"I CAN NOT HELP IT MY PAINTINGS DO NOT SELL"
For I am lost in a world of feeling
how the leaves fall to the ground.
How light comes across wheat fields
creating rhythms of a softness
that washes onto my canvas.
Slowly, I crawl into my paintings,
knowing where all the colors go.
I am a painter, not a salesman;
such distractions are useless to me.
I rely on my brother, Théo,
to exhibit the paintings.
I wait as all artists do,
for their acceptance.
I will continue painting my spiritual silence
onto celestial surfaces.
“I can not help it, my paintings do not sell.”
I must give them time.