Skeletons in fancy dress fight over a corpse with brushes and mops. Women wearing nothing but pink bows and dreamy smiles trail through classic courtyards, while mountains crumble at their feet. "From Ensor to Delvaux," is a glimpse into the weird and wonderful world of 20th century Belgian art. The paintings by Ensor, Spilliaert, Permeke, Magritte and Delvaux span a remarkable century, dating from 1880, when modern art was born. All but one abandoned reality to explore emotions, dreams and the dark corners of the mind. And while there are crossovers, five distinct personalities emerge.

"Death and the Masks" by James Ensor (1897)

James Ensor (1860-1949), was perhaps the strangest of all. He was born in the seaside resort of Ostend, where his parents had a souvenir shop, selling oriental novelties and masks. Abandoning his early seascapes and interiors, which were rejected by the Brussels Academy, he developed a unique, defiant style: a kind of comic grotesquerie, with masked figures, that was partly influenced by the caricatures of Honore Daumier. Often, as in "Death and the Masks" of 1897, he sets his figures in a row, which increases their Punch and Judy, puppet-like vitality.

His bitter sallies at hypocrisy are horridly amusing, as in "At the Conservatory." In this piece ugly singers screech songs from Wagner's "Valkyries," while bouquets, carrots, fish and a skinny cat rain down on their heads.

There is a hint of Hieronymous Bosch in his work, and one wonders, as viewers did a century ago: At what point does caricature become art? Ensor leaps from one to the other with the agility of a madman juggling on a precipice. After scandalizing the establishment for many years he was eventually recognized as a searing talent, and hailed for his influential Expressionist work.

Leon Spilliaert (1881-1946) was the son of an Ostend perfumer. Largely a self-taught painter, he was heavily influenced by the Symbolist work of Odilon Redon. Although several supporters admired the inner landscapes of his trance-like watercolors, the shy Spilliaert remained virtually unknown until the 1920s.

Instead of oils, he preferred the more spontaneous medium of watercolor, which he mixed with ink and chalk to achieve intense effects. For example, in "Sea Wall" (1909), he infuses the sea and night sky with an extraordinary poetry.

The lights glimmering on the horizon seem to speak of longing, hope and fear. With marriage his life grew happier, and Spilliaert spent his final years exclusively painting trees. Unfortunately none are here, but his early paintings of fishermen's wives reveal a link with yet another Ostend artist, Constant Permeke (1886-1952).

Around 1910, the two shared a studio above a chip shop near the harbor. Permeke was not a Symbolist, but in the great Flemish tradition found inspiration in nature and peasant life.

His monumental figures are powerful and impressive, informed by Cubism and executed in native, earthy tones. During the Nazi occupation, Permeke was forbidden to paint, but he became a sculptor and continued his primitive, instinctive expressions of life.

Rene Magritte (1898-1967), sometime wallpaper designer and leading Surrealist, is almost a victim of his own success. He was an enormously hardworking, prolific artist, and if there is a kind of maddening precision to his work, there is also an intellectual playfulness. Among this small selection is an Edwardian lady in white, her face smothered with a bunch of violets.

It was painted in 1964, 50 years after the start of the apocalyptic World War I. I found it evocative of time, loss, and memory. You may find something else, and that explains much of Magritte's lasting appeal.

"The Pink Bows" by Paul Delvaux (1937)

Like Magritte, Paul Delvaux (1897-1994) was originally inspired by the metaphysical paintings of Giorgio de Chirico, but whereas Magritte showed gaps between perception and reality, Delvaux offered dreams. His subjects are mostly beautiful, seminaked women in classical settings, often variants of old masters. His perfect perspectives reflect his early training as an architect, and the carefully placed figures look like settings on a stage.

But all is silent and still. The doe-eyed nudes, even when juxtaposed with railway stations, seem to be stumped for words. A painting of skeletons tenderly shrouding a deceased brother is a weird, and rather wonderful portrayal of the burial of Christ. It is also an elegant reminder of death, set on a modern roof, in a tradition stretching back centuries.