Now What?

    It's been over five years since I wrote my last blog. A lot has happened since then. Rick retired. I retired. We spent our Covid days in the woods that surrounds our forty acres. And in those five years we tried to enjoy retirement with each other. After Covid, life returned. Then with no warnings and no symptoms to make us suspicious that something terrible was about to change our lives, Rick was diagnosed with cancer. After finding a lump on his back and a trip to his doctor, we got the diagnosis that everyone dreads. The big C. It was clear cell carcinoma. While I prefer not to relive those horrible four months, let me just say my precious man passed away at home on December 10th at 11:19pm. It took the coroner and the funeral home several hours before they could collect his body. It was about 2am before I left for the home we were living in at that time. We had moved into Jenny Reynolds house on Berry Drive in Minden. We had to live near emergency services during those four months of his life. After I retreated to our temporary home in Minden, I woke up to a phone call from our son, Ben. We were expected to meet up at the funeral home that morning to make arrangements for his cremation. Ben asked if I knew what spirit animal Rick said he would come back as. With out hesitation, I said "a moth." "Why do you ask?" . "Nathalie remembers that too, " he said. Nathalie, 

    Ben's girlfriend of five years had traveled with us to our cabin in the Ozarks. On many of our trips to the cabin, I would usually come up with some kind of 'what if' question. Rick found it annoying and I did it anyway.... mostly because he was funny when he we annoyed by me. I obviously asked what his spirit animal was. He quickly responded, "Oh hell, I don't know...a moth!" I asked Ben why he asked me that question at this time. "Mom, there was a moth hoovering over Dad's head last night and it's still there. "I took at photo of it and I am going to send it to you. You are not going to believe. I did not alter the photo. This is exactly what it looked like."

     He sent me the photo and I cried. It was a moth, but it had two heart eyes and a hug smile. Exactly how Rick would have wanted us to remember him. 
    That moth brought so much comfort. I have shared that story with close friends. I have come to look for more signs from the Universe. And I found more. But that's for another story. 

BTW~ I did not use AI for this story and it probably shows. But I don't care. While I could have sounded more intelligent, I chose to be me. 

Sharing Culture

 Sharing and celebrating one's culture is a beautiful thing. But what if the offer to share or celebrate are rejected? 

 I had to ask myself that question lately. After more than a quarter of a century of volunteerism and a passion for the arts, I reflected on my time and had to ask myself...did I waste my time? Did anyone really care?  Why didn't it catch on? 

Back in the late 80's I became friends with another woman who would end up changing my life and the direction of my life. Her name was Zenobia West. She was about 25 years my senior. We hit of off immediately. I discovered later that she was an accomplished musician. She could play every instrument, but the Cello was her favorite.  

 

Together, she and I and a few other folks in town founded an organization in an effort to share and celebrate our local culture. We named it Cultural Crossroads of Minden. Zenobia and I would eventually become the driving force for the organization. Most folks spent some time with the organization, but most would move on to something else. We hung in there. Little did I know that Zenobia had plans for the organization that would include eventually donating her family property for the purpose of building a cultural center for the city.  

In 1999, after we had received our federal status as a 501c3 nonprofit, she donated her old family home and four acres located in an historic district of Minden to Cultural Crossroads of Minden, Inc. The lot on the corner of East Union and Highway 80 had been vacant and for the most part abandoned for more than 25 years. The house had been empty since 1971 following the death of Zenobia's Aunt Treebie. We accepted the property almost sight unseen. As the President of the organization at that time, I had already bought into her dream, and it was easy sell to the board. 

In 2000, after receiving a grant from the United States Army (that's another story that I have already shared), we began chipping away at what would eventually be known as the Moess (Mace) Center for the Arts and City Farm AKA The Farm. 

Fast forward to 2018 and nearly 20 years on the property, we made some progress thanks to a variety of grants and corporate partners willing to invest in the promotion of the arts. Our focus on the children of the community would be our calling card and it would be the driving force behind our community led board of directors. 

As the oldest and longest serving member of that board, I can look back with some pride, some sadness and some regret. I guess anyone would say that. But I do think that it is my perspective after serving all those years that may offer the best insight as to what happened to the dream. 

