The red velvet seats, the gold trim, the cherub statues, marble-lined staircases, brightly-light chandeliers, the rounded corners, subtle details and he looks up. A cacophony of color, an explosion of dreaming images, slumbering characters of women and horses, village scenery reminiscent of Chagal’s home village of Vitebsk in la Russie. The cube, the symbol, the Fauvistic, the surrealist: flowing, syncopated madness through the innards of the frenzied palate. The painting screams within the walls of the 19th century Palais Garnier, livens the sterile air, evokes chaotic and sporadic yearnings from above, lining the worn stage with fattened strips of buoyant agitation. Pictures are snapped, tourists come and go. Communion is held.
Quiet. Listen as Mozart’s “Jupiter Symphony” leaks from the images 70 feet above. The ghostly shadows of the corps de ballet continue to dance upon the walls. Singers and musicians, dancers and artists everywhere sway to the movements as Chagal’s paintbrush conducts the piece to our moment in time. Wagner and Ravel, “Der Ring des Nibelungen” and “Bolero”, peel themselves from the chromatic dispositions, lay themselves comfortably within the strings of Apollo’s lyre and play stringed accompaniments to the Parisian’s roaming far below.
The chandelier dims, the skyward musings by Chagal are quieted. Muted scuffling as the players resume their posts and composer’s batons are locked in cases of gold-leaf and ivory. French oak doors creak close, the marble sighs antiquity, Chagal smiles, reposed. Till another day they wait, scheming prismatic brilliance.
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