I have been reading Chagall’s autobiography which is so interesting, not least because of the lovely line drawings that accompany the text. The bold and broken lines give a jittery feel, a movement to the scene that at any moment might change: Grandfather might soon get up from reading his book, put on a jacket and go out into the night. The partially drawn young Chagall sits at the table entranced by everything around him. The marks in black ink are confident and sketch enough detail to reveal a cosy interior, sparse, but homely.
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