The exhibition comes to London after being shown in Paris and Amsterdam.
Marc Chagall’s world is a lyric of fanciful affection for the men and women, the children, the cattle, the pigs and poultry, the chairs and curtains and mugs of flowers in a small and sordid village, transformed by his fancy and still more by his affection into a dream-country where it is simpler to ride on a farmyard fowl than to board an omnibus, where angels drink tea inside bouquets of roses, where blue cows fly over pink moons and lovers walk literally on air, and where anyone, who has a heart, can live as pleasantly without a head as with one.
The circumstances of his life have taken him to Moscow, Paris and New York. The Eiffel Tower, the circus, skyscrapers, and a hundred other images have entered the dream-country; but they have not driven out the village; they have only made it a shade less credible, a shade more he product of his fancy, a shade less the record of his love.
