Vincent loved the Japanese and the way they painted with living lines of ink on silk or rice paper. Living strokes of paint, texture, color pathos. Moments when the light of Province allowed the artist to stand between two worlds. In the quiet orchard outside of Arsles, free at times from the cadmium madness to paint and paint and paint.
On a starry night, his heart in Japan, the rain falls on a red bridge as a lover adjusts her kimono.
He gave us the color of Paris at night. He gave us Irises, incandescent blue. Vincent gathered sunflowers to his room and taught himself to paint and paint and paint.
He gave all he had to give: light of a time long gone, light of his life and soul. Vincent gave freely, all he had to give: light of living lines on a starry night.