The essence of Chagall is the essence of Fiddler on the Roof – smiling, joyful, life-enhancing, dreamlike fantasy coping with unbearable tragedy.
At the end of the exhibition, there is a documentary of Chagall talking (pictured here with his wife, Bella). There is no need to understand a word he says – in Russian-accented French. It is the face that matters: the memorable face that exudes his essence.
In your mind you see the pictures as you see him talk.
This is unique.
If you could watch Leonardo talk, you would not see the Mona Lisa.
Eric Koch’s book, The Weimar Triangle, is available at Indigo-Chapters and in your local bookstore. 
How I manged to own a Chagal.
Many years ago I was walking along King’s Road in London in the falling evening summer light. As I was about to pass in front of a pub. At that moment, I was accosted by a tiny wizened older man dressed sandals, pink bib overalls and a striped mimes top. This was crowned by a styro-foam boater with the words “I’m only here for the beer”. At this point I noticed the gold topped cane and diamond encrusted Rollex.
He whispered, “Do you know who I am? I am Chagall” I replied that someone had to be, so that was just fine. He wanted to be escorted beyond the pub as he feared for his safety as well as his Rollex and cane.
It transpired that he was indeed “Chagall” but his name was Marcel rather than Marc. That did not matter, as he too, having spent much time with his more well known uncle, could knock off dreamy lovers, moon lit nights, surreal goats and moldy synagogues in that Polish ghetto style.
We met the next day for ice cream and I purchased a highly derivative signed masterpiece inscribed “a Michel avec tote affecton” for a trifling ten quid.
I regret that my encounter with Karl Marx (no relation) cannot compete with your remarkable adventure.