In my life, I've only painted the honest expression of myself.
To say what I couldn't in any other way.
I paint because I need to.
Who would've thought that stains of color can come to life
and help one live?
Mexico was my entire universe.
I was happy.
I ran through every corner of my yard
and I'd shout and laugh from under a tree.
My mom was obsessively religious.
She invited priests to hold Mass at my house
and her friends would come to pray the rosary.
While everyone was praying
I tried not to laugh.
I remember asking about the Mysteries of the Bible.
They'd always say, "To dedicate oneself more to God."
But I kept bothering the priest with questions.
How was Christ born?
Was the Virgin Mary really a virgin?
They threw me out for spoiling it for the other kids.
My father was a photographer.
I was fascinated with his studio.
Papa was an atheist and the only one in the house who read
books about science, geography, and history.
I went everywhere with my father.
He would paint small landscapes by the river
with watercolors and oil paints.
Papa kept his box of paints tucked away in his studio.
And I really wanted that box.
Green
good warm light
Magenta
Aztec
Mexican red
old blood of the prickly pear
Brown
color of molé
earth
Yellow
sun and happiness
I was a girl who walked through a world full of colors
of tangible forms.
Everything was mysterious and held secrets.
Deciphering the world was like a game.
I wanted to be a doctor
so I attended the National Preparatory School.
I didn't like it at first because I had to go upstairs with the other girls.
All the girls would say
"Frida is a little strange."
I ended up befriending a group called the Cachuchas.
We wore caps
and I was the only girl.
When Frida arrived at the school she was rebellious
and defied tradition.
She was drawn to rebellious young men
and she joined our group.
I followed the Cachuchas everywhere
and took part in all of their mischief.
We strapped firecrackers on a dog
and we sent it into the school.
We wreaked havoc and got all the classes suspended.
Frida was standing in a hallway dying of laughter.
I would go to the boys' classes instead of going to mine.
I barely passed my classes
or I would cheat to get good grades.
Alejandro was a leader at school.
He took part in all of the student protests.
I'm attracted to intelligent people.
I choose those I feel are superior to me.
My Alex
My beloved Alex
My Alex
I wanted Alejandro to fuck me
but he preferred to tell me nice things.
He'd recite poetry
and give me kisses and hugs.
I think that everything that gives pleasure is good.
breath
scent
armpit
love
abyss
That day I took a bus with Alejandro.
I sat next to the handrail and Alejandro sat next to me.
Shortly after getting on the bus the crash started.
A trolley approached our bus slowly
hitting us straight in the middle.
The bus had a strange elasticity.
It bent more and more.
When it reached its breaking point
it burst into a thousand pieces.
It wasn't violent
but silent.
Slow.
The handrail went through me like a sword through a bull.
It's a lie that one realizes the crash.
A lie that one cries.
I had no tears.
I didn't understand the kind of wounds I had suffered.
I thought I came out unscathed.
I ended up under the trolley.
As soon as I was able to get up I looked for Frida.
Horrified, I realized that a piece of iron had pierced her body.
A man said, "We need to take it out."
He put his knee on Frida's body and pulled it out.
Frida screamed so loud you couldn't hear the ambulance's siren.
CRASH WRECKS BUS
The doctors didn't think they could save her.
It will take a long time for the fracture in my pelvis to mend
and for the wounds in my foot to heal.
The doctor thinks I will have to stay like this
for three or four months.
I now inhabit a world of pain
transparent
like ice.
It no longer holds mystery.
The crash destroyed me
but at least Lady Death didn't take me.
Everyone tells me not to despair
but no one knows what it's like for me
having been free in the streets all my life.
I feel trapped by the walls in my room.
I'm alone with my soul.
My mother devised a wooden contraption where I could attach my papers.
She also hung a mirror over my bed so I could use myself as a model.
I started painting portraits of my friends.
Dear Agustín
I painted your portrait with love.
