When I was a tiny tot (1968) my mom decided to furnish the house in modern.
This included a print of a Chagall painting of a chicken. I remember it well.
One day it suddenly disappeared. My mom years later revealed that one day she was sitting on the couch and noticed that while on the surface it seemed to be a chicken, when looked at in the right way it was actually a couple engaged in coitus.
Being a preschooler I only ever saw the chicken.
Chagall couldn’t beat Picasso for weirdness, but they definitely played in the same league.
That explains all the Georgia O’Keefe paintings tucked behind the furnace. Thanks, Ma.