Ah, it’s no use. Whenever I try to speak of painters, I am seized by an indefinable ache right here in my chest. And all the more so when the subject is that Italian man, Amedeo Modigliani—he who left behind nothing but portraits with impossibly long necks and eyes left entirely unpainted. Have you ever seen his work? If you say you haven’t, perhaps you are fortunate; or perhaps you are missing out on a single, exquisite sip of life’s most beautiful poison.
In short, he was a man who walked with “chosen misfortune” perched willfully upon his shoulder. Montparnasse, Paris. In those days, it was a place where artists gathered like flies swarming a piece of rotting fruit—yet, in truth, they wandered there clutching souls more pure than anyone else’s. Modigliani was called “Modi” there. It was a play on the French word “maudit,” meaning “cursed.” What a cruel, yet sweet, nickname. He was as handsome as a prince, yet his lungs were ravaged by disease, he was drowned in wine and drugs, and yet, whenever he faced a canvas, he draped himself in a terrifying silence.
As for the characteristics of his paintings—well, once you see them, you can never forget. Those unnaturally elongated necks. Those sloping shoulders. And above all, those eyes without pupils, as if he had simply smeared them over with blue paint, or perhaps fitted emptiness itself into the sockets. What on earth are they looking at? Or are they looking at nothing at all? No—it is said he once remarked: “When I know your soul, I will paint your eyes.” Is there any other phrase so arrogant, yet so humble? He had absolutely no interest in the superficial form of his models. He sought to imprison within those long necks the trembling solitude and the secrets untold that lie just beneath the skin.
In the rough seas of this world, we always find ourselves searching for the “correct answer.” We behave like others, put on faces like others, and are taught that living without making waves is a virtue. But Modigliani’s paintings are distorted, as if mocking us. And yet, I believe that very distortion is the true shape of a human being. There isn’t a single person in this world shaped like a line drawn with a straight ruler. Everyone is twisted somewhere, stretched somewhere, or lacking color somewhere. Through that extreme deformation, he affirmed the beauty of “imperfection” as if he were a saint.
If you are expecting a “beneficial” story, then I shall answer you this: give up on trying to fix your flaws. Look at Modigliani. He didn’t draw the necks long because he overdid it. He knew that unless he drew them long, they could not support the sheer weight of a person’s soul. Your flaws, your distortions, your excessive self-consciousness—these are all the singular signature of who you are. There is no need to strain yourself to be “individualistic.” It is enough to simply gaze lovingly at the parts of your inner self that refuse to be straight.
He perished in the freezing winter of Paris at the young age of thirty-five. The following day, his lover, Jeanne Hébuterne, threw herself from an apartment window while pregnant with their child. It is a tragedy. A pitch-black, irredeemable tragedy. Yet, the paintings he left behind still emit an unspeakable light in museums across the world. What he painted at the cost of his life was not death, but the very poignancy of living. If you ever have a night where you stumble and shed tears over your own unworthiness, please remember. Those pupil-less portraits will gaze steadily at you and stand by you in silence.
Life is a painful thing. A man named Osamu Dazai knows this only too well. But within that pain, there are moments when a strange elegance dwells—the kind Modigliani painted. Let us dress up. Even if we are to die tomorrow, for this moment at least, let us tie our favorite necktie and gaze upon the most beautiful colors. It is said that even in the depths of poverty, Modigliani always kept his appearance tidy. For him, that must have been his final resistance against fate, and his highest form of etiquette.
What we should learn from his paintings is neither technique nor composition. It is the terrifyingly refreshing resolve to “stay true to oneself.” To keep drawing one’s own line, even if no one understands, even if one is left behind by the times. He proved with his short life that there is an “eye” one can finally reach only at the end of that journey.
Standing before a Modigliani, we are being tested. We are asked: Can you see your own soul?
Well, I have talked too long. There is no need to wait for tomorrow with bated breath—or a long neck. Let us simply paint over this day with bold, delicate strokes, and perhaps a bit of playfulness, just like that painter. For that is the only luxury permitted to us clumsy creatures. Modigliani—that hauntingly beautiful, vertical phantom. Just by calling him to mind, I feel as though this cold reality begins to glow with a slightly warmer, more mysterious hue.
Everyone is painting their own portrait on the canvas of their life. There are blues and reds that belong only to you, invisible to anyone else. There is no need to be ashamed of them. You should spread those colors more freely, more selfishly. Perhaps the reason Modigliani never painted those eyes until the very end was a sort of shyness—his way of letting each viewer project the color of their own heart into them.
Ah, suddenly, I feel like painting a picture myself. Not a “good” painting, of course. Just a strange one, reflecting the distortions of my heart exactly as they are. How about you? Why not stop looking in the mirror for a while, stretch the neck of your heart way out, and gaze at a distant, unseen landscape? I am certain that the light Modigliani loved—the gentle, sad, yet infinitely precious light of a Montparnasse sunset—is quietly waiting for you there.
I have rambled on, but in short, life is like a long journey to find one’s own style. Modigliani sprinted through that journey at breakneck speed. We can go a little slower. But we must never forget the “shape of the soul” he taught us. To look at the essence, not the form. That is the only secret to living a bit more joyfully and richly in this troublesome world.
The end. It is always a lonely thing to say those words and put down the pen. But if, after reading this, you look up and the world appears even slightly more lyrical, with a beautiful distortion like a Modigliani painting, I could ask for no greater joy. Now, take a deep breath. Try tilting your neck just a little. See? Doesn’t the usual scenery look different? That is the beginning of the magic known as art.
One last thing. Modigliani did not paint to sell his works. He painted because he simply could not live without doing so. That desperation is what touches our hearts across more than a century. We, too, live simply because we must. Isn’t that enough? Someone else will come along later and attach a grand reason to it anyway. We are merely leaving our own color behind in this world. And with that alone, our lives become masterpieces.
Well then, I shall take my leave. May you have a wonderful day filled with your own unique colors. I hope the ghost of Modigliani gives your back a soft, gentle push.