'As fresh, poignant and individual as his paintings' Lucy Beckett, TLS, Books of the Year 2018 'Here is my soul. Look for me here; here I am, here are my pictures, my roots' Marc Chagall, one of the twentieth century's most popular artists, grew up in a close-knit, bustling Russian-Jewish community, the son of a herring seller. In his colourful, dreamlike autobiography, written as he was about to leave his homeland for good in 1922, he vividly brings to life the memories and places that fed into his unique work, from his shtetl childhood to revolutionary Russia and Belle Epoque Paris. Filled with Chagall's own evocative illustrations, My Life is as warm, joyful and humane as his art. 'Chagall writes as whimsically as he paints: lovingly ofother people, humorously and lovingly of himself' Daily Mail 'Anyone who likes Chagall's paintings will enjoy this book:the work of an unteachable, unspoiled folk artist' Evening Standard

Collection of four documentaries about Russian avant-garde art collector George Costakis and the painters whose works feature in his collection. The films comprise: 'The Collector Costakis', 'Kazimir Malevich', 'Marc Chagall' and 'Kandinsky'.

BURNING LIGHTS by BELLA CHAGALL. Contents include: HERITAGE 9 THE COURTYARD 13 THE BATH * 5 SABBATH 4 THE MELAMMED 63 ROSH-HA-SHANAH 73 DAY OF ATONEMENT 82 SUKKOT Q SIMCHAT TORAH * o6 THE FIRST SNOW ** 5 THE HANUKKAH LAMP 12* THE FIFTH LIGHT ** 6 HANUKKAH MONEY THE SHOP J 54 PURIM GIFTS l &* THE BOOK OF ESTHER * 75 THE PURIM PLAYERS 185 DINNERTIME * 93 HUNTING FOR CHOMETZ 2O2 PASSOVER EVE 205 THE SEDER 22O ELIJAH THE PROPHET 235 THE AFIKOIMEN 24 TISHAH B'AV 244 A WEDDING 248 GLOSSARY 265. HERITAGE. IT is an odd thing: a desire comes to me to write, and to write in my faltering mother tongue, which, as it happens, I have not spoken since I left the home of my parents. Far as my childhood years have receded from me, I now suddenly find them coming back to me, closer and closer to me, so near, they could be breathing into my mouth. I see myself so clearly a plump little thing, a tiny girl running all over the place, pushing my way from one door through another, hiding like a curled-up little worm with my feet up on our broad window sills. My father, my mother, the two grandmothers, my handsome grandfather, my own and outside families, the comfortable and the needy, weddings and funer als, our streets and gardens all this streams before my eyes like the deep waters of our Dvina. My old home is not there any more. Everything is gone, even dead. My father, may his prayers help us, has died. My mother is living and God alone knows whether she still lives in an un-Jewish city that Is quite alien to her. The children are scattered In this world and the other, some here, some there. But each of them, in place of his vanished inheritance, has taken with him, like a piece of his father's shroud, the breath of the parental home. I am unfolding my piece of heritage, and at once there rise to my nose the odors of my old home. My ears begin to sound with the clamor of the shop and the melodies that the rabbi sang on holidays. From every corner a shadow thrusts out, and no sooner do I touch it than it pulls me Into a dancing circle with other shadows. They jostle one another, prod me in the back, grasp me by the hands, the feet, until all of them together fall upon me like a host of humming flies on a hot day. I do not know where to take refuge from them. And so, just once, I want very much to wrest from the darkness a day, an hour, a moment belonging to my vanished home. But how does one bring back to life such a moment? Dear God, it is so hard to draw out a fragment of bygone life from fleshless memories And what if they should flicker out, my lean memories, and die away together with me? I want to rescue them. I recall that you, my faithful friend, have often in affection begged me to tell you about my life in the time before you knew me. So I am writing for you. Our town is even dearer to you than to me. And you, with your full heart, will understand even what I shall not succeed in telling. Only one thing torments me. My sweet little daugh ter, who spent o

My Life was written in Moscow in 1921-1922, when Chagall was thirty-five years old. Although long out-of-print, it remains one of the most extraordinarily inventive and beautifully told of all autobiographies. The text is accompanied by twenty plates which Chagall prepared especially to illustrate his life story. Together, the words and pictures paint an incomparable portrait of one of the greatest painters of this century, and of the now vanished milieu which inspired him.