Vincent is my favorite painter. His self portrait that hangs in the Musée D’Orsay moves me to tears. The expressionistic eyes make me cry. It’s the first time a painting ever instilled that powerful an emotion in me.
Now his sharp creative brilliance is overlooked by the price tag that hangs over his head. Mind you, that is a flawed head missing one ear. His work is no longer regarded as art but as a commodity. Monetary value has dulled the work of a man who used to have to trade in his finished paintings for more paint because no one wanted to buy them. That is fucked up.
Vincent shot himself in a cemetery not far from the place he used to live and paint. His body rests in that small village in the south of France. That is sad and fucked up.
Now his sharp creative brilliance is overlooked by the price tag that hangs over his head. Mind you, that is a flawed head missing one ear. His work is no longer regarded as art but as a commodity. Monetary value has dulled the work of a man who used to have to trade in his finished paintings for more paint because no one wanted to buy them. That is fucked up.
Vincent shot himself in a cemetery not far from the place he used to live and paint. His body rests in that small village in the south of France. That is sad and fucked up.
