I had a dream.
I was in front of ‘the starry night’.
I was standing there trying to capture the moment I was passing…
And suddenly someone started burning the painting with fire,
it was Vincent himself.
He was smiling through the whole act with his yellow stained teeth.
Then he started to paint something else…the strokes were different, the colours were flying like lost seagulls,
he was making a woman.
After finishing he hanged the painting at the same spot.
‘ who is she?’
‘ No one, just a whore I fucked during my bad days…she had those tits like balloons. But I could never attached my strings to it…so I saw them sailing over the frail horizon…I could never attached my strings with anyone.’
‘ why did you do it? I mean why did you burn your the most recognized work?’
‘ It’s my painting…I can do whatever fuck I want with this thing. The last thing an artist want is to make a gimmick out of his work, getting memorable for a stagnant marvel. Remembering has given nothing except farce and fantasy. I want them to experience me through the oblivion.’
The vibrato ended and I thought narcissism but again I corrected myself…no… gratification.
After that the same dream started poking once a week…and in every dream the mad deer was making something else… Vincent Van Gogh’s live exhibition.
The experience never ended.
But this time Vincent was choosing his own crowd out of this world full of carcasses.

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Photograph: Sabrina Garrasi.