Compelled

“One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.”

Vincent van Gogh

Imagine having a passion for color so great that your vision could affect people 100 years after your death.

Imagine that you are so driven to express the intensity of your vision that nothing is more important to you. Everything else is cast aside but the pencil, the paint brush, the color medium, the canvas.

Few in your lifetime recognize your work as having value. You are not the sort of person who possesses the patience or cunning to charm or enchant a patron. You abhor false action.

Did you ever imagine that a century after your death people would pay obscene sums to possess the proof of your passion, that millions would travel to museums where your priceless work is housed to stand next to your fire?

“Art is either plagiarism or revolution.”

Paul Gauguin

What if you needed to find a place where the financial and familial expectations of your time were far less demanding? And in that place there were luscious, vibrant colors, light, warmth? Would you give up everything familiar for its intoxicating strangeness?

It would be like finding a magical storehouse of all the elements you’d ever need to feed your work, the thing you lived to create.

How can this level of commitment fail to excite the minds of everyone who comes into contact with the physical remains of passion beyond the pale.

Your intent still rivets the viewer. Time is annihilated.

How can I not do everything in my power to get myself to the de Young museum to cop some of this crazy good juju?

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