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INTRODUCTION
Everybody loves the painter-saint, Frida Kahlo. Not a patron saint, but painter-saint. And why shouldn't we? She was a self-taught bohemian Mexican surrealist painter with a unibrow from hell and the Mona Lisa's smile. Even during her lifetime, everybody loved Frida, except for her heart's one ardent desire, the painter and muralist Diego Rivera. Some would argue, "He loved her enough to marry her twice, didn't he?" Yet, due to his infidelities and abandonments, their rocky relationship was the premier fuel for Frida's morose paintings. To view Frida's art is to look into a jilted lover's soul, and so we resonate with Frida, for who among us has not endured heartbreak? And therein lies the secret of Frida's mass appeal: she was not ashamed to show us all her miserable, broken pieces. And for her vulnerability and clever representations of wretched yet familiar feelings such as pain, longing, and rejection, the world has venerated her as Mexico's female painter-saint. I can hear the Pope declaring it now from St. Peter's balcony to the roaring crowd below: "I present to you Saint Frida!" The price all saints pay for their posthumous fame is acute suffering, and her paintings attest to that. But saints also produce miracles. What were Frida's?
Painting from her wheelchair or bed,
Frida transcended the common reaction of many invalids, which is to withdraw
into themselves, succumbing to powerlessness. But such was not the shape of
this artist’s lionheart. Instead, Frida cleverly devised a scaffolding and
mirror to hang above her bed so she could paint herself as Michelangelo painted
God in the Sistine Chapel. For, as she was quoted as saying, "I painted
myself because that was the subject I knew best." Despite a withered leg
in childhood due to polio; despite a broken spine and a multitude of botched
surgeries that caused lifelong chronic pain; with a shattered heart due to her
tumultuous and failed attempts to reconcile with her twice-husband Diego; and a
sister who betrayed her by becoming Diego's affair (which Saint Frida forgave);
despite her addictions to alcohol, pain pills, and chain-smoking, Frida kept
painting. The average person becomes desolate and bitter at the cruelty of
fate, but Saint Frida never closed the door of her heart. In fact, as her
talent matured, she opened herself ever wider to the growing admiration of an
adoring audience who glimpsed something of their own suffering in her art. I do
not know what is more miraculous than keeping your heart open through it all,
given her terrible physical maladies and the prejudice against a Mexican woman
becoming an international artist. And this is the beauty of Frida Kahlo: her
willingness to open to us when you and I would have been crushed beneath the
weight of such physical challenges and emotional wreckage. Frida became a giant
in the world of art and pop culture not because she developed her technique
without formal art training, not because her artistic talent was wholly unique
and persuasive, and not because she was one of the only commercially successful
female artists that Mexico produced. Frida was a titan due to her uncanny
ability to strike a resounding chord with her audience. Her paintings take
one's breath away, for as we look, we are witnessing our own pain depicted
clearly and unapologetically. This was the miracle of Saint Frida, which to
this day rings loud and clear, still jumping off the canvas to smack you, her
message reflecting the weariness, injustice, and brokenness of the human
condition. She became our mirror; in her we can see ourselves, both the worst and the best. By proxy, she asked us to do as she did: not to shrink, but to
grow despite the pain. In this book, Frida intimately recounts for us her
struggles and triumphs and asks us to call upon our inner reserves. She even
declares herself our friend and “Mexican angel.”
After studying her artwork, I was sure
that she had a deep understanding of pain, and I took solace in the knowledge
that the queen survivor of all survivors experienced many of the difficulties I
have faced. While I marvel at her artistic statements, it is Frida the person,
Frida the overcomer, that I relate to and somehow miss. How can you miss
someone you never knew? Easy. I miss lots of people who have graced the world's
stage with their vivacious talent and presence, such as Hollywood's red-headed,
googly-eyed funny girl, Lucille Ball. Or movie maven Mae West, whose crystal
clip-on earrings are sitting glittering, tucked away in my humble jewelry box.