After 25 years of struggling with securing funding, finding resources and finding volunteers, I have to say that I wonder if this is really what Minden wanted?  I knew it is what we needed?  But now that I can look back, did the citizenry or the leadership of Minden really want it?  I can remember a meeting I had with the mayor who boldly told me that 'he didn't like my farm and he didn't like where it was.' The four-acre estate that Zenobia so proudly donated was located in a black neighborhood of Minden. While it sat on a prime piece of property, it was still considered 'over there.'  We would hear folks tell us from time to time that they didn't feel comfortable traveling to 'that side of town.' 

Minden's population is almost half and half. Half African American. Half Caucasian. Many of us who served on the board knew that we were fighting a long history of prejudices.  We had established an arts festival known as the Spring Arts Festival that included a healthy relationship with our area schools and school board.
Children would be bussed in for the two-day festival that prided itself in exposing children to the arts and offering many hands-on art activities not included in the school's curriculum.  

After securing the property, we moved the four-year-old festival to The Farm. I can remember clearly, many of the mothers telling me that they would not be participating if the event was moved. It broke my heart to hear that.  But I knew that this is where it needed to be.

The festival would go through some changes including a name change. We dropped the Spring Arts Festival and adopted ChickenStock as our new name with a new mascot, the Funky Chickens.  Over the years, we saw the attendance fluctuate. But for the most part, it stayed pretty steady. Those who came once, would return with a renewed appreciation for the little four acres in a black neighborhood. 

We went through some growing pains as an organization as most do. But what we didn't see was a growing appreciation from the leadership of the city. It remained a constant battle to be included as a prominent and important feature of Minden. During a brainstorming session conducted by the city to create a vision for Minden's future, many civic leaders, council members, community leaders and elected officials were invited to participate by invitation. Cultural Crossroads was not included. I wiggled my way in and took a seat at the table as if we had been invited. I guess I should have figured it out then, but I wouldn't let myself see that after some 25 years, we were still not accepted as a valid and viable part of the City of Minden.  I refused to entertain the idea that maybe it was me.  (And that is still a question I ask myself.)

In 2018, I retired as an art teacher and as the volunteer administrator for Cultural Crossroads. For more than 25 years, I wrote the grants. I secured most of the funding from foundations, corporate partners, arts councils. Upon retiring, I left the organization with a healthy bank account and a board of directors that I felt could continue the work and carry out Zenobia's Dream.  Finding funding wasn't always easy. And I did have some willing volunteers but after they saw what was involved, most left me with the thankless job. And I can't blame them. Grant writing sucks. 

So, it's 2021. We have just experienced a pandemic. The festival we celebrated for 24 years, died on the 25th year. With no one willing to take the reins or serve on the committee to organize the 25th year, it died. A new board of directors and new officers took on the task of trying to reorganize and reignite a passion to continue the work to 'unite all people through the arts.'  

The Black Lives Matter movement nationally has magnified the divide that already existed here and in other areas of the nation. 

So, the struggle for that beautiful little Farm is real. The revenue streams have dried up. The volunteers are few and far between. 

Looking back, I did see a moment in our city's history that I now believe played a bigger role is our inability to see a future in Minden. During a reelection campaign for the mayor who 'didn't like my farm or where it was,' an invitation was made to help him with his reelection campaign, and it could possibly include some much-needed support from the city. I accepted the challenge. I was tasked with writing a project that would including bringing the arts to downtown Minden.  I wrote the program for City Artworks. I included a five-year plan that not only included an operational budget for City Artworks but some paid administrative assistance from Cultural Crossroads.

While the plan was accepted by the city council, Cultural Crossroads, again, was not included. That decision would eventually further divide the city....divide the arts....and divide community involvement.  The council awarded City Artworks through Minden Main Street with an annual boost of $80,000. No funds were reserved nor awarded to Cultural Crossroads. My intellectual property was stolen. I could have screamed foul, but I didn't.  I moved on but not before trying to explain to some council members whom I thought would listen, but the deed was done. And no one made any attempt to right the wrong. 

So, here we are the spring of 2021, and we would normally be in the middle of our festival season and getting ready to share the arts with hundreds of children. The Farm sits practically empty now. The new part time executive director works for less than what she's worth to try to hold it together and maintain the four- acre estate. The property which now includes a pavilion, a barn, a modest farmhouse and sheds, multiple gardens a recently constructed studio space are seeing some neglect. The grounds are a chore by themselves. 

