The chair is a chair, not a throne.
The boots have been worn by walking.
The sunflowers are plants, not constellations.
The postman delivers letters. The irises will die.
And from this nakedness of his,
which his contemporaries saw as naivety or
madness, came his capacity to love, suddenly at
any moment, what he saw in front of him.
Picking up pen or brush, he then strove to
achieve that love. Lover-painter affirming the
toughness of an everyday tenderness we all
dream of in our better moments and instantly
recognize when it is framed.