ON the walls of Paris' Maeght Gallery last week, nudes floated over the Champs-Elysees, an ass crouched impaled on the spire of the church of Saint-Germain-des-Pres with no visible air of discomfort, a sleek donkey proffered flowers to a foreshortened mermaid floating in a bubble above the Bastille. Over the Opera, a huge bouquet flowered against a turkey-blood sky; at its heart were three dim, blue figures echoing Carpeaux' famed group of statuary, The Dance, while two entwined lovers floated down the Avenue de 1'Opera oblivious of traffic (see opposite page). Marc Chagall,...
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