Midway through our education at the Instiuto Modigliani, a group of some sort (led by an instructor of some sort) descended upon the exhibit.

At first, we thought there might be a way to maneuver between the several rooms, keeping breathing space between us, without losing track of our goal.

Eventually, we had no choice but to share a small room, where the few actual originals were kept. Navigating those confines, somehow, seemed to be working.

Then a dapper young man, with a scarf, approached Rebecca. (He must have known about her scarf collection, even if he mistook her for a native Italian.)

The gentleman did a fine job holding up both ends of whatever conversation we were having about the process of restoring the canvas displayed before us.

Addressing his remarks to the obvious artist among us, he grew rather animated in his analysis of the painting that had been singled out for display.

Perhaps it would have helped if we could have read the one sign presented to the museum goers in Italian only. He, obviously, thought we could manage.

The way things stood, when he finally took his gracious leave of us, almost said it all. I glanced quizzically at Rebecca (to which she replied), “Not a clue.”

Forget Judy Collins (and Crosby, Stills, and Nash). All that was serious enough, in its way.

But if U want the epitome of the tragic artist(s), it’s hard to beat the story of Amedeo Modigliani and Jeanne Hébuterne.

Much too convoluted, and fascinating, to shorten here. The video alone, which we watched yesterday in advance of the exhibit, ran about twenty minutes.

Perhaps these replicas, or the Collins parallels, will entice.