I visited the Farm this week for the first time in a couple of years. The grounds were beautiful. Clover had taken over and all the white blossoms managed to hide some of the neglected areas. I had gotten permission to dig up some of the Parrot Lillies that I figured needed thinning.  In defense of the fairly new executive director, I knew what it looked like before. I knew every nook and cranny of that place. I remembered planting many of the various garden beds with plants that I knew would multiply and come back each year. Everything was busting out of its borders. Which I didn't mind. Some unwanted trees were coming up in some of the beds. And the tree that hung over the pond had rotted and had fallen over. I knew that it was more than one person could manage. But then, that made me sad, too, because I remember being out there on many occasions all by myself because no volunteers showed up on workday. 

So, did Minden ever really want The Farm?  Did Minden every really treasure it? or was it just something that was offered for those willing to take it while it was offered but not willing to work to keep it? 

 Sharing and celebrating one's culture is still a beautiful thing. 

 What's it worth to you? 

Written on May 5, 2021

So, when do the meek inherit the earth?

With no moral authority, no ethics and no sense of decency, who gets to rule?

I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately to help me understand how we got to this point in America.  The division is wide and the arguments are loud. We've picked our teams and we believe we picked the one that is right or the one that is winning...leaving the other team in the dirt to fend for themselves.

I was flabbergasted to read about an evangelist's plea on social media for his followers to help provide the means for him to purchase a jet. Another jet. Another multi-million dollar jet so that he could spread the word nation-wide. And then right under that post was another one about homeless veterans. And I started to wonder 'how did we get here?'  How do we justify the begging for a jet against the begging for food ?

It reminded me of the outrage that was played out on social media during Hurricane Harvey when evangelist Joel Olsteen would not or could not open  his mega church for those in need. And thus the argument about his inability to open the church because of flooding issues escalated. So, I wondered again 'how did we get here?'  How do we justify the begging to support a mega church against the begging for shelter?

We are clearly lopsided. 'Men of God' are living in luxury while their flocks are living in the streets. Men of God are flying jets while their flocks struggle to pay rent. This is certainly not meant to pigeon hole all those who preach the word of God.  There are some who understand what the title  means and the responsibility that comes with it.  Judgment on that is certainly not mine. But I can't help but wonder what the true intent is for those who have lined their pockets, purchased their multi-million dollar jets and live comfortably in their multi-million dollar mansions while the homeless in our country escalate and families struggle to feed their children. And they continue to beg for more.

And our lawmakers are no better.

So, I ask again. With no moral authority, no ethics and no sense of decency, who gets to rule?
Greed is all I could come up with.  And when greed rules, we all lose.

So, then who are the meek who get to inherit the Earth? I am guessing it will be the tribes who understand that their lives are intertwined. Those who understand that their dependence on each other sustains them. It's the indigenous tribes that come to mind. They are not wrapped in fortunes or the pursuit of wealth. They are not raping Mother Earth for she sustains them. God bless them.

Maybe there is hope for mankind.

Searching for My heart's Desire

Searching for heart's desire while feeding my soul.....That journey has led me down many roads. If you've read any of my other blogs,  you are familiar with some of those experiences.

There's one experience I haven't written about and it's probably the one that had the most profound affect on me.  It seems easier for some people to recognize "Christians" these days as the ones who attend church regularly.  And some quickly decide that if a person does not attend church, they must not be a Christians or that they do not believe in God.

I stopped going to church a long time ago. We are so private with our lives that maybe most people didn't notice. But everyone now and then, and probably more often then usual, I would get the most often asked question. "What church do you go to?"  I would answer that I was a member of First Methodist and that would satisfy them.  And that was true.  I was a member of First Methodist. Just not a good member.

Several years ago I was fortunate enough to be asked by the First Methodist Church to assist with a special summer camp for kids. Under the direction of the church's Minister of Music, I would assist with the artistic part of this camp. Offering up art lessons to campers centered around the selected Christian musical theme, I became part of a team of teachers hired to instruct the children.  The camps were quite successful. And I brought my love of the arts and my love of teaching to children, whom I also loved.

In the Methodist circuit, ministers are often moved around from church to church. In the years that I taught the summer art camps at First Methodist, there were several ministers who would open the summer art camp with prayer and invitation.  After several summers as the art instructor for their annual summer art camps, the minister, whom I had become quite close to and quite fond of, recognized by surprise that I was a member of his church. While he never made me feel guilty of being an absentee member, he also never approached me about why I didn't attend church anymore.

