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Last week, I celebrated my 37th birthday. The first present I received, was my son’s fiery scratch drawing of a sunflower. Without seeing the connection, we decided to go to the exhibition of Vincent van Gogh and Edvard Munch after breakfast.

As we made our way through a crowd of tourists, I explained to my son that people from all over the world come to see these paintings. Because the artists have put so much feeling into it. “As with music. Like when you say a song feels a bit ‘alone’. And other songs make you feel very wild and tough and happy,” I explained.

In the stories about the lives of the two painters, it became clear that Van Gogh was 37 years old when he died. “He only had ten years for his entire oeuvre.” I became quiet inside. And grateful. Sometimes I think I’m a late bloomer. But I see and feel how Van Gogh lives. In so many forms his being still vibrates. Infinitely. That also applies to us. To you and me.

“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” – Vincent Van Gogh