Marc Chagall

"The role of the artist is tragic today because, while the world's horizons have been extended, the human heart is as small as ever."

— Marc Chagall

Russian Artist

1887 - 1985

The Prophet Jeremiah
1968

In the last 150 years the world has known many technological and scientific advances.  We have put men on the moon and invented thousands of items that make life easier for human beings from the light bulb to the iPad.  But the human heart has not changed.  We remain selfish, angry and territorial.  We kill, murder and steal.  We still break the Ten Commandments as well as the laws of man.  We are cruel, mean and unforgiving. 

Artists create beautiful paintings that inspire us all, but are abusive to their wives and girl friends.  Writers create powerful stories that touch the heart, but are rude, crude and demeaning to those around them.  Actors may explore the emotional depths of characters they play, but are unaware of their own self-destructive tendencies.

Stained Glass Windows
in Saint Stephen Cathedral,
Metz, France

Human beings have two natures: a violent one and a compassionate one.  And both often reside in the same person in varying degrees.  And we have not changed in thousands of years.  Every time we take a step forward and seem to be improving, we take a couple of steps backward.  Consider all the greed that helped create the latest financial recession.  

I learned years ago that I can't change the world.  The only person I can change is myself.  I ask myself, "What can I do today to make myself a better person tomorrow?"  And every day is a struggle.  Some days are better than others.  And some days I slip back into old habits and behaviors that are destructive to myself and to others.  Each day is a new beginning.  A new opportunity to be a better person than I was yesterday.  All I can hope for is that I am able to make a difference in somebody's life.  That I can touch one heart today.  Give hope to one soul.

Marc Chagall

"In our life there is a single color, as on an artist's palette, which provides the meaning of life and art.  It is the color of love."

— Marc Chagall

Russian Artist

1887 - 1985

We paint our lives with the color of love.  What color is love in your life?  Love is about relationships and the color of love changes with the people we love.  Parent-child love is certainly a different color then woman-man love.  What color is friend love?  Or sibling love?  How about pet love?  Can you paint a picture of love just using color and no people?

Do you love creating art?  Do you love writing?  What color is the love of creation?  Do you have a passion for what you create?  What color is passion?

Marc Chagall

"If I create from the heart, nearly everything works, if from the head, almost nothing."

— Marc Chagall

Russian Artist

1889 - 1985

Sometimes the mind gets in the way of creativity.  We are constantly talking to ourselves about our work and usually this self-talk is very negative.  "Oh, I shouldn't say that.  What will my mother say?"   Or "I am no good at painting faces."  One expert says that 75% of what we say to ourselves is negative and this negativity hurts our ability to create.  We need to learn to use positive self-talk, to appreciate the talent we have been given.  Since there are enough negative people in the world who will put us down and criticize our work, we don't need to do it to ourselves.  I challenge you to listen to your self-talk and whenever it is negative, change it and make it positive. 

Que me tenga cuidado el amor

Marc Chagall
Óleo
Foto de Pablo Mandile

Óleo de mujer con sombrero

de Silvio Rodríguez

Una mujer se ha perdido
conocer el delirio y el polvo,
se ha perdido esta bella locura,
su breve cintura
debajo de mí.
Se ha perdido mi forma de amar,
se ha perdido mi huella en su mar.

Veo una luz que vacila
y promete dejarnos a oscuras.
Veo un perro ladrando a la luna
con otra figura
que recuerda a mí.
Veo más: veo que no me halló.
Veo más: veo que se perdió.

La cobardía es asunto
de los hombres, no de los amantes.
Los amores cobardes no llegan a amores,
ni a historias,
se quedan allí.
Ni el recuerdo los puede salvar,
ni el mejor orador conjugar.

Una mujer innombrable
huye como una gaviota
y yo rápido seco mis botas,
blasfemo una nota
y apago el reloj.
Que me tenga cuidado el amor,
que le puedo cantar su canción.

Una mujer con sombrero,
como un cuadro del viejo Chagall,
corrompiéndose al centro del miedo
y yo, que no soy bueno,
me puse a llorar.
Pero entonces lloraba por mí,
y ahora lloro por verla morir.

(1970)

Apaga la radio para apreciar el video!

Silvio Rodríguez, Madrid 1973