Spending the Morning in Mexico

This morning, I spend my morning with Frida Kahlo.

I had read about her years and years ago, during one of many art history classes, and found her interesting and colorful, but above all, powerful in a world where artists were revered and mysteriously worshipped. Myself, I was interested in other works more so than hers. I loved the precision of the Dutch, the glimmering gossamer of the French and the stark realism of Wyeth.

I was never in love with Dali, Picasso or any of the other political artists who poured out their viewpoints and opinions to canvas, such as Goya or in fact, Kahlo. But, such emotion and conviction has its place in history.

I had read her biographies and seen the glamorized version on film via Salma Hayek, but spent a good three hours looking – really looking – at her work this morning. Reading her words, reading her thoughts, putting together my own perceptions.

I transformed into colors, fabrics, music and dance. I transformed into old world Cuba and drifted into the markets of Mexico. I suddenly wanted to wear orange and pink and red and blue. I became hibiscus on a summer day and smelled of chilis and cinnamon. My morning had turned into late morning and it was time to address the day, yet I felt compelled to stay in Mexico just a bit longer.

I have been to Mexico, three times in fact. To me it was loud and the color of aged stucco. It smelled like baked tortillas and hot like the inside of an overheated engine. It was chattering, chattering, chattering and sharp cracks of slamming doors, crying children and the laughter of the women, gossiping about the latest fallen angel. It was not Frida's world. Or was it?

In Frida's world, on her canvas, it was a swirling palette of imagination and the piercing pains of unfaithfulness, bodily ruination and depressive thoughts, all colored with hopeful openness. She never gave up.

She lived in the world.

Now, I must go live in mine. And make of it what I can.