Personal-Reflection

How Van Gogh Was Forged

Prologue I stand before a painting. Around me are countless visitors to the exhibition, but for a moment they all seem to vanish, leaving me alone with the artwork. It depicts an utterly ordinary riverside meadow, with a few small trees growing haphazardly. Through the branches, glimpses of clean river surface and a stone arch bridge in the distance emerge; there appears to be a figure on the bridge. Wildflowers carpet the ground, and leaves tinged with yellow amid the green speak of a fresh spring day.