"Artists...artists are like butterflies... They have delicate hearts But this society can't handle them..." My mother answered as I told her about Vincent van Gogh... The Starry Night painter was once said to be happy in London ... With a rainbow heart and sky mind He drenched the canvas with his emotions People unaware of this legend put him in an asylum... 'cause the decieved Vincent cut his ear lobe! But he painted...as paints and brushes were still there...just like his brother. He was 37... when voices were all over his mind It was not easy to stop them... So he picked up the gun... And the bullet went straight to that golden heart I wonder how many colors died that day....?
But I could have told you, Vincent This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..." - Don Mclean (Vincent)
Sun flower Oh fun flower, My compass to a life much brighter, And the fighter of my darker days! The strokes of each petal Blows all my worries away, Van Gogh loved these creations And I his today, His yellow has seeped into my world and saves me without any delay, Slowly, my paintbrush now wears After all these growing years, A mild layer of yellow Like my soul calmed to a mellow, And faintly a glow spreads Among my own sunflowers To a much brighter sun shiny day.
Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees Labyrinth of oiled imagination Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees in unbalanced joy and veneration of ourselves. For there is nobody else but us; there is no other time but now, Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels a still landscape into being somehow fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild emancipation—to forget the din of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled: Dive too deep and you shall go insane, The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting of the same name.
A starry night he did proclaim with hues and stokes so untamed, he layed on with palette knife.
The twirls and swirls of gold above the dormant village old, despite his own inner strife.
Stars played cheerfully around, restful hues on slumbering town as though, sleeping with his wife.
While the sun awaited to arise shadows of wheat black to his eyes, he turned the heavens into wildlife.
Locked in his cold dismal room, he painted not of his true gloom, but of a dreamy, wonderous life.
To favourite my painting and artist, The Starry Night by painter Vincent van Gogh. Painted in June 1889, from the east-facing window of his asylum room at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, he awaited the sunrise.
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow on a yellow wooden floor. The game still unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes. Red walls distended by burning lamps and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums: Reverie to the night god / Dreaming tramps drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe color of the ceiling better than being awake but indefinitely absent. The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing: Vincent, let us meet before you entreat the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting The Night Café.
the solemn sighs in empty halls these vacant thoughts that line the walls a chilly breeze through a midnight flare waiting for the heavens to bear to bear a heart that's ice cold and blue thawing in the light of the moon and with each beat that pains, that hurts that explodes into starbursts of woad and gold in the vastness of the sky on this lonely this lovely starry, starry night.
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if framed paused Frozen We, the Impressionists!