Beautiful Alicia
I'm sending you all my love. Your pal, Friducha.
Miguel, little brother
don't ever forget about Cachucha number 9
Frida Kahlo.
Alex
this is so you don't forget me.
Don't stop writing to me.
Here is my portrait, Alex.
It'll be at your house in a few days.
I beg you, hang it low
so you can see it as if you were looking straight at me.
After a year in many casts
I still felt very sore and had little strength.
But I want to be productive with the health I have left.
When the Revolution started I was aware of what was happening.
I was four when I witnessed Zapata's peasant fight against the establishment.
The peasants took up arms to seize the bread that the rich denied them.
Land and freedom.
In Mexico, coraje means becoming violent when you face injustice.
I feel the pain of the oppressed.
I feel the need to fight for them.
That's why as soon as they allowed me to walk after the accident
I joined the Communist party.
MEXICAN ART REFLECTS NEW VALUES
ART AND REVOLUTION
The spirit of the Revolution
was the foundation for my determination.
Diego Rivera was painting frescoes at the Ministry of Education.
Diego is a communist.
His creative work is at the service of the social revolution.
He has great taste.
He admires everything that emanates beauty
whether it comes from a woman or a mountain.
I had only seen him from far away but I admired him greatly.
One day I brought him four paintings and just like that I said
"Diego! Get down!"
I looked down from my scaffold and saw a girl of about eighteen.
She had a pretty body and a delicate face.
Look, I haven't come to flirt with you.
Even though you're a womanizer I've come to show you my paintings.
If you're interested, let me know. If not, that's fine.
So I can find another way to help my parents.
I was impressed.
Her canvases revealed an unusual expressive energy.
"In my opinion, you must continue to paint," I said at once.
He told me, "You have talent."
That's when my courtship with Diego began.
Diego is a big kid.
His bulging eyes are never still
as if they were made for a painter.
His fleshy lips always show a mischievous and tender smile.
She got a kick out of hearing him talk.
She'd tease him and rile him up.
Toad Face
Fatbelly
Little Diego
I used to dress like a boy.
But when I started seeing Diego I put on traditional Tehuana dresses.
You will be called Auxochrome the one who captures color.
I, Chromophore, the one that gives color.
DIEGO RIVERA IS MARRIED
Everyone said it was like marrying an elephant to a dove.
I want to have a son
because this is a man's world.
I want him to look like Diego.
If I were to have a girl I would like her to look a bit like me
but prettier.
I would go to see Diego every day while he painted.
It pleased him to see me arrive with food in a basket covered in flowers.
I was working as much as seven days a week
and 18 hours a day on government commissions.
When an art dealer offered me a one-man show at the Museum of Modern Art in New York
I got incredibly excited.
For an artist this is the pinnacle of professional success.
Here it is
the might
the power
the glory
the youthfulness of our lands.
New York is so massive
I can't believe it was built by people.
Our hotel is right in front of Central Park
only a block away from 5th Avenue.
Some neighborhoods in New York are much more interesting than ours.
We went to Harlem.
It's a beautiful thing to see.
There are immigrant communities from every part of the world.
The celebrations in Chinatown feel like the ones in Mexico.
Full of fireworks and colors.
We received a magnificent welcome
and we were feted at parties, dinners, and receptions.
Diego is the big shit here.
High society people lead the most stupid lives.
They all spout nonsense and brag about their millions.
You also need to own tons of dresses.
If you show up looking disheveled they will eat you alive.
But Mexico is in style now
and all of my dresses catch their attention.
Their jaws drop
because they're a bunch of idiots who get excited over the dumbest things.
Diego is painting two blocks from our hotel.
I am also painting all the time.
I paint things that are heavily influenced by Diego.
I've adapted to his style.
I try my best to make sure it's done well.
Winter here is incredibly sad.
Everything becomes white suddenly.
But people don't stop going out.
I don't leave this place.
