Hubert is one of those lovely books in which almost nothing happens and you couldn’t care less. Gijsemans’s meditative debut follows Hubert, a solitary man whose small world consists of a few art galleries and his own quiet apartment. He has two actual conversations in all, one with a chatty hitchhiker and another with his downstairs neighbour, who attempts to seduce him. He is relieved to get away from both.
This leaves the talented young Belgian artist Gijsemans free to focus on the routine of Hubert’s life: the coat hooks and kitchen table in his small apartment; his careful movements, bulging glasses and shapeless jacket. Hubert is a regular at Brussels’ fine art museum, and his contemplative drift past classical sculpture and impressionist canvases provides some of the book’s most appealing panels. At home, he continues his pursuit of beauty, eyeing up a blond woman who lives nearby and painting female nudes. In this gentle account, he is neither noble aesthete nor creepy loner, simply a man who likes pottering around looking at art. Gijsemans, meanwhile, is one to watch.
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