Amedeo Modigliani.

These faces are not masks,
The thick layers of make up
Accentuate beauty,
Change fault lines into graceful
                                  highlights,
Flatter strong cheek bones.
The jobbing critic must have
                  screwed up his eyes
When confronted with such
                     graceful opulence
Dragged from the streets of Paris.
He did not see what even I can see
As I hurry passed.


And look how sensitive the glance
                                      of her eyes,
This girl with the raven hair
Looking shyly back over her shoulder
Into the gaze of the artist
As he maps her exposed body
Stretched awkwardly onto the old
                                      single bed.
He works with the skill of a cartographer,
Or a surgeon. His concentration absolute
As he guides the fine brush.


He studies her body with the eyes of
                                        the sculptor
He once was
Before the stone dust scoured tubercular
                                                  lungs
And forced him to revert to paint.
Perhaps he paid her more
Than the customary five Francs.
Perhaps he just could not afford to.
Something about her makes me think
                                                  this girl
Was a favourite model,
Someone he cared for more than a means
                                                to an end,
Someone he respected
And would speak to in the street,
An equal not just an employee.
A young girl who saw through his professional mask,
Who was aware of his vulnerability.
Something in the tilt of her head
Tells me this is true.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 3rd. 2018.