The systems of this world are corrupt and therefore, broken. Like my body,which had so many fractures; my spine, the column that supported the entire structure had been cracked too many times to reassemble. I wore supportive braces beneath my dresses so no one would suspect that I was an unfortunate accident. Yes, I became the accident and not the victim while still a young and carefree girl whom life had not yet corrupted, the sacrificial lamb, so that in adulthood what remained was brokenness and sorrow. Never did I smile for the cameras, for the joy and innocence of youth faded after the second great accident, that of my marriage.
I did not marry for convenience as many women of my time were known to do. I thought it reprehensible for a woman to give herself to a man she cared little for in exchange for his financial support. To me, it was like selling one's most intimate secrets for pennies on the dollar. But I was a lowly woman in my own way. Though I married for love, which I considered the highest ideal, it came at a high price. Whether for love or convenience, the institution of marriage exacts its pound of flesh. It requires each one to set aside their own wants and needs and to consider the other first. Not many people are really prepared for such a reality and sacrifice. I watched my parents set aside their dreams to care for their children, so I understood it. Thus, in my marriage I became the sacrificial lamb. I reasoned that if I came second, he would love me more. And if I kept silent, I would not steal his limelight, though his art had enjoyed much more acclaim than my own by this time. And this is how I lowered myself. I dimmed my light so that his would rise. I caution you that there is never a circumstance in which your voice nor talent should be traded for another's, because yours is a unique and necessary gift. I am not encouraging divorce, for it will tear your heart out. If you can stay together and still sing your individual songs, you should. But men especially take it hard when a woman's accomplishments eclipse their own, especially a lover. In this case it is better to go your separate ways rather than cheat the whole world out of your talent to save one man's ego.
I never wanted to be Frida Kahlo the Mexican icon who strangers confess their love for, and devotion to; not at first, anyway. Now I do not mind if they worship at the fount of Frida. Like the dear virgin, my presence is at Casa Azul as it must be, for who else will attend to the prayers and good wishes murmured by adoring fans? But today my ego is not fed as it was when I was Frida the Reconstructed. Then I needed every stroke, being terrifically incomplete. I was isolated by my illness, and lonely; my body in tatters and my heart shredded and paper-thin. I needed to hear that I was brilliant, that I had triumphed and gotten the last laugh. But had I? I managed to stitch together a portrait of Frida made of paint, and she spoke from the canvas for the real me had fallen silent. Frida the Reconstructed had no more heart, for it had been ripped out. Thus, I painted two hearts connected, The Two Fridas. And between the two was the icon.
Do you understand? Sometimes one must build a likeness of themselves so they can keep going. For if you present yourself as you really are on the inside you would be called a bore, and self-pitying. But wasn't my art self-possessed when my topic was always myself? This was because I dared not express how it felt to be the real me. Nobody wanted to hear that said aloud. They only wished to hear stories of the phoenix rising from the ashes. Thus, I created a public me who smirked and smoked, a tougher version me who laughed only at irony. For life was and is ironic, making little sense when added up, but costing a trusting soul everything.
What am I saying about The Two Fridas? That everyone has two sides to them, and they build the second out of necessity. In marriage you will inevitably see the darker side. You will be shocked at how different your spouse is from what the world sees. Your beloved will appear to you as the sun being eclipsed by a storm cloud. You may wish to tell others how different your spouse is from what the world sees but dare not. For if you revealed all of them there would be no mystery. And every person must keep their mask. It protects what hurts the most, as a turtle's shell does. Only keep this in mind, that it is wiser not to touch that part, the stormy part, the tucked-in part. You may hug the child who suffers within them, but best to not call it out. It takes sensitivity to walk around someone's faults, to observe as they struggle against themselves, but it is their struggle. Their life is theirs alone and no brave effort of the best intention can save them. You must leave them. Will they see how much you cared, how you only thought about them and longed to take their hand? Perhaps not in this lifetime. This is the disappointment, the bitterness of love. That you wished to walk hand-in-hand through life when they did not offer the same. Therefore, promises made are foolish. You cannot promise what you do not have, though they did. This is why I say that marriage is a trap. It catches you in unrealistic promises, usually that neither mean to keep though you said your intentions were rock-solid.
Now my admirers do not make any promises and I prefer it that way. Come and worship at the Fount of Frida for a day as you gaze at my terrible fate. I hope you will see some of yourself in my paintings. Perhaps the furrowed unibrow, or the pursed lips; the incisions and the blood flowing mixed with the tears. And above all the heart pulled out and suspended like an offering. However you choose to relate to my life, my suffering, you are right. There are no wrong answers, only more questions, which is the beauty of abstraction. It is whatever you say it is. But however you relate to Frida the Reconstructed, remember that I am not she. For after death, which is not death at all, you become what you wished to be on earth but could not. Your idealized self, the not-broken you, the whole soul steps forward and claims the glory. Then the parts broken, scattered on the wind, refashion what was intended to be you but because of pain, could not be. Thus, I am not that broken woman anymore, the woman of many sorrows. Nor am I any nationality or tradition. All those trappings are forgotten in an instant as the storm clouds clear. What remains is a blazing light as bright as the sun which twinkles as the stars. You will light your own way, glowing and pulsing with new hope and courage.
This is your ultimate destiny, my reconstructed friend. For now, wear your mask and your heart on your sleeve, and cry tears for the tower within which was busted. It seems such a waste now, all your love given and not received. It seems hopeless now. Maybe it needs to fall apart, spectacularly. Let it fall apart, because life always regenerates, haven't you noticed? It always comes back together. We were all towers, broken and busted. One day you will join me, Frida the Reconstructed, twice: once on earth, again at death. The second time the destruction will all make sense.
With Love,
Frida
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