1889. Saint Rémy. A full year in the same room in the asylum. One window. The view never changed. An enclosed field, the Alpilles behind it. That's it. But he painted it over and over. A dozen times at least. Because the light changed. The season turned. Some days a ploughman showed up. Some days the field was empty. Anyway it was enough to paint.
Until it was not. One night he looked at the same window, saw the same field in the dim light. And painted Starry Night.
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