There’s an article in the latest Scientific American saying that Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, (or at least some of them – he painted sunflowers a lot) were of a mutant variety. Whatever.
Through mutation, we evolve
It may very well be true, because there are billions and billions of flowers out there in the world in a wide variety of types, sizes, shapes and colors. There is perhaps even more variety among flowers than there is among human beings, and that’s a hell of a lot.
But it doesn’t matter. The real mutant in this story was Van Gogh. He wasn’t a botanist and he wasn’t a photographer. The accurate representation of the flower is far less important than the beauty of the painting.
One of the most amazing art museums I have ever had the privilege of visiting was the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. (sure, sure, go for the marijuana – but check out the Van Gogh while you’re there) The paintings were hung in chronological order so that as you walked through the museum, you could see the change coming over poor, tragic Vincent; his descent (or elevation, depending on how you want to look at it) into madness.
In fairness to him as a person, you have to say descent. He was nuts and not in a good way at all. He was an extremely lonely and unhappy man; rejected by women, rejected by the world.
But it was because of his madness, the fact that he was different from all other human beings in the world, the fact that he wasn’t on the same page as everybody else, that we have his beautiful paintings of flowers and landscapes and grotesquely ugly peasants and starry, starry nights. His tragedy is his legacy, an integral part of human culture, a special section of the human group mind. The slightly twisted section.
www.gurukalehuru.com 
Genius is rarely understood in its own time.
Pedant alert: the museum is not possessive, in this case, and doesn’t warrant an apostrophe.
Thanks. Corrected.