It was at the end of one of productions that he offered up his usual prayer and public offering for anyone to join the church for their Sunday services. I had heard that offering on many occasions but this particular one stuck with me.

I felt guilty.

I waited until he was alone in his office and asked him if I could speak with him privately. And of course, like always, he was so gracious and loving and made me feel like he was there just for me. When I sat down on the other side of his desk, I noticed on the wall behind him was a collection of abstract art that he had created. I had come to know that he, too, was an artist. Alongside his beautiful collection of painted canvases was a framed black and white photograph of the Beatles. I guess just seeing the art and the black and white photograph of the Beatles, I immediately felt  'at home.'

Now time to confess.

As I shared with him how much I loved what I was doing for the church during the camp, I had to confess that I was not a church goer. And I didn't want him to think that my lack of participation in the Sunday worship services was any indication of how I felt about him or God

.  I was surprised how quickly he interjected that I should not feel guilty. And it would be the next statement that he made to me that put my spirit at ease and filled my heart.

I will paraphrase what he said because his exact words were much more beautiful and eloquent than I could recount. But I got the message.

'There are many people who come to church because they need to feed their spirits. And some people have learned to feed their own.  And you are one of those.   So, don't you feel guilty. You are blessed. But please know that you are welcomed here at any time as the NEED arises.'  

I did attend church the next Sunday out of respect for this beloved minister.  And I am guessing it was my way of saying thank you.

I know that many people might not agree or understand his message to me. But I felt that he knew my heart and he spoke to my soul.

I still search for my heart's desire and
feed my soul daily in my own church,
on a hill in the woods.

Love lives there.
God lives there.
And I'm good with that.

A man named "Toothpick."

The day I met Toothpick, aka LaCharleston White was more than memorable.  Toothpick came to The Farm several years ago looking for a job.  I can remember him saying, “I can do anything you need me to do and all I need is $50 a week. I will work hard for you.”   

I wish I could remember how he got the nickname “Toothpick.”  I can only imagine he was a tall, skinny little kid growing up in Minden.

Well, I hired Toothpick and he did do anything I needed. Not that he knew how to do anything I needed but I came to learn that he would ‘try’ and try with all of his heart and being.  I came to love Toothpick. I loved his optimism.  Toothpick grew up in Minden and graduated from high school. Trapped in a city with few opportunities for young black males to succeed, I quickly saw how his life became one of simply trying to survive.

Toothpick was in and out of my life as I spent my days volunteering at the Farm in Minden.  The Farm is a four-acre tract of land located in a black neighborhood that was donated to a nonprofit I co- founded some 25 years ago. 

 The Moess Center for the Arts & City Farm was fondly known simply as 'The Farm.' The land was originally owned by the Camp family and was donated to Cultural Crossroads in 2000 by Zenobia West. 

This four-acre piece of heaven would become home to the parish’s largest arts festival for children.  It would also become the place for many summer events aimed at children. And Toothpick would often come even when not assigned to, just to help me out.

 Toothpick fell in love with the Farm just as I had. He spent many of his days there with me working side by side, planting and caring for the gardens. He spent many days on his own time picking up the trash along the highway that led up to the Farm. You could tell he found great pride in that.

One morning, early on in our work relationship, I arrived unexpectedly early to the Farm. I opened the gate and walked in to see Toothpick coming out of the public restrooms with a handful of quilts. I found it odd and asked what he was doing here this early and what was he doing with those quilts in the bathroom.  The discovery that he was homeless and that he was sleeping the men’s bathroom brought me to tears.  That shocking revelation embarrassed me. I should have recognized before now that he had no home to go to. He would walk to work every day and I just assumed he walked home. I quickly caught up to speed on his personal life and together we worked on finding him a place to live.  His encounters with the law had alienated him from most of his family. And maybe it should have alienated me. But I found something honest and real about him. And I think he found that in me, too. 

Toothpick did have a drug problem. And without judgement, I tried to talk to him about it only to discover that many of the encounters he had with the police were intentional. His life of living on the streets had brought him to a point of despair when the only relief was three meals a day and a cot…in jail. I never had to bail him out. He wouldn’t let me do that.  He would spend his time and a few months later and sometimes a year later, I would see him walk up to the Farm and offer his help to me once again.

