'Window in the Bataille Restaurant', 1887
Visiting Van Gogh, of no fixed address. We know which side of the glass he’s on. Not our side. The cream have invitations to the gallery opening. He’s outside in the cold. He will know not the right thing to say, or when to stop. Windows reflect a hunger, then he’s gone. He’s on the other side of the dealer’s spectacles. Something of his will be always beyond auction rooms and platitudes. May is not a lie. Big sponsors don’t want God, the language they speak is crowd numbers. Springtime is sunshine slight relief that draws him from his bolthole.