Post Impressionist globe-trotter and escapist cape-wearer Paul Gauguin was born in Paris but in 1849 the family 'Peru-dently' high-tailed it to mum's rellies in Lima after his journo' dad got stick from Louis Napoleon's spin doctors. When the Gauguins returned to France (minus dad, who'd died) they went to live with that good old French stand-by, 'Oncle Bags d'Argent'.
The Peru trip gave Paul itchy feet and at 17 he satisfied his wanderlust (plus a few others) by floating down to Rio. He sailed several seas but then mum died, so 'Oncle Francs' set him up in the world of dosh 'n' dodginess. Paul proved to be a dab hand at a deal, spending his quality time at the amateur easel and his disposables on Impressionist gems. In 1883 his bank wobbled, so he thought 'Wot ze eck!', swapped his modem for a mahl stick, his family for a fantasy and, in no time at all, didn't have two insider-traders to rub together.
After travelling some more, painting some lovely holiday snaps of Britanny and having it up to ear with van Gogh, he sailed to Tahiti in 1891 saying he planned to live on 'ecstasy, calmness and art' (all enlivened with the odd snort of 'Charlie').
Paul passed his time pleasurably, painting the Polynesian girls who 'invaded his bed' (as he put it), but by the new century was feeing despondent, possibly because of the failure of his incurably romantic aspirations but more likely because of his incurably painful VD. He wanted to return to Paris but pal and adviser Daniel de Monfried, told him it would be a bad PR move as he'd now become a legend in his own lunch-temps. So Paul hung on and made the ultimate artist's career move known as dying… not long after which his pictures started selling by the canoe load. Wouldn't you just know it?
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