ode to frida kahlo
I was introduced to Frida years ago in one of my first Spanish classes; I think was fifteen. I remember the painting...lefthand side of the book, Diego en mi mente. My first and last love at first sight.
With my other "heroines" (Dian Fossey and my Spanish teacher from high school) I admire their courage and themselves as people. But with Frida, she's not glorified, she's so real. She has this touching and very realistic dichotomy of being so strong and fierce, yet so delicate and tragic. She was a 5'3" powerhouse that drank hard and spoke her mind. She was in a trolley accident at eighteen, was impaled through the pelvis by a pole that exited through her vagina. She suffered many miscarriages and never had children. To her benefit or detriment (only she could've said), she adored Diego. They cheated on each other endless times, but there was no denying that they had a connection other people didn't understand. Either she couldn't help loving him, or she was very masochistic.
But that's part of what I love about her: she's so imperfect. She was (maybe too) passionate, which I can relate to, but this, in turn, inspired some of the most original paintings. Her paintings depicting Mexico and the U.S. side by side are perfect and are definitely as relevant today as they were over fifty years ago. She dressed as a man, she dressed as a woman---she loved and fucked both.
I love Frida. I love her imperfection.
I love her paintings, the writings in her journal.
I don't pretend that she was anything other than what she was. She would never want to be worshipped, but I think she would enjoy inspiring/giving strength to a 5'4", passion-crazy gringa as tough/sensitive as she was.
With my other "heroines" (Dian Fossey and my Spanish teacher from high school) I admire their courage and themselves as people. But with Frida, she's not glorified, she's so real. She has this touching and very realistic dichotomy of being so strong and fierce, yet so delicate and tragic. She was a 5'3" powerhouse that drank hard and spoke her mind. She was in a trolley accident at eighteen, was impaled through the pelvis by a pole that exited through her vagina. She suffered many miscarriages and never had children. To her benefit or detriment (only she could've said), she adored Diego. They cheated on each other endless times, but there was no denying that they had a connection other people didn't understand. Either she couldn't help loving him, or she was very masochistic.
But that's part of what I love about her: she's so imperfect. She was (maybe too) passionate, which I can relate to, but this, in turn, inspired some of the most original paintings. Her paintings depicting Mexico and the U.S. side by side are perfect and are definitely as relevant today as they were over fifty years ago. She dressed as a man, she dressed as a woman---she loved and fucked both.
I love Frida. I love her imperfection.
I love her paintings, the writings in her journal.
I don't pretend that she was anything other than what she was. She would never want to be worshipped, but I think she would enjoy inspiring/giving strength to a 5'4", passion-crazy gringa as tough/sensitive as she was.