Marc Chagall The Fiddler painting

Marc Chagall The Fiddler paintingMarc Chagall The Concert paintingMarc Chagall La Mariee painting
Drawing School, steps led down to the Upper Quad past the doors of Brent’s House—Frank’s. Here he met Mercer.
“Hullo, been painting?”
“Yes, if you can call it that.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“It’s absolutely beastly. I hate it, I tell you. I’d have torn it up if I wasn’t going to keep it as a humiliation to look at in case I ever begin to feel I know anything about art.”
“You’re always dissatisfied, Ryder. It’s the mark of a true artist, I suppose.”
“If I was an artist I shouldn’t do things I’d be dissatisfied with. Here, look at it, if you must.”
Mercer gazed at the open page. “What don’t you like about it?”
“The whole thing’s nauseating.”
“I suppose it is a bit ornate.”
“There, my dear Mercer, with your usual unerring discernment you have hit upon the one quality that is at all tolerable.”
“Oh, sorry. Anyway, I think the whole thing absolutely first-class.”
“Do you, Mercer. I’m greatly encouraged.”