A vast canvas, infinite in its resonance, unfolds before us like a window into the twilight of our times. At its center, two figures float in a gravity-defying embrace, their faces softly illuminated by an uncertain glow. It is not the light of stars or the promise of dawn, but the pale, distant flicker of a screen—cold and unyielding, breaking the warmth of their union.
The sky, once an endless azure in Chagall’s universe, now fractures into a mosaic of tumultuous colors: electric purples, burning reds, and yellows reminiscent of industrial flames. Above, a solitary violin hovers, its strings stretched as if echoing humanity's plea to return to the sublime.
In the lower corner, a village emerges—not serene and pastoral, but shrouded in shadows, where artificial lights devour the mystery of the night. And yet, here and there, faint golden glimmers suggest that hope refuses to be extinguished.
In this imagined work, Chagall would speak to our world in his transcendent language, mourning the loss of the sacred in an age of soulless luminosity. Yet amidst the fragments of this mosaic, the exiled light seeks its way back—still alive, still radiant, still ours.
Jessica Sharon
31.12.2024
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