First Impressions

The true story of an immensely famous artist who was not celebrated in his lifetime narrated through the eyes of a Bourgeouis snob The artist's name is revealed at the very end.

I am trying to recall the name

of that eccentric, incoherent vagabond

who used to trudge these country roads

 Trying to sell his so called paintings.

To our respected fellows

To those of us who can afford to cherish art,

To we who know the actual value of things

He invariably upset our apple-carts

Just observe this one

See these wild erratic strokes-

I tell you - the man was an utter joke !

A dog's breakfast of a fellow-

See these dubious dabs- such slovenly swoops of colour

A strangely mixed up palette

-like no other

Even his own brother- had almost had enough of him-

 for he was always begging money

For brushes and paints-and alcohol no doubt-

I tell you he was a vagabond- certainly no saint-

No it's not funny-

Quite prudently we decided not to let him in-

We had to keep him out

You can't encourage such a chap-

you just don't know where he's been-

You might catch something off him-

perhaps an infection-I mean,

Hence no wonder -he should suffer our rejection-

Now have a look here-

Note these overly rich wildly textured strokes

Too much for my eyes,it makes one choke

See here the acute contrast the intense chiaroscuro

the interplay of dark and light

And shadow

On some low class peasants eating potato

It truly gives me a fright-

I tell you-It's just too much for my sight !!

And here a golden- yellow wheatfield-

Note the deranged  dance of dashing colour-

And  some detestable crows

Is it the erratic passion of an overgrown child

A madman perhaps- who knows ?

Not a friend of ours of course

But just an eccentric, penniless incoherent stammering beggar 

who trudged these country roads-

Attempting  to sell his so called "art".

His manners always coarse-

Invariably he upset our applecart-

and even frightened off  the horse!

-His presence was not well received,

The wife gave him some sandwiches once

And a few cups of tea-

In return he gave us one that was okay I suppose-

I gave it to my daughter-

Who donated it to the vicar for the church bazaar-

Who sold it to mad Aunt Rose

It was okay- but quite bizarre,

Any claim to talent was not to be believed-

We didn't think he'd go very far-

The galleries did not want him either

He was not well received

Quite mad of course, we bade him go,

But it seemed he did not hear us clear

I noted that he seemed to lack one ear

I heard it rumoured that he gave it to a tart !! (Laughter)

In my minds eye, I can still

see him perpetually trudging down these endless  flat and dreary country roads,

Along the canals conversing with the windmills-

Preaching some babble to the peasants about some kingdom for the poor-

This he ranted on and on about-

Between frequent visits to the madhouse

Yes- He went there more and more

His manner and dress scruffy and outlandish

Few could understand him more than comprehend a fish

Always a pauper and full of impropriety

He was excluded from the local arts society

But although in his time we regarded him a bum

Being dead- he has earned us quite a tidy sum.

His name is on the tip of my tongue-

What was it now ?

Ah yes- Vincent -that's the one.!