One hundred twelve years ago Marc Chagall readied his palette, gripped his brush like a conductor’s baton, swept it across his canvas, and delivered Birth. How weary the writhing bloodied mother, how somber the midwife as she anxiously offers the newborn to our eyes, and what a sneak, that husband, who peaks between bed and canopy. Aglow with excitement villagers crowd into the room. One man brings his cow to see the new life. A peeping rabbi, his face framed by a window pane, peers into the room. This pink bubala ignites the village, vibrant in veneration, benediction, and bathed in vermilion.
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