I can't walk much with my crooked spine.
I'm always in pain.
I'm weak and tired.
I spend my days alone
since Diego doesn't stop painting and painting
and must tend to his affairs.
Diego
I'm alone.
I was never a faithful husband.
I indulged my desires and had affairs.
I often found women too desirable to resist.
I wanted the freedom to go after anyone who caught my fancy.
Frida didn't object to my infidelity.
What offended her was when I chose women unworthy of me or inferior to her.
It all made me angry and if I'm being honest, jealous.
Why can't I get it through my head that the affairs with all these women
the English teachers
the models
and the disciples captivated by your art
are just distractions.
Even though we fight and curse each other
it all makes me realize that I love you more than my own skin.
And even if you don't love me the same
you must love me a little bit, right?
Diego's exhibition has been a success.
Two to three thousand people go every day.
Diego's been offered a lot of new work.
So now, we're headed to Detroit.
All I want is to go to Mexico
but Diego has dreams of painting the steel industry.
Detroit's Art Commission, led by Edsel Ford
invited me to paint murals at the Detroit Institute of Arts.
It was the largest sum I had ever been offered to paint walls.
He is in love with the factories
and the machines.
Like a child with a new toy.
Unfortunately, Diego has to work for these rich jerks.
He tells me that there will be about three or four months of work here
and then we can return to Mexico.
I'm two months pregnant.
I don't know what to do.
I don't think Diego wants to have a child.
Diego only cares about painting.
It's more important to him than anything else in the world.
Secondly, I'm not strong.
The bus accident crushed my bones.
I doubt the baby would be healthy.
Since I still have time to make the best decision for my health
I think I should have an abortion.
The doctor told me I should keep the baby instead of aborting it.
Despite my poor health, he thinks I could have the baby with a cesarean section.
I don't know why the doctor thinks it would be better for me to have the child.
Since abortion is illegal here maybe he's afraid.
It's been almost two months.
Now that I think I can withstand the pregnancy
I'm excited to have the child.
I miscarried in the blink of an eye.
The fetus didn't form. It was disintegrated.
Who knows what the hell is wrong with my body?
I had been so excited to have a little Diego that I cried so much.
They took me to Ford Hospital.
The doctor didn't tell me what caused it.
I don't know why I miscarried.
I became obsessed with starting over.
Painting things as I saw them
through no one else's eyes
but my own.
My feelings
my moods
and my profound reactions to life.
The only thing I know
is that I paint because I need to.
How I wish to leave this place.
I want to run and run until I get to Mexico.
Frida would rather be in Mexico
but I like the United States.
I'm happier here.
Nelson Rockefeller wanted the best artists to beautify his new RCA building.
I am completely disappointed with the famous United States.
Everything here is about appearances but deep down it's a pile of shit.
I've seen thousands of people in the most terrible conditions
without anything to eat and nowhere to sleep.
Rockefeller was fully acquainted with my communist ideas.
DIEGO RIVERA WITH HIS WIFE AND ASSISTANTS
I was painting a revolutionary mural
with workers marching and singing
and a figure of Lenin.
I was quite aware that I was going against public opinion.
The private police at Radio City gave me the order to stop work.
My mural was smashed to pieces.
Stuck-up gringos.
Motherfuckers. Sons of bitches.
Because of the conflict with Rockefeller
all my commissions in the United States were canceled.
Diego blames me for coming back to godforsaken Mexico
but I know it's not my fault.
He has no desire to work and gets angry a lot.
It's painful that he thinks I'm to blame.
I was instrumental in bringing Trotsky to Mexico
after every country in the world had closed its doors.
I was sick when Trotsky arrived
so I asked Frida to welcome him and his wife at the dock.
I dedicate this painting to Leon Trotsky with all my affection.
I'm so tired of this old man.
Make love, take a bath
and make love again.
For me to fall in love the person has to be sensitive
and above all, I must be sexually attracted to them.
