It was 1941, during the second world war. A 54 year old artist was sitting in his studio in France peacefully, today was a beautiful day. The glass doors of his studio were open, he could just walk out and go into his garden. He was Marc Chagall, originally from modern day Belarus, a jewish artist who had then later moved to France, to Paris. Despite everything, he was a very childish and kid-like person, practically always living in some dream world in his own head, never taking anything seriously. Even his art looked like it had been made by a child, though he could draw properly and seriously, he simply preferred not to. He was always present, but only physically, his mind was always elsewhere. He was married, too, to Bella, his belove, who was about the same time age as he was. He was a kind man, with curly dark, slightly greying hair, and kind eyes. Often dressed very simply in wool or his painting jacket.