In the more than a decade that I came to know and love this man, I saw him in and out of jail several times. I saw him struggle for a meal or a place to lay his head at night. And I saw him struggle for acceptance. I think he found it with me. And I think he realized that I loved him unconditionally and I believe he loved me.

Getting close to someone who struggles daily to make ends meet was difficult at times. Toothpick had been married and had children.  He had since been divorced, I think. I say that because I tried hard not to judge him nor to nosey in on his personal life too much. So much of what I learned about him came from observing him and those who were also a part of his life at any given time and would venture up to the Farm while we were both working.  His estranged wife would come back into his life later and he eventually ended up living with his ex-wife and their daughter.

The last time I saw Toothpick was at my retirement party this past December. The organization that I founded generously offered up a retirement party for me as I decided to step out of public life as a community organizer/volunteer/administrator for Cultural Crossroads. It would be the first big event that I had no part of except to simply walk in, sit down and enjoy. 

Toothpick was there. He had heard about the party and came to help. With garbage bag in hand, he stepped right in where he had left off and took the job of making sure that there was no trash on the grounds. I cried when I saw him. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing now.  How was he taking care of himself?   I asked him how he was doing, he answered, “great.”  He would always say ‘great,’ even when I knew it to be a lie.

I have so much respect for him. I admire his perseverance. I admire his optimism. I admire his willingness to do anything for you, no matter how small or insignificant…. because he didn’t see any of it as insignificant. I do love Toothpick.  And because I love him, I worry about him. I can still remember the day I told him that I loved him and I worried about him.   “Don’t worry about me, Miss Chris.  I will make it.”

And ya know…he’s right…he will make it. He has made it. He is a survivor. I just wish with all my heart that life had dealt him a better hand because he deserved it.

I saw his heart and it was good.

A ladybug signaled the passing of great beauty. My mother.

My mother was there to witness my first breath and

 I was there to witness her last.

On New Years Day I received a message that my mother had to be sedated.  She was under the temporary care of a nursing home.  They were going to care for her for a few days while giving a much needed break to my little sister, Terry, who had been her primary caretaker for nearly two years.

We all quickly made our way to the nursing home to check out the situation and give her whatever attention she might need.  Her earlier diagnosis of lung cancer had made its way to her brain and she was not reacting well to the medication.  After staying two nights there while she was stabilized enough to bring her home, we were told that her time was limited and she was dying.

We took her back to my sister's house and set her up in the living room.  I watched my little sister administer the most loving care I have ever witnessed. With no nurses training, she learned quickly how to make my mother as comfortable as she could be.  I marveled at the way she instinctively knew what to do.

For the next four days, my sister and I kept a watchful eye and shared those last few days watching Mom breathe. We talked to her and shared loving stories about our early days as children. We sang her favorite songs. Terry played the piano and we spent the next few days making sure that she knew we were there and that we loved her dearly.  My other sister, Pam, was there periodically. It was apparent to Terry and I that she was having a lot of difficulty with Mom's condition. While we tried to comfort Mom, we were also aware that our sister was in pain and needed some comfort as well.

On the Friday morning of her death, Terry and I both realized that the end was nearing. We were told that those facing death need permission to leave. And we did that. We told her we were all going to be fine and that she could go.  Anyone who knew my mother for any length of time would know she talked often of Jesus and God and her longing to finally meet her Lord.  So, we knew that she was ready.  But as ready as she was, she was also stubborn. It had to be her way and in her time and on her terms. And she certainly showed us that.  

After having reapplied ice packs under her arms, I looked into her glazed over eyes as she starred into the abyss.  “Momma, those angels sure are tired. They've been waiting on you for a while now. It really is okay to go.”  At that very second after hearing my words, she took her last two breaths.  Terry was there at her bedside on the phone with the Hospice nurse. “Terry, it's happening,” I said.  She quickly placed her hand on Mom's chest and felt her last heart beat.

At that moment, we both looked at each other with such joy in our eyes and smiles on our faces. Then we quickly questioned, was this the way we were supposed to feel? There was no sadness. There was no sorrow. There were no tears. We were happy and full of joy.  We were overcome by the beauty of the moment. I remember us both expressing how much joy we felt. It wasn't relief. Just joy. Pure joy. 

