How to Write Without Writing (And Get Away With It, Almost)

 I have to tell you something, I didn’t write those blog articles.

 
ChatGPT did.
 

Still, I gave something of myself to it—fed it little scraps of thought, twisted truths, and half-lies just to see what it would spit back. A game more than anything else, a way to fictionalize another version of me. Try something for the sake of trying.
 

And, in doing so, I did learn. About structure, about rhythm, about how a well-placed comma can make a sentence feel like a smirk. The prompt was simple: “Rewrite this in a witty, sarcastic tone, just like—” and off it went, filling in the blanks of a voice that was almost mine, but not quite. Like a bad impression of myself, but with better grammar.
 

Some found the articles a bit impersonal, as if it didn’t came out of my mind. Others saw right through them because, well, I have a tendency to spill the beans. Subtlety and mouth closed has never been my strong suit.
 

The truth is, The only time I ever felt like I truly knew how to write was when I was sending letters to my ex-girlfriend. Back then, every word felt necessary, every sentence was less about style and more about reaching someone on the other side. Maybe that’s the secret—not just writing, but directing your words toward someone who might actually be waiting to read them.
 

So, yes, I might have tricked a few of you. And for that, my sincerest apologies. But every house of cards meets a well-timed gust of wind.
 

And here I am, back where I started. No shortcuts this time. Just me, writing a prompt.
 

Sincerely Yours
 

Louis
 

xx

How to Curate Spring When No One Asked You To

As a typical wannabe art school artist guy, I have an undeniable—borderline excessive way-to-strong—confidence in my music taste. Unfortunately, I have yet to secure a monthly radio show or even a date to back it up. So, in a proud-as-a-peacock attempt to prove my point, here’s a finely curated playlist for you to savor the first hints of spring.

Mark William Lewis — New York
Buffalo Daughter — Socks, Drugs and Rock’n’roll
The Furniture Group — Safe (feat. Rita P)
B2E — All It Kisses
Niontay, RealYungPhil & SURF GANG — Halftones
Rita P — Rita’s Pop
Bob Dylan — Stuck Inside The Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again
Snuggle — Marigold
BMud & Moselle — Loli
Userband — I Lose My Time
Yorck Street — Limiter
Chief Keef — So Cal
Saint Etienne — Heart Failed
untitled (halo) — blunt subconscious
Rx Papi — The Root Of All Evil
Fine — Smile?
Mucca Macca — Beaming Angel
Snuggle — Dust
Bob Dylan — Queen Jane Approximately
aloisius — Hot Winter (Dreaming About Being Closer) (feat. James Massiah)
Stina Nordenstam — Dynamite
Astrid Sonne — My Attitude My Horoscope
Guess — Love me or
Yorck Street — Stop Asking I wont draw Your blood unless its Paid
Playboy Carti — FOMDJ
Smerz — You got time and I got money
Antoine Fleury — So much beauty that we forget then get reminded that you can find it anywhere
Horse Vision — Segundi Garinasso
Gyeongsu & June — Lead to Curse
untitled (halo) — 020
great area & Lolina — watching the wheels with Yoko
Rogergoon — Doubletree Hotel
HANISI GARUE — Niueans of Ariki Street (Home 01)



xx

Louis

 

 

 

 

On friday the 28th don't miss the opening of There’s a star in my future, an art show featuring Alice Payan, 
Ariane Kiks, 
Léa Mainguy, 
Mélodie Sylvestre, 
Pauline Baudoux & 
Zélie Péguillan in Molenbeek!!!

How I Learned to Follow the Ohio Desire Line

 

A few months ago, I started using Are.na and quickly fell for its stark layout and the way contributions flow so seamlessly. It feels like a quiet corner of the internet, where things exist without shouting for attention. That’s how I stumbled upon a channel called Images With Captions On Wikipedia, and instantly, I was hooked.
 

