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There’s a deeply affecting episode of Dr Who set in late 19th-century rural France that sees the good doctor take Vincent van Gogh in his time-travelling Tardis to the present-day Musée d'Orsay in Paris so that the Dutch painter can see just how much his work is loved and revered in the 21st century. The artist sold just one painting in his lifetime.
In this perfect fantasy scene of redemption, as he walks through halls filled with crowds looking at his work, Vincent is undone, his face wet with tears. And that’s how I feel whenever I see a Van Gogh. For me, these extraordinary paintings are a bittersweet opportunity to witness up close the shimmering colours and thick impasto brushstrokes that convey that swirling sense of movement in his preternatural scenes of earth, wind and sky. Though they bring joy, they are tinged with sadness knowing that at his end, Vincent van Gogh would never understand what he had bestowed on the world.
