Dordrecht, Holland—It was here that young van Gogh struggled to find his identity—art dealer, lay preacher, or bookstore clerk.


    In this very street in Amsterdam, he sought the comfort of prostitutes, torn between the gifts of this world and the next.


    Vincent walked the Dutch countryside dotted with canals and colors of the natural world—tidy and organized.


    His back broken in a cave-in, Giovanni Russo labored all his life in the Belgian mine where van Gogh once worked as an evangelist caring for injured miners.


    His only formal study was at the Art Institute in Antwerp. “I shall be poor: I shall be a painter: I want to remain human,” he wrote to Theo.


    Drawn finally to Provence in southern France where he would hang his canvases in working-class cafes.


    Captivated by the women of Arles, they inspired his work but made his life tumultuous.


    “I am ravished, ravished with what I see… I have a lover’s insight or a lover’s blindness,” he wrote from Provençe.


    The asylum in St.-Remy where Vincent was alternately paralyzed and productive is now a haven for women who continue using art to understand their illnesses.


    An attic room north of Paris was his final home. Here, in the last 70 days of his life, he produced one masterpiece a day.