Unlike most of the rest of humanity, I'm not that keen on Marc Chagall's work. But a nice little coincidence occurred after I saw this painting in the IAM:
A few hours after we left the museum, we arrived in Zionsville to have dinner. I saw a small independent bookshop on the quaint old high street, and popped in to make a small purchase, as I almost always do in such situations in order to support real bookshops. The first book that I pulled off the shelf was a 1968 edition of A Coney Island of the Mind: Poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I opened it up to see if it was worth buying, and the first poem I saw was this:
Don't let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall's mother
But he
kept right on
painting
It goes on in similar fashion. Not a great poem by any means, but as we say in England: What are the chances of that happening, eh?
So of course I bought the book, and reconsidered my entire attitude to the paintings of Marc Chagall.
A few hours after we left the museum, we arrived in Zionsville to have dinner. I saw a small independent bookshop on the quaint old high street, and popped in to make a small purchase, as I almost always do in such situations in order to support real bookshops. The first book that I pulled off the shelf was a 1968 edition of A Coney Island of the Mind: Poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I opened it up to see if it was worth buying, and the first poem I saw was this:
Don't let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall's mother
But he
kept right on
painting
It goes on in similar fashion. Not a great poem by any means, but as we say in England: What are the chances of that happening, eh?
So of course I bought the book, and reconsidered my entire attitude to the paintings of Marc Chagall.