Without these women, the mavericks, the sparklers, the world would be a dimmer,
drabber, and smaller place. Each of them left a piece of herself behind. Mae
West left razzle-dazzle catchphrases like "Come up and see me
sometime" and her blockbuster sex appeal. Frida left a body of work that
is summed up by the title of one of her best-known paintings, "The Two
Fridas." Two likenesses of Frida are sitting side-by-side, both with hands
folded, twins sharing one bleeding heart. Frida #1 is more demure than the
other; it is a picture of what she, as a Mexican woman, was raised to be:
docile, chaste, and silent. The other Frida longs to detach herself from the
misery of her fate, but tradition will not let her. This was Frida's dilemma:
born at a time when society did not know what to do with a wrecking ball like
her.
Whether you consider Frida a sinner or
a saint, one thing we can all agree on is that she has been venerated by each
new art-loving generation because of her unique style. Though arguably surreal,
she objected to being lumped in with the surrealist artists of her day. She saw
no justification for labeling her art or her. Perhaps this is Frida's most
defining quality: that she was undefinable. She styled herself in traditional
Mexican peasant dresses and wore her hair braided with flowers, yet she was no
wilting lily. She dressed conventionally only to make a statement: "I am a
Mexican woman and proud of it. Even so, I will rise above it." Certainly,
a family photo is the time to go with the flow, to melt into the group, but not
so for Frida. In a family portrait, she sported a tweed 3-piece suit and pulled
her hair back, flanked by her sisters and mother in drab dresses. Everyone
faced to the side while Frida squared off with the camera, stealing the show.
Nobody had to tell her she was dressed provocatively; her unibrow and light
mustache, now celebrated as a symbol of women's emancipation, were too
masculine, as were her square jaw and handsome scowl. Women were not supposed
to be rogues or overly serious. They were flip, saucy, silly, and loud, but
not butch. Even Frida's sexuality was left of center. She had brief dalliances
with women, including artist Georgia O'Keeffe. One wonders if she acted the
part of the butch in these relationships, but we will never know, as, like a
lady, she did not kiss and tell.
The point is, in all ways, Frida was
unapologetically herself; she lived life on her own terms. Her art did not try
to impress, to comfort, or to reassure you, but somehow, her wide appeal and
devastating charm are proof that she managed to. Her hard-hitting subjects and
tight-lipped public persona were not for the faint of heart, though she had
hoped for just one man who could manage her fire but never found it. She was an
unequivocally natural artist whose raw talent for capturing herself surprised
and delighted all, from the common Mexican citizen to the art critics. Neither
her art nor her legend will ever be boxed up and put away, for history
immortalizes true saints. She is Mexico's Joan de Arc, and her message of
survival in the face of adversity will shine forever in our own struggles to
find purpose and dignity in the heaviest of circumstances. Frida is the Mexican
rose, a flower she grew in her garden at the Casa Azul, a symbol of beauty
among thorns.
And how did I come to be Saint Frida's
mail delivery? In sum, that is all I am, for these letters were dictated for
you. Some say it is impossible, that people on the Other Side cannot speak to
the living. And besides, why would they? Having kicked the earth's dust from
their feet, they would be loath to return or even to look back at their earthy
existence. All worthy criticisms. And why would Frida Kahlo choose me as her
scribe? Why not choose a fellow Mexican or a painter? Perhaps she chose me
because I could do the whole job: channel, write, and publish it. And I have a
writing studio in Mexico. But more importantly, I have published books that
recount the suffering I experienced when I lost my teenaged daughter to suicide
and consequently lost my marriage because of the suicide. My guess is that
Frida knew that I could empathize with the tremendous pain she endured in life,
and that is why she chose me. But to be fair, spiritualists have been
channeling books dictated by discarnate souls long before my time. And do not
forget, Frida was a philanthropist; a political activist. She would still care
about what is happening down here. She was a registered member of the Communist
Party, and before you disparage her for it, she lived during an era where
Communism was still a high ideal, much as liberalism is today. Frida grew up
watching Mexican neighbors struggle to survive as Americans grew rich on
capitalism. To her, Communism was a way by which the Mexican people could level
the playing field. To American capitalist politicians such as McCarthy,
Communist ideals threatened the American way of life. Frida and Diego protested
in marches, spoke out at university campus meetings, and entertained well-known
Communists, including Trotsky, who was a Russian revolutionist and with whom
Frida had an affair. She was underwhelmed with him (perhaps as a lover) because
she called him "the old man." Seen in retrospect, her affairs may
have been a means of exacting revenge rather than abiding interest in her
sexual partners, for she always lost interest. Frida also had an affair with
womanizer Pablo Picasso, who admired her art and commented on it: "...adorable
as a beautiful smile and deep and cruel as the bitterness of life." To
claim that Frida was entrenched in the Communist movement is a true statement,
for there are pictures of her marching arm in arm with comrades, and she was
even jailed for a night in the summer of 1940 in Mexico City with her sister
when they were accused of Trotsky's assassination. History shows that Frida was
a political dissident and, therefore, in my opinion, a philanthropist.
