Marc Chagall (1887 – 1985)
Russian-Jewish painter who was born in Belarus, then part of the Russian Empire.
The stars were my best friends. The air was full of legends and phantoms, full of mythical and fair-tale creatures, which suddenly flew away over the roof, so that one was at one with the firmament. (writing of Chagall, fh)
Back in the days (a later reflection on his early Parish years, fh) when I was in Paris in my studio in ‘La Ruche’, through the partition I heard two Jewish emigrants arguing: ‘Well, what would you say? Wasn’t Antokolsky a Jewish artist? And Israels? And what about Liebermann?‘ The dim light of the lamp lit up my picture, which was upside down (that’s the way I work – so consider yourself yourselves lucky!). As morning came, and the Parisian sky started to brighten up, I had to laugh about the futile comments of my neighbours on the fate of Jewish art: ‘You two windbacks can carry on – but I’ve got work to do.
..No academy could have given me all I discovered by getting my teeth into the exhibitions, the shop windows, and the museums of Paris. Beginning with the market – where, for lack of money, I bought only a piece of a long cucumber – the workman in his blue overall, the most ardent followers of Cubism, everything showed a definite feeling for proportion, clarity, an accurate sense of form, of a more painterly kind of painting, even in the canvases of second-rate artists.
Listen what happened to me when I was in the fifth form (around 1904), in the drawing lesson. An old-timer in the front row, the one who pinched me the most often, suddenly showed me a sketch on tissue paper, copied from the magazine “Niva”: The Smoker. In this pandemonium! Leave me alone. I don’t remember very well but this drawing, done not by me but by that fathead, immediately threw me into a rage. It roused a hyena in me. I ran to the library, grabbed that big volume of “Niva” and began to copy the portrait of the composer Rubinstein, fascinated by his crow’s-feet and his wrinkles, or by a Greek woman and other illustrations; maybe I improvised some too, I hung them al all up in my bedroom..
I am working in Paris. I cannot for a single day get the thought out of my head that there probably exists something essential, some immutable reality, and now that I have lost everything else (thank God, it gets lost all on its own) I am trying to preserve this and, what is more, not to be content. In a word: I am working.
I sometimes have the impression that I have been born, between heaven and earth..the more I work the more I tried to align these paintings with a distant dream.
If I weren’t a Jew (in the sense in which I use the word) then I wouldn’t be an artist, or at least not the one I am now.
After completing my work (painting murals for the Jewish Teatre, fh) I thought, as has been agreed, that ot would be shown in public as a series of my latest things. The management will agree with me that I can find no inner peace as a painter until the “masses” see my work etc. It turned out that the thinhs (the murals) had been put into a “cage”, as it were, where they can be seen at the very best by (if you will forgive me for saying so) Jews at close quarters. I like the Jews a lot (there’s enough ”proof” of that) but I like the Russians as well and some other nationalities, and I am used to painting serious things for many “nationalities”.
The Jews might well, were they of such a mind (as I am, lament the disappearance of all those who painted the wooden synagogues in the small towns and villages (oh why haven’t I gone to my grave with them!), and the carvers of the wooden “school mallets” – “quiet boy!” (and if you should see them in Ansky’s collection, you’ll get a shock!). But is there really any difference between my ancestor from Mohiliev, who painted the synagogue there, and myself, who painted the Jewish theatre in Moscow (and a good theatre it is at that)?.. ..I am convinced that, were I to stop shaving, you would see in me a deceptive likeness.
In our life there is a single color as on an artist palette, which provides the meaning of life and art... It is the color of love.
..In spite of everything, there is still no more wonderful vocation than to continue to tolerate events and to work on in the name of our mission, in the name of that spirit which lives on in our teaching and in our vision of humanity and art, the spirit which can lead us Jews down the true and just path. But along the way, peoples will spill our blood, and that of others.
