Behind iron bars in Saint-Rémy, Van Gogh painted pain into a spinning night—
loneliness, madness, a soul overflowing its body.

When that energy enters the frog, it doesn’t drown.
It stretches its webbed feet and strolls calmly,
as if chaos were its backyard.

A burning starry sky grows from its back and crown,
deep blue spirals sliding along its skin.

It refuses to be absorbed by the “normal” world.
If order leads to mediocrity,
it chooses this brilliant disorder—
and dances under the night sky.

About WAWA in the Museum

For centuries, masterpieces were pinned to cold museum walls—sealed behind bulletproof glass, guarded by silence and authority.
They became symbols of taste and power, but slowly forgot how to speak to living souls.Then the frogs hopped in.They didn’t come to vandalize, but to remix.
Webbed feet leapt over heavy golden frames, wide curious eyes stared back at priceless icons—not in worship, but in conversation.
They are us: the rule-benders, the bored geniuses, the ones who refuse to take the serious world too seriously.Art isn’t a temple.
It’s a playground.

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