1879. Gauguin is a Paris stockbroker. Good salary, nice house in Vaugirard, a wife, kids, a backyard. The kind of life most people would not walk away from. One winter morning, the backyard is covered in snow. He sets up and paints it. Nothing exotic. Nothing wild. Just his own garden. Pissarro sees it and loves it. So much that he pushes, and keeps pushing, until Gauguin is invited to the next Impressionist Exhibition.
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