
Sunflowers
Some blooms burst with petals and others have gone to seed, all yellow on yellow, painted to decorate the house where Gauguin was to come.

Some blooms burst with petals and others have gone to seed, all yellow on yellow, painted to decorate the house where Gauguin was to come.

One white iris stands alone among a whole bed of blue-violet ones, the blades twisting and crowding right up to the edge of the canvas.

He painted it for his brother's newborn son, named Vincent after him, and cropped the boughs against the sky like a Japanese print.

One plump bullfinch on a cherry sprig, a poem written beside it. The other Hokusai, quiet and exact, nothing like the wave.

Four flat hibiscus blossoms on green, silkscreened from an ordinary photograph and reproduced in any color, over and over, on demand.

None of these flowers bloom in the same season. Bruegel assembled the bouquet from studies made across the whole year, and let petals droop.

Red New Mexico hills roll across the canvas with a few flowers brought right up close, the vast and the fragile in one frame.