Wikipedia is perfect for this kind of deep dive. Every image has to be freely licensed or in the public domain, stripped of copyright restrictions. And that creates its own aesthetic: the Wikipedia look. There’s something beautiful about it—images that get straight to the point, often tinged with a late-2000s color grading or the rawness of early internet visuals. They’re never edited to be pleasing, never curated for engagement. Just an accidental, functional beauty.
And then there are the captions. Wikipedia contributors have a way with them—sharp, minimal, just enough. A photo of a pigeon in mid-flight with the caption A pigeon in mid-flight. A deserted mall described simply as An abandoned shopping center in Ohio. No embellishment, no unnecessary poetry. Just facts, distilled to their essence. It feels more honest than any overthought Instagram post, more poetic than it intends to be.
 

Sometimes, when I don’t know what to do with myself, I just keep clicking. One page leads to another, then another. A 1970s bus stop in Prague takes me to a close-up of a coffee shop in Helsinki, which leads me to an image of a man standing alone in an empty subway station. I start screen capturing them, saving them and sharing them to the Images With Captions On Wikipedia channel, contributing weekly now, as if posting them on Are.na gives me the quiet credibility of a lowkey image digger. 

I often learn a lot of stuff during the process, as wikipedia is about informations. As I I click through, I stumble upon random gems of knowledge. The other day, I discovered that paths worn into parks and fields by constant foot traffic are called Desire Paths or Desire Lines— or Lignes de désir in French. It’s a beautiful idea, really—trails created by people choosing the most direct route, regardless of design. I saw one caption that read, A desire path between concrete sidewalks at the Ohio State University, with a picture of a trail, green grass, grey sky, and an electric scooter.
 

 

 

 

 

 

For the past five days, I’ve been starting my mornings without coffee. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone—not even my worst enemies. But at this point, it’s not even because I’ve made some grand decision to quit—it’s because I keep forgetting to buy more. Guess the overall mood. 

xx 

Louis 

How I Found Out The Sun Is Not Yellow, It’s Chicken

 Losing the Magic Along the Way

 It’s bright and sunny in Brussels, the kind of day that makes you forget, just for a second, that you have things to do.  And I do have things to do: photo shoots, preparing an exhibition with Irma Vape, sipping overpriced lattes on sunlit terraces, and meticulously counting my last few euros. Writing, as usual, slipped to the bottom of the list.
 

But thoughts, like smoke, always creep in. Lately, Bob Dylan has taken up space in my mind again—my obsession rekindled, just as it's becoming everyone's obsession. Chalamet already jumped on it, so why not me? Maybe y'all will finally understand my Instagram name. 

Recently, a good friend bought me a brand-new harmonica. I lost mine two years ago. Before that, I used to always have one in my pocket, rattling against loose change and forgotten metro tickets. Not that I could play it, really—just one song: Blowin’ in the Wind. The harmonica part, of course.
A few summers ago, in the middle of Bourgogne, in the no man’s land, between shifts and under a sun so hot it seemed like it was burning time itself, I set myself a goal: in two weeks, I had to learn how to play. And I did. It felt like a small, defiant statement, a way to fill time when it stretched out so painfully. Those were my folk music days. Me and my then-girlfriend, spending lockdown singing Donovan and Joan Baez by the river, voices drifting out into the drone of the water like some kind of 60s fever dream. Our version of poetic rebellion. In hindsight, we were  two kids, hopping to understand the weight of history, lost in secondhand vinyl and cheap red wine.
 

A Complete Unknown, the new Dylan biopic, just hit Belgian cinemas a few weeks ago, but I made sure to be there for the premiere before It went out. Paid too much for the ticket at UCG Debrouckere, sat in a dark theater with a few friends, grinning through the whole thing.
What I love most about Bob Dylan is how he makes melancholy feel like an art form. It’s not just sadness—it’s sadness you sink into, wear proudly, hum along to like an old refrain. A kind of bittersweet resignation that somehow feels empowering, like knowing the world is a mess but dancing in the ruins anyway.
But let’s be real: Bob’s a prick, or at least a dirty asshole. A myth, a contradiction, and someone who probably doesn’t deserve half of the reverence he gets. But that’s the thing. The myth is flawed, the man even more so, and yet the music—it still hits like a truth you’ve always known, even when you don’t want to admit it.
 

