Frida

Her image has been iconified. Across Mexico City there are unibrow emblems, tote bags, Frida mugs — the commercialisation of her image which makes my stomach churn. So, it was not surprising that my expectations of visiting her home were low, a surprise which was upturned and delightfully uprooting.

As the sun beamed down and those blue walls blazed back, entering Casa Azul, Frida Kahlo’s home in the Coyoacán neighbourhood of Mexico city, was like entering into a creative dimension from another era. Walking through the rooms she walked in, the kitchen she cooked in and standing beside the bed she painted from, there was a lingering, tangible sense of her presence. Displayed alongside her original artwork, were some of the callipers she had to wear, post accident —wooden, stiff, and distinctly uncomfortable. This juxtaposition of the vibrant art and the evidence of her pain rendered both more real and sudden. She wasn’t just living through, but radically creating through the pain. She was, in that sense, a literal tortured artist whose legacy of originality, vibrancy and creative edge-pushing has emboldened the world, rightfully, to her memory.

Entering the grounds, I paced myself slowly. The gardens in were flooded with large, sturdy cacti and colours so vibrant they would make blushing tame. I gently made my way through the outdoor spaces, then into the tight sequence of rooms. Colour and life stirred around me, and a new appreciation, and awe, quickly gathered pace. Upstairs, coming upon her easel and art materials, a wave of energy moved through me, which in that moment felt entirely hers, mystically so. It was as if her spirit was still sweeping through the space with a singular urge: create. My body quivered on the fine line between tears and excitement. What was this I was feeling? Was it coming from her? Or from me? Her wheelchair added another reminder: it’s all possible. The next room, her bedroom. On top of a large poster bed she had fashioned a mirror and an easel, propped in such a way that she could paint while lying down. Despite the pain, the painting proceeded, not I sensed, only as an act of creation, but as an act of endurance too. She painted on her body casts. She painted on her body.

In the room, also, her ashes. Was this the source of that feeling I had by her easel? Her creative energy still moving about the place, touching those who come to visit, nudging them somehow closer to their own acts of creation? Frida, reaching from the past with a reminder that the process of art making is one of the most redemptive, transformative acts there is.

I have no desire for a unibrow mug or tote bag — but the emblem of Frida is emblazoned, and her spirit- real or imaginary- still going strong with that singular urge alongside it: create.

Writing Prompts:

Prompt 1

Have you ever had a sense of an artwork or an artist still speaking through to you from an other era? Write about the feeling you’ve had standing in front of that artwork. What happened inside you? Write about why it was a powerful experience for you, and in what ways it has influenced you.

Prompt 2

Write about an artwork which inspires you. What is it about the piece that resonates with you? What message does it still carry for you now?

Some photos of the gardens…