Victor Rousseau

Victor Rousseau carried a camera everywhere but never called himself a photographer. By day he worked at a Brussels photo studio; by night he lugged the same camera to the Marolles district, shooting laundry flapping on ropes and kids kicking balls in the rain. One print from that routine—*Untitled (Photograph)*—cuts in half: on the left, a soaking wet cobblestone street, on the right the same street two minutes later, now shiny and empty. It’s the kind of quiet before-and-after that feels like a magic trick.