Amedeo Modigliani – Jeanne Hébuterne – The Metropolitan Museum of Art
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Postcard Story – Jeanne Hébuterne – 1919 – Amedeo Modigliani -1884–1920 – The Metropolitan Museum of Art – Part 2 – Is This Now Love?
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Note: This postcard story, Part 1 published 09/02/26, and Part 2 now, have been designed to connect to and continue, many years later, the postcard story written on 10/25/14 which was just published this year on 06/27/26. (To view the 07/06/26 post, use the specific link below.)
Part 1, and now Part 2, are a way of softening the tragedy of Jeanne Hébuterne’s life by providing an imagined more fulfilled surviving life for her after the death of the artist, Amedeo Modigliani – a sad sigh of homage to her difficult life.
(Use the Met link above to read the Met’s brief history of Modigliani and Jeanne’s life together.)
More information about the hard life from which Modigliani came, and the love and tragedy of his and Jeanne’s life together is easily available online.
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Granddaughter – 07/15/26
Part 2
…and is this now love? John-Pierre always sleeps in a white T-shirt, not wild at all…always comes home, the children all over him, even François the eldest, and Madeline, the middle one waiting her turn…is that it? Waiting for the quiet, the arms around her, the touch of his lips on her forehead, the few words he says, she looks up at him, she nods her head and smiles.
And I… his hand, his arm, sometimes two, upon me when he sleeps, my eyes open at times to observe and slowly take in everything about him. Why? Maybe…because…he is just there, not a constant in my memory, but a constant beside me, his smell, something I’ve always breathed in…and wanted. Maybe that is it…
Maybe that is love. For as he sleeps, yes, the hand, my hand, moves towards his forehead, tanned from his work outside, fingers lightly moving over his face, he never wakes, the stubble, not a defect, not a hesitation to me, removed in the morning for work, a fingertip upon his lips, the desire for him always upon me, his smell even then more intoxicating and calming – with wonderfully deep breaths, taking it in, at times my hand under his white T-shirt to touch and move upon his nipple, he always stirs. I close my eyes. I sing to myself – ♪ nothing wild…or blurry here…no ♪. And taking in his smell…I desire his touch upon me, upon…
The three children asleep…peacefully in the house…young Phillip always taking his shirt off. Wherever did he get that from? I sometimes fear he will get cold…
So…yes, now…this must all be love, and this is good, very good. Nothing wild, nothing blurry, just only…what I have here, and that is more than enough.
End of Part 2
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