There’s something off-putting, though, about seeing one of your private obsessions go global. You know that feeling when a song you thought was just yours starts playing in every café? It’s thrilling, sure, but it’s also unsettling. It’s like hearing a friend you once knew intimately suddenly speaking in a language that’s been watered down for the masses.

That’s how I felt watching ACU. Dylan has never really been mine, but for years, he’s been a personal fixation. The harmonica, the scrappy idealism, the silly self tortured artist posture, the mumbling lyrics I’d dissect like secret messages. He was the soundtrack to afternoons by the river, to late-night conversations that felt profound in the moment, to the delusion that I, too, could be a wandering poet if I just tried hard enough. And until now, I hadn’t shared this with anyone. He was my escape—my train ride out of the misery of endless television and Saturday shopping malls. It was the antidote to the social reproduction I was desperately trying to break free from. A personnal cultural shift. He was my secret, a path I carved to distance myself from a culture that felt devoid of poetry and apology.
 

But now, blown up on the big screen, mythologized for the masses. His story, polished and packaged, complete with a movie star’s face, ready for everyone to chew on. Suddenly, everyone’s talking about Dylan, dissecting his genius, claiming their piece of the myth. Not that I can blame them. Not that I’m not guilty of it, too.
 

It’s not that I mind sharing—how could I, with someone as universally beloved as Dylan? But there’s always that fleeting feeling that something’s been taken from you. Like a crack forms between you and the thing you once held close. A reminder that it was never really yours to begin with. It’s like hearing your favorite song in a commercial or seeing your once-obscure band playing at a festival for influencers who wouldn’t know a protest song if it bit them.
 

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe none of the things we love are meant to stay just ours. Maybe the reason we cling to them—music, books, even harmonicas we can barely play—is because deep down, we want to be part of something bigger. Something universal. Even if it means losing a little of the magic along the way.

 

xx louis

 

 

 

 

How I Replaced Existential Dread with Urban Planning

or 

How to Find Clarity In a Bialetti

or 

COFFEE and Whatever

Four days since my last post, and I feel like I'm slipping into the kind of creative void where even the sound of my own thoughts feels muffled. I had way too much natural—or not—red wine this weekend, and since then it's been a blur of half-formed ideas, the kind that float just out of reach. Inspiration? It’s somewhere on the other side of the haze, teasing me.
 

But let’s talk about coffee. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but coffee is my ritual. I drink four cups a day. Sometimes five—six, if the day (or my Friday night service shift) demands it. The first three are always black—no sugar, no milk, no frills, no fuss. Just pure, strong, unapologetic coffee. The kind that makes you feel like you’re still in control, like you’ve got a grip on this world that’s constantly shifting. And that first cup made with a Bialetti Moka pot in the morning? It’s pure magic. It’s the only thing that truly makes sense when the rest of the day feels blurry and unformed.
 

What happens when all those cups stack up, and you’re left with nothing but the caffeine jitters and a blank page?
 

I just lost myself on an article called Pavement Paradise: American Parking Space from The Center for Land Use Interpretation an in-depth study of parking lots, complete with a magnificent gallery of 126 photos.
Seems like a fresh perspective on what’s supposed to be so simple—like a cup of coffee or a moment of quiet. But for now, I’ll take the caffeine, the parkings, the noise. Maybe the words will find me once I’ve had enough of those.

 

How I Learned to Breathe Without the Smoke

Today is Lover’s Day, and I’m here to apologize. See, I have this little problem. A compulsion. A bad habit, the kind that gets me in trouble. Some people smoke. Some people bite their nails. Me? I do both but even more — I collect secrets like a magpie hoarding shiny objects—and sometimes, without thinking, I let them slip. It's like peeling a  clementine with too much eagerness, stripping away all the juiciness until there’s nothing left but a rind. It has just becomes empty and harmful.
 

There’s something intoxicating about knowing everything, like holding a map of the social world in my hands. It makes me feel like I have control, like I can move through life more gracefully, avoid pitfalls, navigate friendships and conversations better. I’ve been like this since high school—seven years of carefully gathered intel, whispered exchanges, and yes, mistakes. And mistakes, I’ve made plenty.
 

