Chapter 22

Kissling and René were very concerned about Modi. His health and attitude were deteriorating.
Modi was a handsome devil who never followed the trends. His love was Italian sculpture. His influences were African Art, Cezanne and Picasso, but for Modi the genius lay in the work of Boticelli.

I had met Modi a few times. He was an accomplished painter and sculptor. He was everybody's friend and drinking partner. Modi, as we called him was the classic example of how a man could be taken in by the drink and drugs of Paris, changed, and finally broken. He was an Italian from Livorno where very little happens. Paris was his Mecca. He came there after studying in Italy for many years.

Paris Proves Too Much for Modi

He was a spirited and handsome young man. But Paris proved to be too much for him. His habitat was a cafe. His friendship was with fast women. He was neither a Fauvist nor Cubist. He was simply 'friend of the cafes'. He was interested in sculpture and befriended Brancusi. They stimulated each other but Modi favored the building sites where the Italian stone carvers worked to build Montparnasse. Many of his friends were chosen from the Italian masons and carvers as well as the street vendors, singers and prostitutes. The carvers found him places to work and gave him stones and tools to work with.

Near Brancusi's studio lived Beatrice Hastings, a green-eyed, outspoken British columnist who had a penchant for work, men and liquor, not necessarily in that order. They met in a restaurant called "Rosalie's," where liquor and hashish were Modi's pleasure. They became friends and even when Beatrice moved to Montmartre, Modi stayed in Montparnasse. His world was around the Rotonde or Rosalie's, nearby.

Modi's Two-Year Love Affair Was Over

I met Modi through Diego and Marevna. By then his two-year love affair was over. The dealer Paul Guillaume who was also interested in my work had discovered Modi. He could often be seen at Guillaume's gallery on rue La Boetie. With the backing of Apollinaire, Picasso and Max Jacob, Modi was ensconced in a new studio in Montmartre where he began an outpouring of some of the finest work created in Paris. Picasso encouraged Modi, when they first met, but the Spaniard did not awe the younger painter. Modi walked his own line.

But it was during the years that Modi painted his lover model Jeanne that he created his most lasting works. This shy young girl from a middle- class family gave him more inspiration than anyone else. She gave him more support and love than even he deserved. In those days Modi was an incorrigible drunk who, while he cared for Jeanne, cared more for his own pleasures.

Even Having a Child Did Not Settle Modi

They had a child together, but that hardly settled him. His life style was notorious. Once, we found him wandering naked on the boulevard Montparnasse. His temper took over often and it was not unusual for him to beat Jeanne in public. The only time he was happy was when he and Kissling were drinking.

But it was during the years that Modi painted Jeanne that he created his most lasting works. The shy young woman from a middle-class family gave him more inspiration than anyone else. She gave him more than he deserved.

In those days, Modi was a drug user and while he did care for Jeanne and their daughter, he cared more for himself and his own pleasures.
One night, when the police had closed his one man show because they found his nudes to be indecent, Modi stormed from the Weill Gallery and headed for La Rotonde. I was there with Kissling and another friend of theirs, Ortiz de Zarate. He and Modi were very close. Modi arrived in a foul mood. "They know nothing. They are all primatives. The French are blind to real art. Rabble...pigs..."

Kissling Tries to Calm Him Down

He explained the situation as he drank double Scotch's one after the other. Kissling tried to calm him down.

"You are convalescing," he said gently. "Enough drinking for one night. You're not well." He reached out to remove Modi's glass.
Modi swiped at the glass and sent it smashing onto the sidewalk. He rose and shouted, almost to the sky, "You are traitors. You do not know real art. You are no longer my friends!"

He quickly rushed from the cafe terrace and out onto the street. A taxicab screeched to a halt only inches from the inebriated artist. The driver called out an obsenity and waved his fist.

"You are all peasants," Modi shouted at the startled driver. "You are barren and hopeless!"

We called to him but he hastily disappeared, clutching his side.
We talked on. We had seen outbursts like this before, perhaps not so violent.

"He'll go home and sleep it off," said Ortiz. Kissling nodded, but I detected doubt in his face.

The conversation and drinking continued. People came and went. Some had been to Modi's one-man show and wanted to talk about it. We sat there for a few hours.

"Why don't we look in on Modi," I suggested. "He lives nearby."
The others jumped up. It was as though I had hit on their thoughts exactly. We started to run. At Modi's we raced up the stairs. The stench of stale air hit us. The artist was delirious and in deep pain. Jeanne and the baby were at her mother's.

Modi Is Taken to the Hospital, Where He Dies

He lay in bed fully clothed. The room was strewn with empty bottles and sardine cans. I raced out onto the street and found a policeman who arranged for an ambulance. They took Modi to the hospital. That night the greatest Italian artist of the twentieth century died of tubercular meningitis. He was thirty-six years old.

"Another suicide," said Kissling. "What a loss for French Art."
"But..." I began.
"It was self inflicted. He had a wish to die. All those nights of drugs and alcohol. It is too much for any man."

The funeral took place at the far end of the Père Lachaise Cemetery, near a quiet road. Jeanne was hysterical. Her second child was due in months. The gathering was made up of deeply shaken members of the art world. Every painter I had ever met in Paris was there. But what disturbed me most was the entourage of dealers who gathered in clusters around the gravesite before the family had departed, negotiating for his work. If it could be possibly imagined, a deeper shockwave hit the community the next morning. Jeanne, barely an adult, was so overtaken with grief, she plunged to her death from the fifth story window of her parent's apartment. The unborn baby naturally died with her.

Modi's Partner Is Buried Next to the Man She Loved

The next morning, the same crowd returned to the cemetery to watch Modi's adoring partner lowered into the ground next to the man she couldn't live without. Very few words were spoken that morning. The dealers were absent but not missed. I often look at a small drawing I have of Modi that Jeanne once gave me. It was a quick sketch of the talented Italian at work. I didn't know she could draw.

"You have been a loyal friend, "she said softly. "I did this when Modi was happy. Keep it and you'll never forget him."

How can anyone forget the beautiful romantic who painted so beautifully, loved everyone and was so well loved? And how can anyone forget the quiet young woman who truly was his soul mate.

To read the next chapter, click here.