In his dream, he stepped outside for a moment — to take the air while he smoked his pipe. That’s when the first drop hit him, a wet drip on the brim of his hat. When he touched it, his fingers came away with a mustard slime of paint. Then there was a splatter of ochre on the sidewalk beside him; globs of crimson splashing in the street. A heartbeat later it was pouring, a deluge of plums and maroons and forest greens and aquamarines.Thomson opened his umbrella. Puffed at his pipe. The city washed away into colour.
You can read more about his life, his art and the mystery of his death on Wikipedia here. Explore more Toronto Dreams Project postcards here.