
Starry Night
Van Gogh painted the churning sky and its eleven stars from a window of the asylum at Saint-Rémy, partly from memory.

Van Gogh painted the churning sky and its eleven stars from a window of the asylum at Saint-Rémy, partly from memory.

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.

The background ripples around his head like a current in the same blue-green as his suit, and his beard burns red against it.

Three paths run into the wheat and none of them go anywhere. Painted at Auvers in his last weeks, and read too neatly ever since.

Van Gogh set up outside and painted the terrace on the spot after dark, pleased that he had used no black at all.

Van Gogh wanted a room where a man could ruin himself or go mad, and got it with red walls and a green ceiling.

Van Gogh loved the cypress and compared it to an Egyptian obelisk, then set one flaming up the right side of a Provençal field.

The doctor who was caring for him leans his head on one hand, a sprig of foxglove on the table, the background rippling blue.

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.

Gaslights along the Arles quay drop long quivering reflections into the water, the Great Bear overhead, a couple walking arm in arm below.

Van Gogh made the faces deliberately coarse and the browns deliberately muddy, wanting it clear that these people had dug the meal themselves.

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

The hills buckle and heave in the same thick strokes he gave his skies, so that the rock ends up moving too.