An affair lasts as long as it gives pleasure.
It's good to have sex even if one is not in love.
During sex, my breasts play an active role.
I get excited when they are touched.
Nachito, I would like to spend more time with you all on our own.
Jacqueline, I have not forgotten you.
The nights are long and punishing.
Bartolí, last night I felt as if wings caressed my entire body.
As if your fingertips were lips that kissed my skin.
Love is the foundation of all life.
The more I loved a woman the more I wanted to hurt her.
Frida was the main victim of this disgusting trait.
I got involved with Frida's best friend
her sister, Cristina.
We were four sisters
but Cristina was the sister that I loved the most
and who I tried to help whenever I could.
Cristina is really pretty.
As a child, I was very jealous of her.
We would fight furiously.
But she was my everything.
I know that right now Diego is more interested in my sister than me.
It's all a load of crap.
I can't forgive him.
And that is all.
Love
Hate
Madness
I spend my days crying with rage.
I'm just like any other girl heartbroken by a man leaving her.
I'm worthless.
I can't do anything right.
My situation is so idiotic that I hate myself for it.
Once Frida found out, she left me.
It was too late.
But if given another chance I can't say I'd do anything differently.
Every man is a product of his times
and I am what I am.
I wanted to go to New York but I had no money.
Now I live somewhere else.
Diego drops by once in a while but we have nothing to say.
There is no connection between us anymore.
He doesn't tell me about his life. He's not interested in what I do or think.
I loved her too much to make her suffer.
So to prevent future heartaches I pleaded with her to give me a divorce.
Today I signed the divorce papers
and I feel lousy because I truly love him.
But I think this will finally give him what he wants.
I will no longer be a burden keeping him from the freedom he demands.
After a few months I forgave my sister
and I'm trying my best to forget what happened and live.
I'm learning to be alone
and that is a small triumph.
I've wasted my best years being dependent on a man
without doing anything for myself.
I need to paint so I can make a living.
Then I will be free.
I no longer accept a damn cent from Diego.
I will never accept money from any man until I die.
I paint myself because I'm what I know best.
My self-portraits are the true expression of my emotions.
I was told not to paint so many sad things
but I will paint whatever I want even if the paintings don't sell.
For the first time in my life I sold one of my pieces.
I now have a commission to paint a self-portrait with monkeys.
It seems that everyone wants monkeys.
I don't know why.
The Surrealist poet André Breton came to Mexico.
I never knew I was a Surrealist
until André Breton came to Mexico and told me I was one.
I must confess I didn't even know that this art movement existed.
I adore surprises and the unexpected.
But I never painted my dreams.
I painted my own reality.
Breton was so impressed with my work he urged me to exhibit in Paris and New York.
A Surrealist gallery in New York invited me to do a solo exhibition.
I've never had an exhibition before.
Everything went wonderfully.
I displayed 25 pieces and sold 12.
From there I went to Paris for an exhibition organized by André Breton.
Ever since I arrived, it's been a shit show.
My exhibition wasn't even set up.
My paintings were waiting patiently for me in customs.
The son-of-a-bitch Breton hadn't even gone to pick them up.
Now Breton wants to exhibit my paintings
along with common objects he bought in Mexican markets.
Ordinary crap.
It's all junk.
The exhibition will finally open at the Pierre Colle gallery.
They say it's one of the best ones here.
There was quite a crowd at the opening.
Huge congratulations from Joan Miró.
Great praise from Kandinsky.
And congratulations from Picasso and other big cacas of Surrealism.
But these rich bitches don't want to buy anything.
I don't have the honor of being in the elite circle of famous artists.
Men are kings.
They rule the world.
These people make me want to vomit.
They sit in the cafés for hours warming their precious asses.
They talk endlessly about "culture" "art" and "revolution."
They poison the air with theories that never come true.
I hate Surrealism.
It's a decadent manifestation of bourgeois art.
