Kids tough to wake up in their warm bed with rain pelting the skylights. I hustled to get ready before they awoke, and the chocolate cake/ACE juice breakfast beguine began.
Bathroom dark; the mirror in there is decayed even in bright light. In twilight and shadows it is positively impressionistic, which can be kind light indeed for a 43yo mama. Gotta represent. Gotta keep the bella figura even with sleep deprivation, a full-time job, a husband with an even fuller-time job, and two very small children in varying states of health.
But my blush brush went awry and my blush didn't match on my cheeks. I looked like a Modigliani. I didn't realize this until after dropoff.
My blush job was slightly more crooked than this one.
So I looked up Modigliani. Handsome fellow, no? Cut down at 36 by consumption. Also: Tuscan. Did I know this before? Why did I not? Livorno boy. Buried in Paris, you know where, where everyone is buried.
Also: Spinoza's descendent.
I have never been certain if I liked Modigliani more for the pleasure of saying his name or for his paintings. I remember enjoying reading (back when I read) about him in "Bohemian Paris Picasso, Modigliani, Matisse, and the Birth of Modern Art" by Dan Franck http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/393693.Bohemian_Paris
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