yinjispace

SUPPORT
Glenn Sestig Architects
Axel Vervoordt
Ileana Moro
Marius Ritiu
Studio Cédric Etienne
PHOTOGRAPHY
BIJISPACE边界人
WORDS
Chao Zhang
EDITOR
Bingyi
Collection

In this ever-accelerating world, we have grown accustomed to measuring value with numbers and defining space by function, gradually neglecting the intangible yet deeply rooted elements: atmosphere, rhythm, and the emotional relationship between people and space. What I’ve been seeking is a design language that speaks to the soul—not the loud novelty of the “new,” but the quiet, enduring strength of the “eternal.”Then one day, I casually opened my design archive and was struck by a realization: nearly all the works that moved me came from the same place—Belgium. From Axel Vervoordt’s Wabi-Sabi philosophy to Vincent Van Duysen’s poetic spatial order, these works are quiet yet resolute, restrained yet powerful. They do not need to be explained or emphasized—their mere existence is already the most touching form of expression.

And so, I decided to embark on a journey—to personally experience how this land fuses history, nature, and the contemporary, and how seemingly effortless expression can return space to its human essence. Though I had visited Europe many times and studied design there, this was my first time setting foot in Belgium. With clear purpose and immense curiosity, we embarked on a 7-day intensive study tour. Though brief, the journey was densely structured, covering a full spectrum from cultural roots to contemporary expression.

Our first stop was the material research space of Cédric Etienne. As a representative of the new generation of Belgian design spirit, he redefines the relationship between materials, people, and space through natural energy. Here, materials do not exist for display but return to their essence—they have their own scent, temperature, and breath. You see no deliberate staging, no familiar industrial odors. Instead, a highly restrained expression lets texture, light, and materiality take center stage.

Here, design does not wrap materials—it lets them speak for themselves. And when they are genuine and natural enough, they possess a spiritual texture that commands admiration. This is not just a difference in design methodology—it is a difference in life philosophy. They believe materials have souls, spaces have emotion, and design is merely a way to awaken them.

This kind of organic growth from the inside out was amplified at our next stop—Kanaal. Kanaal is the base of Axel Vervoordt and can be considered one of the sources of Belgian aesthetic philosophy.

This former industrial area, once slated for demolition, was revived under his guidance into an ideal settlement combining living, art, and work. No single building here stands out dramatically, nor does any space seek to “go viral,” yet through an almost invisible approach, aesthetics are embedded into the land, the light, and the air.

As you walk through the community—through galleries, apartments, studios, and gardens—you realize that every detail is “speaking quietly.” There is no flamboyance, no ornamental excess. The concrete paths, naturally cast, were not designed to be “landscapes,” but rather shaped by time, climate, and plant life. This attitude of “design retreating, life advancing” echoes Vervoordt’s philosophy: “A space is alive; its completion is just the beginning, not the end.”

Kanaal reaffirmed for me the central theme of the “spirituality of space.” And the ability to “let a space live” reached its peak in the work of another designer—Glenn Sestig. He is one of my favorite living designers, and visiting his personally transformed home/studio became the most unique experience of this journey. Originally designed by Ivan Van Mossevelde for an art collector, Glenn waited twenty years to finally earn it—this time, as its designer.

I had expected to encounter detailed discussions about construction, technique, or proportion, but once inside, I was met with an exceptionally relaxed order. There was no forced sense of ritual—everything seemed to “arrive naturally.” His living and working spaces are interwoven without any tension of boundaries. The flow of movement, material, and color all glide with calm restraint. I saw a Carlo Scarpa architecture book placed prominently in the center of the living room. I asked, “Is he your idol?” Glenn smiled and said, “Yes, but I’m better.”

In that moment, I didn’t sense boastfulness—only a quiet confidence and balance of our era. Scarpa pursued poetic craftsmanship, while Glenn responds to the present with his own rhythm. Both seek a sense of “eternity”—they simply speak in different languages.

This “eternity” found deeper resonance in the work of Vincent Van Duysen. Though I was already intimately familiar with most of his projects, the experience of stepping into Winery VV far exceeded expectations.

Standing in the center of the structure, it feels as though you're no longer on Earth but on a silent planet—no time, no sound, only space and the rhythm of breath. This kind of design transcends superficial stimulation; it isn’t “visual design” as much as it is a sculpture of existence.

Vincent’s minimalism never equates to emptiness. He excels at using texture, scale, and light to evoke a state where people can “settle.” His stone and wood never feel cold—instead, they gradually take on the warmth of familiarity. His spaces don’t approach you, but they’re always there, waiting for you to approach. This wisdom of “leaving space” reflects a deeply human sensibility and restraint. His architecture never chases time, yet it always stands at the center of it.

The thread running from Axel Vervoordt to Glenn Sestig and Vincent Van Duysen weaves together the core spirit of Belgian design: not to create noise, but to create connection.At the end of our journey, we visited the private estate of wooden furniture artist Daniel De Belder. His wife, an art director, once held a key position in Vervoordt’s team. When we arrived, Daniel came to greet us on a bicycle. I thought it would be a casual visit—but it turned out to be a profound revelation about the union of humans and nature.

Their home was almost devoid of what we’d call “decoration,” yet it was full of strength. The floor was patchworked with old wood—unpolished, unoiled—sourced from trees that had fallen naturally in war or disaster. They chose to preserve the wood in its original state, allowing it to continue living within their daily lives. Daniel said, “They are not perfect, nor sellable, but here, they’ve regained their meaning.”

This is true “old-money” philosophy—subtle yet refined, romantic yet sober. They generate almost no waste; everything continues to grow in a cycle. Rather than calling it design, it is more accurate to say it is the continuation of a set of values. Design is not about creating something new—it’s about extending the life of what already exists, allowing it to engage in new conversations.

As I reflect on this journey, three words continue to echo in my mind: ease, eternity, and empathy. These are not styles—they are attitudes.I hope every design lover has the chance to make such a journey—because only then will you truly understand what it means for a space to have a soul.

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