Van Stein brims with self-satisfaction
when I see him next morning.
Over
cappuccino and thin slices of Serrano jamon on bread smeared with tomato at a
dingy diner, he talks animatedly about a breakthrough.
“I painted the best painting I ever
painted,” he says. “Dali was there, I
could feel him, egging me on.”
Van Stein never makes a big deal of anything he’s
painted, preferring to wait until he inspects the work back home inside his studio, only when I push for a peek, which I rarely do.
It’s
almost a game, because he owes me in pictures for the expense of his
travel. I pay his way to strange
places: airfare, room and meals; he
repays me in art, the pick of the litter.
No question, I’m getting the better of this exchange, even if I have
more pictures than walls to hang them on.
That's because Van Stein paints his best when traveling through bizarre places, challenged by unusual sights and stimuli, jet-lag and sleep deprivation.
That's because Van Stein paints his best when traveling through bizarre places, challenged by unusual sights and stimuli, jet-lag and sleep deprivation.
Back home, Van Stein can paint on autopilot.
But in Reykjavik, Gheel, Arles and Figueres, he’s got one crack,
maybe two if he’s
hot, to get everything he sees, everything he feels, down on canvas.
So Van Stein unveils his 10-x-4 rooftop painting, Moonrise over Figueres, looking
out toward the Dali Museum.
His euphoria
is warranted; this is truly the artist in his element.
“It’s got bounce,” I
say. “A surreal bounce.”
Hence, our quest into creativity and madness finally has a name.
Upon checking out, Anna offers to take our photo standing next to a big bust of
Dali.
We pose, she snaps.
Van Stein takes the camera, retrieves the
image. “Ya see?” A big hairy orb has muscled in on us. “Ya see?”
So now we’ve got Van Gogh, St. Dymphna, James Dean, Machiavelli and Salvador Dali all hanging over us, awaiting our next move.
