Imagine Vincent van Gogh in the last year of his life. See him buying his art supplies, mixing his colors, preening his brushes, stretching and preparing his canvases. Imagine his sketches, like recipes, lying faceup on the table next to the easel. Imagine the eternal bits of color under his fingernails, on his beard, and deep in the seams of his clothes, his person an accidental painting in the same spectrum as the canvas of the day. The pace and nature of his craft immerse him in a sensual world of color, shape, texture, scent, and composition. It is hard to tell where the man stops and his
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