I recently watched the movie Frieda again and was compelled to research a bit more about the start of her relationship with Diego. Aside from all the historical accounts of their notoriously tumultuous love affair, it was her words of undying devotion apparent in surviving love letters, handwritten and wildly decorated, that I found most intriguing. If only because now days the letter itself is proving a sadly dying art. I know that I can’t remember the last time I wrote one myself. But seeing some of hers makes me wish I would.
Lesson being. Maybe we should make an effort to write things down. On paper. In pen. Once and a while.
Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep, or listen, or love. To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood, outside time and magic, within your own fear, and your great anguish, and within the very beating of your heart. All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence, there would be only confusion. I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth. I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love.”
Nothing compares to your hands, nothing like the green-gold of your eyes. My body is filled with you for days and days. you are the mirror of the night. the violent flash of lightning. the dampness of the earth. The hollow of your armpits is my shelter. my fingers touch your blood. All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves which are yours. F.
Mirror of the night
Your eyes green swords inside my flesh. waves between our hands. All of you in a space full of sounds — in the shade and in the light. You were called AUXOCHROME the one who captures color. I CHROMOPHORE — the one who gives color.
You are all the combinations of numbers. life. My wish is to understand lines form shades movement. You fulfill and I receive. Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells which are my stars then goes to yours which are my light.”
~ “Kahlo was the first Latin American woman to have a painting in the Louvre; her work caused a storm in Paris in 1939 (at an exhibition entitled Méxique). It was André Breton who described her art as “a ribbon around a bomb.” Frida Kahlo tried hard to be as much the revolutionary as the icon of Mexican femininity. Her last public appearance was 11 days before her death on July 13, 1954, in a wheelchair at Diego’s side, protesting the intervention of the United States in Guatemala.” link