But there are also those wall paintings more appropriately glanced than seen, the ones that seem to lurk in dark corners at the edges of one's peripheral vision. I strolled down rue des Chartreux half a dozen times before I caught sight of Yslaire's L'Archange. Looking up to check the sky for rain, I spotted the long-winged angel crouching under the eaves where the roofs of two buildings meet. It seemed an apt roost for the graphic first cousin of a gargoyle.
I was beginning to grasp that the Belgians take their comics seriously. In Flemish "stripverhaal" or "story strip," or French "bande dessinee" or "drawn strip," the local term carries none of the juvenile association of the American "comic strip." As far as the Belgians are concerned, graphic storytelling is more art than amusement. They often call comics the "ninth art" (after architecture, music, painting, sculpture, poetry, dance, cinema, and television).
From Tintin's debut in 1929, the art form blossomed after World War II with two weekly magazines of strips introducing dozens of characters and sagas. Now nearly a dozen publishers issue hard-cover graphic stories every month.
While Brussels remains the city of European Union ministers in standard-issue suits and tourists gorging themselves on massive cones of fried potatoes doused with mayonnaise, it's also a city of considerable visual sophistication. Shortly after the Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinee (Belgian Comic Strip Center) opened in 1989, the museum and the city began collaborating on a project to paint famous comic heroes on the city walls. The first mural went up in 1991; now 30 of them are scattered around the city, and looking doesn't cost a dime.
But it's worth paying to see the museum first. Located in an Art Nouveau masterpiece building by Victor Horta, the museum often has long queues. Inside, the place is so spacious that you can spend as much time as you want with each exhibit. Most of the permanent exhibits have English signage in addition to French and Flemish.
