Visiting Van Gogh. It’s quick impasto: this is the shape loneliness takes in the morning. It’s creases of white re-lined: this is the dread of time hurting, laughing, walking away, ending. It’s industrial strength colours wriggling from tubes: this is the proof no-one’s paying for a face like that. It’s the fleck and turn: his eyes checking every inch of light and darkness, those are brushstrokes that were his eyes, outstaring us all. It’s stroke stroke: the torrent of effect a garden hedge in May. It’s everything a photograph cannot do: this is a face free of every cameraman alive.