Paintings

There is something that changes when we learn the story behind Vincent van Gogh's sunflowers. They stop being simply flowers. They stop being that intense yellow we instantly recognize as his.

Because during those days in August 1888, while Vincent was painting in Arles, the sunflowers were tied to something much bigger: a house, a friend who had not yet arrived and the dream of turning that place into a refuge for artists. And all of this was written down in his letters.

Imagine you walk into a small chapel in the heart of Naples. Outside, the city is noise: narrow alleys, voices bouncing off the walls, laundry hanging from balcony to balcony. Inside, suddenly, silence. You walk slowly and, in the center of the nave, you see a body lying down, covered by a shroud.

This woman is not dreaming. She is being crushed. Look closely. She hangs off the bed, her head thrown back and her arms limp, as if her body no longer belonged to her. On her chest sits a small, heavy, motionless creature. And it is staring at you. At you. Throughout history, dreams have been read in many ways.

In the light of a mysterious glow, two figures emerge from the shadows in an intricate embrace. A pale, radiant woman leans toward a young man with golden curls, their lips barely centimeters apart, in a frozen moment that seems both fragile and immortal. Around them, in a disquieting display, enigmatic figures watch, hide and reveal, holding symbols that look like warnings and prophecies, such as Folly and Time.