I thought I understood Magritte before meeting him. I was wrong. The room itself felt like a carefully prepared trap for perception. In the framed portrait, the green apple concealed the face exactly as I expected, yet beside it floated a red apple — almost like a deliberate contradiction meant for me alone. From behind the curtain, Magritte observed silently, half-hidden like a conspirator inside his own illusion. I raised my camera but suddenly became uncertain what I was actually photographing: a painting, a joke, or a philosophical ambush. Magritte seemed less interested in hiding reality than in exposing how fragile our certainty about reality truly is.