Now at least "artists have the upper hand" in the town (Vitebsk). They get totally engrossed in their disputes about art (constructivists and suprematists, fh), I am utterly exhausted and 'dream' of 'abroad'.. ..After all, there is no more suitable place for artists to be (for me, at least) than at the easel, and I dream of being able to devote myself exclusively to my pictures. Of course, little by little one paintws something, but it’s not the real thing. (Chagall was director of the Art School of Vitebsk, with many internally conflicts, fh)
Only the great distance that separates Paris from my native town prevented me from going back.. ..It was the Louvre that put end to all these hesitations. When I walked around the circular Veronese room and the rooms that the works of Manet, Delacroix and Courbet are in, I desired nothing more. In my imagination Russia (where Chagall was born, fh) took the form of a basket suspended from a parachute. The deflated pear of the balloon was hanging down, growing cold and descending slowly in the course of the years. This was how Russian art appeared to me, or something of the sort.. ..It was as if Russian art had been fatally condemned to remain in the wake of the West. (on his arrival in Paris in 1910, fh)
I do not believe that scientific aims serve the cause of art well. Impressionism and Cubism are alien to me. It seem to me that art is first and foremost a condition of the soul.
The sun has only ever shone for me in France (it certainly did that!). I have got used to beating the streets of Paris, happy beyond words dreaming of a life 125 years long - with the Louvre radiant in the distance. (Chagall couldn’t go back to Paris because of the outbreak of the first World War, fh). Having ended up in the Russian provinces, << I have decided to die >>.
It’s only my town (Chagall was born in Vitebsk, fh), mine, which I have rediscovered. I come back to it with emotion. It was at that time that I painted my Vitebsk series of 1914. (Chagall couldn’t go back to Paris because of the outbreak of the first World War, fh) I painted everything that met my eyes. I painted at my window; I never walked down the street without my box of paint.
..But it doesn’t frighten me, because I studied in France, thank God, and I know of no artist in history who was not ‘literary’ when it came down to it. Not a single one. And even if they don’t appear to be, I know of none and you at least don’t recall them, because there is nothing to recall.. ..Sometime or other I’d like to see a << pure >> artist, but I didn’t even find one in France. Obviously the trouble is that one approaches painting from the other side, so that the word << sujet >> conceals the point of the thing. Yet even the most beautiful and << emptiest >> sujet (an apple, a grape or any << non-figurative painting >>) doesn’t help if there are no foundations, either innate or acquired through hard work.. ..Why don’t we say clearly: << That is freedom, and this is commitment to the subject >> and << to each tree its berries >>, but let it be a tree and not a donkey..
‘There you are’, said Efros (Granovsky, director of the State Jewish Chamber Theatre, 1920, fh), leading me into a dark room, ‘These walls are all yours, you can do what you like with them’. It was a completely demolished apartment that had been abandoned by bourgeois refugees. ‘You see”, he continued, ‘the benches for the audience will be here; the stage there.’ To tell the truth, all I could see there was the remains of a kitchen.. ..And I flung myself at the walls. The canvases were stretched out on the floor. Workmen, actors walked over them. The rooms and corridors were in the process of being repaired; piles of shavings lay among my tubes of paint, my sketches. At every step one dislodged cigarette-ends, crusts of bread.
In exasperation, I furiously attacked the floors and walls of the Moscow Theatre. My mural paintings sight there, in obscurity. Have you seen them? Rant and rave, my contemporaries! In one way or another, my first theatrical alphabet gave you a belly-ache. Not modest? I’ll leave that to my grandmother: it bores me. Despise me, if you like. (around 1921)
My grandfather, a teacher of religion, could think of nothing better than to place my father – his eldest son, still a child – as a clerk with a firm of herring wholesalers, and his youngest son with a barber. No, my father was not a clerk, but, for thirty-two years, a plain workman (in the Jewish ghetto of Vitebsk, fh). He lifted heavy barrels, and my heart used to twist like a Turkish pretzel as I watched him carrying those loads and stirring the little herrings with his frozen hands.. ..Sometimes my father’s clothes would glisten with herring brine. The light played above him, besides him. But his face, now yellow, now clear, would sometimes break into a wan smile.