Domien de Waghemakere (c. 1460–1542) and other members of the family. The project was subsequently shaped by Rombout Keldermans (1460–1531), a leading figure from the Mechelen-based Keldermans dynasty, whose work reinforced the structure’s architectural coherence across generations. Though conceived with an ambitious 150-metre tower—intended to rival those of the tallest cathedrals in Europe—only one-third of it was ever realised.

The church was built mainly of local white sandstone and Balegem stone, which gives it a luminous surface. Its five-aisled basilican plan, pointed arches, slender clustered piers, and elaborate window tracery place it firmly within the Brabantine Gothic idiom. By contrast, the southern and western portals reflect the influence of the early 16th-century Renaissance. Much of the original liturgical decoration was lost during the waves of Calvinist iconoclasm in 1566 and 1581 when Antwerp was under Protestant control.

One of the most significant discoveries of the 20th-century restoration campaigns was uncovering long-concealed 16th-century frescoes, including a monumental depiction of The Last Judgment in the St. Roch Chapel.

Sint-Niklaaskerk in Ghent is one of the finest examples of Scaldian Gothic architecture, a distinct regional style that predates Brabantine Gothic. Emerging in the Scheldt River basin, particularly in Ghent, Tournai, and Oudenaarde, during the 12th and 13th centuries, it emphasises solidity, compactness, and structural clarity over the extreme verticality and refined ornamentation that would later define Brabantine Gothic in the 14th and 15th centuries in many churches of Brussels, Leuven, Mechelen, and Antwerp.

Built between 1200 and 1250, the church is distinguished by its dark blue-grey Tournai limestone, a heavy, durable material that gives it a sombre, fortress-like appearance. This contrasts with Brabantine Gothic, which favoured lighter sandstone, allowing for intricate tracery and delicate façades. The most defining feature of Sint-Niklaaskerk is its central crossing tower, a hallmark of Scaldian Gothic. It is squat and powerful and dominates the skyline without the soaring height of later Brabantine designs, which relied on flying buttresses for structural support.

The austere façade has tall, narrow lancet windows and minimal sculptural decoration. It reinforces its sturdy Romanesque heritage that, in the 13th century, began transforming into lighter Gothic development using different engineering solutions. Clustered columns with robust capitals lead the eye toward the ribbed vaults, creating a sense of height without sacrificing the building’s weighty presence. The restrained ornamentation—simple tracery and modest sculptural details—reflects the transitional nature of the church, preserving Romanesque solidity while embracing early Gothic verticality.

Église Notre-Dame de Bon Secours in Brussels is a remarkable example of Flemish-Italian Baroque, blending Italian architecture’s grandeur and dynamism with the Southern Netherlands’ refined elegance. Constructed between 1664 and 1694, the church replaced an earlier chapel that had become an important pilgrimage site after 1625. This new structure embodied the artistic and spiritual ideals of the Counter-Reformation, emphasising more immersive experience.

The church was designed by Jean Cortvriendt (1630–1700), a Flemish architect and sculptor who incorporated elements of Italian Baroque, drawing inspiration from the work of Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1680) and Francesco Borromini (1599–1667). The influence of Roman churches such as Il Gesù (1568–1584), designed by Giacomo Barozzi da Vignola (1507–1573), and Santa Susanna (1597–1603), by Carlo Maderno (1556–1629), is evident in the church’s dynamic façade and centralised spatial arrangement. Instead of following the typical Latin cross plan seen in earlier Flemish churches, Cortvriendt opted for a centralised layout, which enhances the sense of unity and movement within the space. His solution was the creation of a hexagonal choir, a rare and innovative feature in Flemish ecclesiastical architecture, allowing for a more expansive and visually immersive interior. This structural choice also directs the viewer’s gaze upwards toward the domed ceiling, which was designed to amplify the effect of natural light, reinforcing the spiritual and theatrical qualities of the space.

The bénitiers (holy water fonts), decorated with sculpted angelic heads, were created by Gabriel Grupello (1644–1730), one of the leading sculptors of the late Baroque period in the Southern Netherlands.