Alongside De Ridder's photographs, a second body of work: a Flemish family album from the TinyGallery collection, spanning nearly a century of ordinary life — from the 1910s to the 1960s. Glass plates and paper prints, scalloped edges and foxed corners. Nobody signed them. Nobody titled them. A family gathers at a photographer's studio in 1914, a soldier already among them in uniform, the word Mobilisatie chalked above their heads. Men wade into a river, shoulder to shoulder, grinning. A woman crosses a cobbled square on a bicycle, the shutter too slow, dissolving her into her own passage. A toddler stands in a doorway, looking out at whoever is holding the camera — at the threshold, always just arrived. These images were never meant to be art. That is precisely what makes them so compelling. Placed alongside De Ridder's contemporary work, they create an unexpected conversation across time. Two ways of seeing the same country. The objects change. The light changes. But something persists — a certain way of inhabiting the world, modest and particular, that is difficult to define and impossible to mistake. That persistence, perhaps, is Belgitude. The photographs presented here come from family albums acquired at flea markets and second-hand sales. Their original owners are unknown to us. The people they portray never consented to being shown in a public space. We show them with care, and with the awareness that every image here was once private — held between people who knew each other, looked at in a circle of family or friends. That intimacy has not been forgotten. If you recognise anyone in these photographs, we invite you to tell us. These images belong, in some sense, to those who remember.