How did he see all those colours, how did his vision probe so far beyond the obvious, the layers, the shock of a sudden violet light ? How his brother must have loved him. I imagine him reading his letters in that famous painted room, his only real friend on whom he could always count.Perhaps he could buy the blue cobalt he needed with the few franc notes he had slipped inside the letter?
How strange I am to feel such tender compassion for this tortured old man. His loneliness touches me and yet I rejoice in the endless discovery in each painting. Renoir was a genius of his art, many, endless past and present stun with flawless and astounding skill of execution but my dear Vincent, I just want to thank you for being.