I am so sick of the whole affair. To hell with everything.
Fuck everything concerning Breton and this lousy place.
Let them eat shit.
I am going home.
I feel like hell.
Exhausted by the constant pain in my back that gets worse every day.
I am fucked because of the accident.
My foot always hurts.
The nerves are damaged and my foot will never be the same.
It's hopeless.
All the doctors want me to have an operation.
I'm scared.
In the end, they proceeded to break bones.
They tore off a piece of my pelvis and fused it to my spine.
The bone will take a long time to grow and readjust.
I'll have to stay in this hospital for quite a while.
It is hard to imagine my future.
I can't think about it until I get well.
Tree of hope, stay strong.
Frida, I haven't known how to say this.
I've never been able to admit how much I love you
but now I'm sure of it.
Little girl, I'm terribly worried about your illness.
He tells me I am the woman he loves above everyone else
and he wants me to marry him again.
I loved her and I begged her to marry me again
but without success.
When she finally accepted she did so with conditions.
That she would support herself with the earnings of her own work.
That I would only pay for half of our home expenses.
And that we wouldn't have sex with each other.
When explaining this last condition, she said
When I imagine you with all your other women I can't make love to you.
As soon as you start seducing me I face a psychological barrier.
I felt so happy to have her back that I accepted all of her conditions.
Frida and I got married for a second time.
Our second marriage is going well.
There is more mutual understanding. No more jealousy or violent arguments.
Each spouse does their part to maintain the home.
We'll be together forever.
Nothing but love between us.
My little boy
I will build you a home with all of my love.
I'm now teaching at an art school.
And in the afternoons I dedicate myself to the beauty of painting.
As soon as I finish one I have to sell it to earn enough money for the monthly expenses.
If it weren't for my health
you could even say that I'm happy.
Up until 1950, I was doing well enough.
But now my health is at its worst.
Frida became a professional patient.
She had many surgical interventions
a parade of doctors and orthopedic braces.
They would hang her to straighten her spine.
This is my reality.
There is no remedy.
Despite it all nothing is better than laughter.
Laughing hard gives you strength.
At the hospital, Frida made light of her pain
and swore all the time.
Fucking life.
If she saw me with a pretty woman, she'd say
Pass her to me. I'll take a puff.
I'm always in a cast
but I'm not discouraged.
I have an enormous will to live.
Long live life!
I'm sure they will amputate my right leg.
I don't know the details but my doctors are concerned.
I'm an invalid.
Now I am trapped in this fucking house of oblivion.
Yellow
sickness
fear
All the ghosts wear this color.
Red
blood
Black
Nothing is black
truly nothing.
I want to die.
After the operation to amputate her leg
everything was silent.
Not even Diego's presence helped and she didn't want to paint at all.
The doctor said not to force her to do anything
because she didn't want to live anymore.
But one morning, she looked up at me and said
I think I'm going to paint.
I had to bind her to her wheelchair so she could sit up straight.
In my life I've painted little
without the slightest desire for glory or ambition
with the sole conviction to give myself pleasure
and the power to make a living with my trade.
I've lost so many things I wanted for my life.
But painting completed my life.
I told Diego it was an outrage that we had never held an exhibition for Frida in Mexico
and what would he say about holding one in my gallery.
EXHIBITION OF FRIDA KAHLO'S BODY OF WORK
She arrived in an ambulance
like a heroine.
Frida sat in the middle of the room.
She was pleased to see so many people honoring her warmly.
She said almost nothing.
She must have realized she was bidding life goodbye.
I am not afraid of death.
Even so, I must face the bitter fact
that having many lives would still not be enough
for me to paint everything I want.
What is joy?
The creation born of discovery.
The lonely deer wandered very sad and very hurt
until it found warmth and a home.
When the deer returns strong, happy and healed
the wounds he now bears will all have been erased.
Thank you for giving me solace.
In the deer's forest, the sky is now clear.