Earlier that week, we had both witnessed a lady bug on our mother's pillow. It stayed there the entire time.  It served as a symbol of comfort for us then and symbolic of a blessing later.

I have never experienced anything like this in my entire life. I was not there when my father died, quickly and unexpectedly. I wasn't there when Rick's mother and father passed away. This was my first experience with the death of a loved one.

I can't explain the beauty that I saw in this but I would imagine it would have been what my mother would have wanted.  We saw her spirit move from this place to the next with such grace and such beauty that I have no words to describe it.

So, I guess my reason for sharing this is to say that death isn't to be feared.

I do believe that is was important for me to be there to witness our sweet 

mother's last breath....and thank her for giving us life. 

Rest in Peace,  Sweet Ladybug!

Helen Cooper Sampson Dec. 23, 1934 - Jan 5, 2016 

"Shadowing Vincent"

From the time I was twelve years old and stood in front of one of Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings, I have been in love with this man and his art. As a preteen, I had the unbelievable privilege of being able to see his art at the center of the art universe….Paris, France.

Last month, after fifty years I returned to Paris.  

Traveling with my husband, Rick, and our dear friends Kelly and Brian Carlisle, we rented an apartment in Montemarte historic district for twelve glorious days. Our apartment was situated at the base of a massive stone staircase that led up to  'the hill of Paris' and the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur.  After arriving, we made our way to the many outdoor cafes and shops that line the cobble stoned streets.  All the while knowing that this place inspired many of the great painters of the twentieth century, Salvador Dali, Monet, Picasso and of course, my favorite, Vincent Van Gogh, I kept pinching myself.  

It was our jaunt to Auvers Sur Oise that stole my heart. We traveled by train that day to the little village where Vincent lived and died.   None of us had any idea what we would encounter here.  The small village offered a stark contrast between the crowded streets of Paris.  With a map from the local tourism office, we made our way up the hill to the cemetery.  We were surprised to find that many of the homes and buildings that Vincent painted were still there 125 years later.  Our first stop was in front of the Church of Auvers.   Knowing that Vincent walked these grounds was awe inspiring to me.  I couldn't believe I was really here.  A dream of a lifetime coming true. 

We had stopped at the french market that morning and purchased flowers for Vincent's and Theo's graves. Venturing to Auvers to see Van Gogh's grave was the most incredible experience of my later life.  Walking up the hill past the church and around the bend to the top of the hilltop cemetery was more than I could take in.  An old wooden fence between the little wooded area marked the way to the old cemetery. A field on either side of the road also marked the walk.  We Entered the old stone walls and metal gate with great anticipation.  Not knowing which way to go, we saw two women had entered before us. Figuring they must be going to the same place, we looked for them. 

And there it was ~ against the stone wall covered in lush green ivy were the head stones of Vincent and his brother Theo. As I lay the bouquet of flowers on his grave, I paused to just take it all in when I heard the laughter and voices of children. I turned to see an entire class of elementary children about the same age as those I teach at Glenbrook. With notebooks in hand, they stopped in front of the graves and quietly listened to instructions given by their teachers. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I couldn't help but think about the many students I have taught over the years. And here I was standing in front of the burial site of the very person who inspired me as a youngster. It was an incredible feeling. 

After the children left, we stayed and took many shots and while taking one of my favorite photos of the trip, I saw a young photographer taking a photograph of us.  Then the young Frenchman asked to take one of Vincent's tombstone. We moved to one side but he kept motioning for Rick to move forward.  Confused and not understanding french,  Rick hesitantly moved forward.  And there it was!  The shot that the young photographer saw. A shadow.  A shadow that eerily resembled Vincent Van Gogh.   As Rick moved forward, the young photographer captured it.  A cast shadow on Vincent's headstone of Rick.  The sun was at a perfect angle.  We were both moved by the moment and the shadow caught on camera.

This journey back to France was life affirming. I am an artist and an art teacher because I was inspired by the bright colors and the sweeping brush strokes created by the man with a bandaged ear.   My memory of standing in front of his paintings as a young girl and thinking to myself, “I don't know what this art stuff is but I think it's for me' came back in living color. 

Vincent Van Gogh lived a short life and painted his vast collection of incredible works in ten years.  He died never knowing that he would leave behind  a trail of passion and pleasure for anyone to follow. 

Thank you Vincent.