So this article on HuffPo notes that the non-public version of The Scream
is kept locked in a vault so secure, I lost count of the number of elevators, electronically-coded doors and retinal scans that we passed through in order to arrive in the climate-controlled tomb where lies what may be the most iconic painting on earth, crated in a glass box.
And talks about the Munch Stones, a name I just coined, 200 or so white lithographic stones that Munch carved his designs into and then made prints from; Munch couldn't afford to keep the stones, and they've never been publicly displayed.
And it mentions that Munch created "over 40,000 works."
David Bowie once refused to play any of his hit songs for a concert tour. I remember kind of sympathizing with him while also thinking he was a bit ungrateful -- people loved those songs, not his new stuff. I imagine that U2, and Paul McCartney, and everyone else who's ever had a hit kind of felt the same way: I'm sick of playing Jumpin' Jack Flash, they probably all think in one form or another.
Gilligan likely didn't want to be typecast as Gilligan.
So consider, today, the kind of success that leads you to be pigeonholed into the same thing over and over and over for all eternity, Grishaming your way through a grim existence in which you only sing the same song night after night, or only write the same book day after day.
Edvard Munch made 40,000 paintings and people know only one of them.
Oh, and he died without getting paid any of the $119,900,000 The Scream sold for. Although he seemed to live a pretty comfortable life after his early poverty, so I probably shouldn't make too much of that.
Gilligan, little buddy!