in this book, you’ll see vincent appearing in glimpses: in his letters, in the cracks of his brushwork, in the way he names colors like they’re emotions.
this book reads like walking through a gallery alone. you stop. you look. you think you understand something. then you turn the page, and it shifts. it’s not linear. it’s not loud. it’s not trying to explain van gogh (it’s trying to feel, and understand him).
his words appear like constellations, scattered in the prettiest way. the quotes, paired with his paintings, remind you that art was never separate from who he was. and that beauty (real beauty) is often tangled up in ache.
this book is vincent’s love letter to seeing the world differently.