My interest in Frida was kindled
during my master's program when I was earning a degree in creative writing. We
were exploring themes such as "What is the process of creativity?"
and "Who were the most influential artists?" I was intrigued when every
classmate exclaimed something to the effect of, "I love Frida!" and
spoke as if she were a beloved friend. Nobody spoke of other renowned artists
with the same familiarity. Because I also have a degree in applied psychology,
this piqued my curiosity. Why this fondness for her, and not for other artists?
The more I uncovered about her, the more I fell under her spell. Here was a
Mexican woman from a middle-class family who clearly had not abandoned her
mother's indigenous roots but who also honored her father's European heritage.
Her genetics were a mixture of old and new, traditional, and progressive. As I
learned of Frida's many misfortunes, her paintings seemed more like
confessionals. Her art was more than interesting; it was fascinating, and her
backstory was what made them come alive. I began to have one steady
thought: What would Frida say to us today, so many years after her
death? As I asked this question, I began to notice images of Frida
everywhere. Granted, I was writing in Mexico, where images of Frida abound.
There is also a phenomenon called "confirmation bias." Let us say you
are thinking of buying a certain car. Suddenly you start seeing them everywhere
on the road. It is because our brains search our environment for validation of
our desires. Have you ever been hungry and suddenly began noticing food
advertisements? This is confirmation bias. I reasoned that I must have been
subconsciously conjuring Frida. In one instance, I got lost while driving as I
was mulling over the possibility of writing Frida's book. The dusty lane I was
traveling led me directly to a huge mural of Frida at the end of a dead-end
street that I had never seen, just minutes from my home. I sat with my car idling
in the baking sun, face to face with Frida. Another time, tiny colorful
butterflies that looked like confetti went whipping past as I sat on the beach
with a book about Frida in my hand. One landed on the book which I thought was
curious, because while Mexico is filled with butterflies, one had never been so
friendly, and it lingered to keep me company. Arriving home, I checked my
social media account. The first pop-up video began playing. It was an AI
version of Frida with butterflies landing all over her. Was this mere
coincidence, confirmation bias, or a nudge from Frida? While murals and
butterflies may not sound like much, at the time they seemed to be pointing the
way.
Because I am a channeler, I started to
sense that Frida still had something to say. This idea appealed to me because
her philanthropic nature could not have changed that much, and many people
would benefit from this great soul’s thoughts. That is when I began to receive
these "love letters." Some of them certainly sound like a more
moderate form of Frida, with a mellower, more balanced perspective, and I
attribute this change in tone to her soul's growth. Frida makes it clear that
we come to earth to learn, but we also grow on the Other Side. She has grown
out of the troubled woman she once was and into a wiser form. She probably
would not consider herself to be an earthling anymore, so why should we expect
her to sound exactly as she did? I do not think that is a logical expectation.
Instead, I have allowed room for her spiritual expansion and growth, and I
offer these messages hoping that you will not put her in a box (because she
really hated that). Can we allow Frida to be a greater version than she was—the
Frida 2.0 version, even the spiritual version? After all, in 70-plus years you
will not be the same person as you are today, right?
And though decades have passed since
Frida lived, these letters are still ripe with her strong opinions. For one,
her criticism of the men who were her contemporaries is virulent, but I do not
apologize for it, nor do I think would Frida. When she had truth to tell she
did not concern herself as to whether the audience would agree. Hers was not
the type of personality to pander. I always knew it was Frida due to her
distinct manner of speaking, which was simple and straightforward in nature, an
easy conversational style that freely jumped from one thought to another. She
tended to make strong statements and would leave unfinished sentences, which,
for me as an editor and publisher, was problematic. Mostly, I completed her
sentences for her since I cannot stand partial or run-on sentences, and she did
not seem to mind. These letters are serious in tenor, as Frida was a serious
cuss in life. However, during dictation she would make dramatic statements and
then giggle at herself. This gave me insight into her personality: behind the
serious façade was a silly girl who liked to laugh. In her heart, Frida was a
sweet, silly girl.
