A brief note from the artist:

My father died on August 15, 2019. His heart, too tired, stopped beating. He was 61 years old. He had been an educator in psychiatry for over three decades.

He was an husband, a father and a grandfather. He was a son, a brother and a friend. He was quite a man. He wasn't the guy among many others. He was a gentle giant.

All these years, this too rare heart never ceased to build shelters for those we don't want to see, forging ties with those whom no-one would understand.
To take one's fellow-beings a lively interest, with firmness and without pretense.

Raising his four kids with his own vision of education, giving them a taste of free will and trust at a very young age, discreetly accompanying them to experience the fields they chose, the fields they left behind for elsewhere. Offering them this wise and playful presence of an elephant that trumpets in their nights, with books and songs and dreams.

At the right place, at the right time, he always stood at that proper distance for a child to grow up, for teenagers to become adults, guiding them to follow their desires to embrace who they wanted to be and who they are today, providing them with guilt-relieving advice throughout these many unusual journeys, from these universal questions to these accidents and their consequences, sometimes disastrous.
In misfortune and doubt, he was there; he held our hand. He soothed our breaths.

And always, this solace, as silent as the sea breeze that blew in the summers of my childhood.

Giving the best of himself to protect his family while infusing them with love and enthusiasm for music, words, joy and caring for one another.
His giant hand has guided with kindness, intelligence and discretion, all those who have crossed his path, towards the cardinal points of love, compassion and justice for every men and every women.

I remember your solid figure and soothing voice, I remember the fatigue that overwhelmed you that night. I wish I was there. I won't forget, the tears as words you whispered to me, engraved in the deepest part of me.


Consisting of various fragments subconsciously grown from october 2019 to january 2020, these few pieces were build and recorded in pain and absence at home, the course of the hand on the keys being dictated from above, the whirlwind drawing my guts towards the raw centre of the earth, referring me to obscure nursery rhymes, to brief memories of classical themes, from Wagner to Brahms, heard as a child, late at night, in this smoky room where the intranquillity that life inspires to pure souls was diluted. The whole thing took on a new, tragic and eternal momentum.


In Memoriam: Daniel Spruyt (1958-2019)

May he rest in splendour, peace and serenity he deserves.