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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 true 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, 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 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 don't know what is more miraculous than
keeping your heart open through it all, given her terrible physical condition
and the chances against a Mexican woman becoming a well-known artist. And this
is the beauty of Frida Kahlo: her willingness to open to us, repeatedly, as you and I would have been crushed beneath the weight of such
physical challenges, emotional wreckage, and betrayals. 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, or 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 see ourselves, both the worst and the best. And by proxy, she asked to do as she did: not to shrink, but to grow
despite the pain.
Upon studying her art, I
was convinced that she profoundly understood me. I felt that if nobody
understands the struggles I have endured, the queen survivor of all survivors
can relate, and I can find comfort in that. While I marvel at her artistic statements,
it is 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 I had to have, sitting glittering and tucked away along with her memory in my humble jewelry box. Without these women, the
sparklers, the world would be a dimmer, drabber, and much smaller place, and
each 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's a picture of what she, as a Mexican woman, was
raised to be: docile and chaste, subdued and silent. The other Frida longs to
detach herself from the misery of her fate, but tradition won't 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. Her style, though arguably
surreal, was one-of-a-kind, and 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 a maverick.
She sported traditional Mexican peasant dresses and wore her hair braided, yet
she was no wilting lily. She dressed conventionally 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 donned a tweed
3-piece suit and pulled her hair back, flanked by her sisters and mother, who by
comparison appeared drab. 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, nor overly serious creatures. They
were flip, saucy, goofy, 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 wide
appeal and devastating charm are proof that she did not try to impress, to
comfort, and to reassure you, but somehow she managed to. Her forceful painting
and tight-lipped public persona were not for the faint of heart, though above
all she had hoped for just one man who could handle 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 never 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 and wore
in her hair, a symbol of beauty surviving 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 to me for you. Some say it is impossible, believing 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 she 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. I even have a writing studio in Northern Mexico. But more
importantly, I have published books that recount the suffering I experienced
when I lost my teenaged daughter to suicide and then 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 by discarnate souls long before my time or Frida's. And do not forget that Frida was a philanthropist. I do
not mean that she donated to the poor, though she may have. Rather, I mean that
Frida was a political activist. 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 extracting 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 say
Frida was entrenched in the Communist movement is a true statement, for we have
pictures of her marching arm in arm with comrades, and she was even jailed in
the summer of 1940 for a night 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 view, a philanthropist.
My interest in Frida was
kindled during my master's program, 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 all of my classmates
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 it
come alive. I began to have one steady thought: What would Frida say to
us today, so many years after her death? As I held this question, I
noticed images of Frida everywhere. Granted, I was 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 begun
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 that I had
never seen just minutes from my home. Another time, a handful of 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 my knee. I thought it
curious, because though Mexico is filled with all sorts of butterflies, one had
never been so friendly, and it stayed to keep me company. Arriving home, I
checked my social media account, and a video popped up and 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 herself? 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 began to wonder if Frida had something left to say. Her philanthropic nature
could not have changed that much. 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. I attribute this
change in tone to her soul's growth. 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 expansion and growth as a person, and I offer these messages hoping that
you will not put her in a box (because she 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 think the same as you do
today, right?
And though decades have
passed since Frida's time, these letters are still filled with 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 a 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. She tended to make strong statements without
apology, and she also tended to leave unfinished sentences, which, for me, as
an editor and a publisher, was problematic. Mostly, I completed her sentences
for her, as I cannot stand partial or run-on sentences, and she did not seem to
mind.
These messages and poems
are what she termed "love notes" from a big sister 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. But 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 her sitting
at a cafe table with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and me
scribbling as fast as I could while Frida chatted, smoked, and looked 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.
Her depth of
self-disclosure impressed me, for she had insight into her own shortcomings and
failings and called them out as such. Frida struggled with common emotions such
as loneliness, feeling left out, and not being good enough, and she openly shares
these heartaches. She "keeps it real" throughout, causing you to feel
that you know her, that she is a kindred soul, and 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 channeled
through me, I cannot say with absolute certainty. Because I am a clairvoyant,
meaning that I can hear the spirit world, obviously I believe that 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 her letters arrived, I
was not thinking about writing; they simply popped up, and she began dictating. I
dutifully paused what I was doing and wrote them 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; 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. If you are
a Frida fan, you may have had the privilege of reading her diary. If so, you
will know what I am referring to. If the phrasing of these letters 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 Frida was a
superior writer. 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 if these letters are from Frida herself, she was a delight to work with.
Her mind was agile and lightning quick. She made me feel comfortable with her
immediately; I felt we shared similar tangles in our romantic relationships.
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
explains what that is. When I think back to my time with Frida, I am left with
the impression of a down-to-earth woman that I would have been honored to call
a friend. Frida and I would have gotten along famously, but I believe that this
is how most people feel about her because she is relatable. Everybody loves
Frida!
I proudly present these
poems and letters from your dearest friend, Frida. At the end of each, she sends
you her love, as do I.
Also with Love,
Devi Nina Bingham
AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM IN THE FALL 2026: www.amazon.com/author/ninabingham
Website: www.puertopenascopublishing.org
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