She looked at him, frozen. Everything stopped. There was only this moment when his hand slid down her neck, shoulders, chest, gently and tenderly followed her contours, wrapped her waist and pulled her close. Her body flared under the movement of his hand. She felt his lips, their butterfly touch.
When she faced one of the original Sunflowers paintings, back in that distant summer, at that same museum, she had felt a surge of inexplicable tender joy, mixed with sadness. It had a pale yellow background and it was a copy of one of the first four versions that Van Gogh had painted in the summer of 1888 in Arles.
There is such a clichéd romance in the idea of being an artist’s model. All these women who made it to eternity by posing for the greats. In reality, there was nothing romantic about it. It was tedious and demanding. The body begins to ache from the effort to keep still. The face stiffens from the attempt to preserve the same expression.
‘Brussels, Naked’ is an experimental novel in the form of twelve interconnected novellas, each named after municipalities or neighbourhoods in Brussels, and each with a different narrator. It covers a period of fifteen years and is built around three main arcs: the life of Iris, Brussels itself as a protagonist and the EU crises, captured in the stories of ordinary people.
The Asian Review 