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ARCHITECTURE
Juliaan Lampens
CURATOR
Angelique Campens
PHOTOGRAPHY
Wen Studio
EDITOR
Peng Gui
Collection

On this trip to Belgium, we ventured into East Flanders, heading toward an ancient pilgrimage site—the Chapel Kerselare. Belgium's weather has entered winter,we shivered as we reached the slopes of Mount Edegem .Walked through the woods. As the view gradually opened up, vast meadows spread out before us, and lying quietly upon them was this work redesigned by Juliaan Lampens. The church is low, slanted, and sharply edged—not at all a soaring gesture "pointing to the sky." Standing before the immense glass wall and peering inside, past rows of pews, we could see the altar standing silently at the very center.

The church's history dates back to the 15th century. Angelique Campens, a curator and art historian, told us the twists and turns behind it. The story begins with a crocodile. Legend has it that a nobleman, attacked by a crocodile in Egypt, made a vow to the Virgin Mary in his life-and-death moment: if he survived, he would build a church in his homeland. He returned safely, and the vow was fulfilled. A stuffed crocodile was thereafter suspended in this land far from rivers and deserts. Over time, the real crocodile was replaced by a wooden carving, yet it still records that miracle.

A devastating fire in 1961 brought designer Juliaan Lampens into contact with this church. He secured the design qualification in the open reconstruction competition, with the tacit approval of the church's pastor, the church became what it is today: cast in reinforced concrete. The massive sloping roof extends outward, forming a deep canopy. Unlike a traditional eaves, light and delicate, this is an entire tilted concrete slab, heavy and hanging overhead, sheltering pilgrims from wind and rain. Rainwater slides down the roof surface, and between the worship space and the offering area, a rectangular collection basin waits quietly—where the water lingers briefly, gathers, and then slowly drains away.

We arrived at the entrance, where there is a heavy door. Because it was difficult to open, it became decorative six months ago. Stepping further inside, we reached the central altar, around which all the space unfolds. Above, a square skylight is embedded silently; light falls vertically from it, unadorned, illuminating just this small area purely.

Pews are arranged around the altar. Originally cast in concrete, they had gaps specifically left for placing Bibles—the style fused with the structure. Later, wooden chairs gradually filled the spaces. The interior of the church accommodates only a limited number. To allow more pilgrims to join in prayer, a giant loudspeaker hangs outside the church. Believers standing beneath it, between the eaves and the sky, can hear the readings and prayers clearly. The sound travels beyond the walls, so the "interior" is no longer the only place of worship.

After a brief prayer, we passed by a black door—the place where the pastor prepares. Walking to the exit, putting some distance between ourselves and the church, we looked down at it—like a small hill. And from behind the hill, looking from afar, it resembled an open-mouthed crocodile half-lying on the ground strewn with golden leaves, stretching out its life across the open field.

Here, architecture feels more like a sculpture. If you removed all the fixtures and furnishings, what remains is still a complete living body—walls, floor, roof, and structure interlocking. Imprinted with the marks of poured concrete, it carries the weight of centuries and the distant echoes of faith.

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