I won’t sugarcoat it: I’ve hurt people. I’ve lost the confidence of close friends. I’ve seen the way someone’s expression changes when they realize I know something I shouldn’t. And I get it. The thing about living in bubbles—whether it's a tight-knit friend group, an art scene, or just the microcosm of a city—is that you will hear things. The Morning-After recaps, the gallery-opening whispers, the drunken confessions over free wine at a vernissage. The tea is always brewing. And for the longest time, I just couldn’t help but take a sip.
 

But here’s the thing—gossiping is not —just— bitching. It’s storytelling, it’s connection, it’s the way we process the world and make sense of our relationships. The issue is knowing when to stop. When the curiosity turns into something messier.
 

Last summer, I finally decided to do something about it. I worked on it, really worked on it, because I saw how it could harm people, how it could damage trust and relationships. For months, I kept my mouth shut. I let secrets rest where they belonged. And then… well, you know how it goes.
 

A pressure cooker can only hold so much before it explodes. And after months of self-control, I cracked. A late-night conversation. One too many drinks. One or two slip-ups. A moment of weakness, and then, I was back at square one.
 

So, this is my V Day love letter and my apology— to the ones who trusted me, to the ones who maybe shouldn’t have, to the ones who have had to deal with my loose mind and mouth. I’m trying, I really am.
 

But let’s be honest: quitting gossip is like quitting cigarettes. You can promise yourself this is your last one, that you’re done for good—but then there’s a stressful night, a tempting moment, a friend who nudges the magnificent pack toward you, and suddenly, you’re back at it.
 

Maybe, in the end, that’s the price we pay for loving a good story a little too much.
 

So here’s to breaking bad habits. Or, at the very least, learning to smoke in moderation.

xx


Louis

a filtered cigarette

How to Find Beauty in the Morning After

How to Find Beauty in the Morning After

There are two kinds of morning-after realizations. The first is waking up to a pounding headache, the lingering stench of last night’s cigarettes, and the vague yet persistent fear that you might have revealed a friend’s deep  — more on that in the next article — secret. The second is waking up and realizing you’ve been wrong about something your entire life.
 

For me, it was clementines.
 

As a kid, clementines weren’t a treat; they were a chore. A fruit my parents would hand me at Christmas while launching into the speech—how, back in their day, a single clementine was the ultimate Christmas present — turns out it’s just a bloody lie, a classic French country side myth — Meanwhile, I was sitting there, TV remote control in one hand, forced nostalgia in the other, pretending to care. The clementine became a symbol of you don’t know how good you have it, of forced gratitude, of childhood guilt wrapped in citrusy disappointment. So naturally, I hated them.
 

And then, 22 years later, something shifted.
 

A friend casually offered me a slice of their clementine, and without thinking, I said yes. The second before I bit into it, I braced myself for that awful texture—those little pieces of skin sticking to my tongue, the sensation of eating freshly cut grass. But then—pure, juicy, citrusy perfection.

Suddenly, I wasn’t chewing on childhood resentment; I was tasting something good. Like, really good. It was sweet and bright and somehow exactly what I needed.
Now, I’m officially obsessed. I stock up on clementines like they’re an essential vice, right next to coffee and cigarettes. When the season started this year, it felt like finally reuniting with that long-awaited, never-arrived love.
 

In the end its about seeing the glass half full.
If there’s a glass half full moment, there’s also a glass half empty lurking nearby. The realization that maybe I’ve missed out on 22 years of perfectly good clementines. That maybe—just maybe—there are other things I’ve written off too soon, other flavors of life I’ve refused to taste out of sheer stubbornness. What else have I been wrong about? What other joys have I denied myself for no reason at all? Maybe I’d actually prefer a proper milk tea over my usual pitch-black coffee?
 

Once you open that door, you start questioning everything. The foods you hate, the people you avoid. What if the thing you’re so sure about is just waiting for the right moment to prove you wrong?
 

As I stand here, peeling another clementine, I realize how easy it is to reject things you don’t fully understand. Turns out, rediscovering something is sometimes better than discovering it in the first place.
 

The real question is—what else have I been missing?

 

xx
 

Louis 

the one that I just ate