Imagine Vincent in those last months of his life. See him mixing his colors, stretching his canvases, and preening his brushes. See the eternal bits of color under his fingernails, on his beard, and in his clothes in the same spectrum as the fury of those three months, during which he completed an average of one canvas every single day. Now add in the 2,140 other watercolors, sketches, prints, and letters he composed during those nine years, and we’re left with a heartbreaking picture: Somewhere in that flurry of motion between painter and canvas was a man held captive by an insatiable
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