That night, I had a vivid dream. I was walking in a place with orange hills, trees with purple shadows, and distant blue mountains. The sun filled the sky with vibrations of light. On the path between the trees, I met a man with a beard made of brushstrokes.

“I dreamed this painting,” the man told me. “Then I painted what I dreamed.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I wish my friend could be here, too.”

Vincent Van Gogh put his hands in his stiff, painted pockets. “Ah yes. Angelo. He doesn’t want to see my paintings. But what if my paintings want to see him?”

“There’s a canvas of yours at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, near my house,” I said. “But Angelo would never agree to come see it with me.”

“True,” said Van Gogh. “You'll have to be sneaky.”