Seeing is not believing

So legend would have it. The neatly coiffured Rene Magritte would prepare for his working day with meticulous attention to detail. After the starched collar, tight tie knot and immaculate white shirt would come the neatly pressed three-piece suit, the mirror polished shoes and, if it were raining, an umbrella. Perhaps a bowler hat. Kissing his wife goodbye, Magritte would leave the ground floor apartment of his terrace house in the drab streets of the Brussels district of Jette, stroll around the block and return home. Popping his umbrella in its stand, his jacket over a chair he would start work ­– painting women that were half human, half fish; giant birds made from chunks of sky and summoning trains from the fireplace or alternative brightly-lit worlds from holes in the wall. To read the full story by Andy double click the images above