These messages and poems are what she
called "love letters" that could be from a big sister or friend who
is not invasive but always direct. You may take them as suggestions or
commands; it is left to you. At no time did she claim to be all-knowing because
she was speaking from the Other Side. Her insights are distinctly private in
nature, discussing such topics as sex, a broken marriage, her addictions, and
her disabilities. While recording her dictations, I could visualize us sitting
at a cafe table, Frida with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other,
and me asking questions and scribbling as fast as I could while Frida chatted
and smoked, looking mostly uninterested. During the time we worked together,
Frida never asked anything about me, nor did she dilly-dally with small talk.
But I did not take her lack of interest personally because photos of her show
her looking detached. There was a definite coolness about Frida which silently
communicated, "I can take you or leave you." It was part of her
charm, what people were drawn to. Frida was a cool character. One day when
I was having a particularly hard day, I walked two blocks to the beach and sat
on my favorite log. As I sat with tears in my eyes mulling over my problem and
watching the waves crash, I heard her familiar voice say, “Would you like a
cigarette?” I started laughing because it was so unexpected and she seemed so
close and “real.” I told her what I really needed was a hug. Immediately I felt
a warmth envelope my body and her presence beside me. Frida listened to me
that afternoon like a good friend would.
Her depth of self-disclosure impressed
me, for she had insight into her shortcomings and failings and called them out
as such. Frida struggled with common emotions such as loneliness, feeling left
out, and not feeling good enough, and she openly shares these heartaches. She
"keeps it real" throughout, causing you to feel that you know her and
that she is a kindred soul. As such, one can relate to her very human
struggles. She also shares about her ex-husband, painter Diego Rivera, in a way
that is honest without being critical or cynical, which is also admirable. In
one letter she chalks up her failed marriages by admitting, "I was too
much for him!"
As to the question of whether these
letters are my own words or the words of Frida Kahlo filtered through me, I
cannot say with absolute certainty. Because I am a clairvoyant and channeler,
meaning that I can hear the spirit world, obviously such a feat is possible.
However, the ghost of Frida has never appeared in my living room. I have only
clearly intuited the messages in my mind. When a letter arrived, I would
dutifully pause what I was doing and write it down. I never knew what the topic
of the day was going to be, and the way Frida phrased things was a bit foreign.
She had a distinct manner of phrasing which I would term "artistic and
creative." Over the course of this book, we learned to work together to
overcome translation barriers. For example, she tended to make statements that
were partial in nature, and her English grammar was not always perfect. I would
frown the way English teachers do at her sentence structure, and she would
good-naturedly oblige my need for complete sentences when I restructured them. If
the phrasing in this book does not sound exactly as Frida wrote in her
avant-garde way, it is because I cleaned them up. I did this not out of a
superiority complex, because in many ways Frida was a superior writer to me.
While reading her diary, I often thought, "I wish I had said that, just
that way." However, it could be difficult to ascertain her intent and
meaning.
I would like to state that Frida was a
delight to work with. Her mind was agile and lightning quick. She made me feel
comfortable with her immediately; we shared similar tangles in our romantic
lives. Thus, I found myself nodding in agreement with her perspectives. Like
the woman herself, these messages are warm but direct and pragmatic while still
being spiritual. She readily admits to not being religious in life but explains
that once she got to the Other Side, she changed her opinion on God, though she
never expressly says what that is. When I think back to my time with Frida, I
am left with the impression of a down-to-earth woman who I would have been
honored to call a friend. Frida and I would have gotten along famously, but
this is how most people feel about her, because she is relatable. Everybody
loves Saint Frida!
I proudly present these poems and
letters from your dearest friend, Frida Kahlo. At the end of each, she sends
you her love, as do I.
Also with Love,
Devi Nina Bingham, MH
AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM IN THE FALL 2026: www.amazon.com/author/ninabingham
Website: www.puertopenascopublishing.org
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