Had he not shot himself in the chest at the age of 37, Van Gogh would be turning 156 today. What a complicated young painter he was, and a prolific one too – he churned out nearly a thousand lovely oils in ten years, most of them done with part of his ear flapping bloodily on the floor. Hence, we thought we should buy him a decent gift. We discussed it all weekend, before it boiled down to a toss up between a picture of Lady Ga Ga that we cut out of a newspaper, or a clip of a man smoking a cigarette – something Vincent should have considered on that day when he fired a bullet into his lungs. In the end we got him both. Happy Birthday Vincent.