When I think of Chagall's genius, I lose my head. My village goes up in smoke. I become transparent, conspiring with the fairies and elves, surprised by the dybbuks who whisper my name in caves. I am a character from the Old Testament—art that reflects misery and joy—a juggler who juggles circus clubs over his head, does a pirouette while blown sideways by the wind, rides on a white horse, and commiserates with my old friend, Picasso — after he painted Guernica.