Sharp Monica

An honest voice in Italian paradise.

Blush, Modigliani and Tuscany

Rained out this morning, and Auntie Amy flew out on Swissair through the clouds.

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.

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