Murdered By Life

I’m reading The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait, which includes ten years’ worth of journal entries by the artist from the last years before she died. Ever since I discovered her work in one of my art appreciation classes in college, I have always been intrigued by her. Deep down I knew why, but I’d never seen it in print until today when I started reading her journal. In the book’s introduction, writer Carlos Fuentes, says this of Kahlo: “Frida Kahlo is one of the greatest speakers for pain…” He also says that she was able to translate her pain into art. And, “…her scream is articulate because it achieves a visible and emotional form.” That was my ‘aha’ moment. I felt like I was conversing with Kahlo through her art. I felt like I could hear her sharing her pain with me and I felt drawn to her because of it.

Even though “pain destroys language,” Kahlo’s artwork has always spoken to me. All that she endured was written on her soul and she bared her soul in her artwork. That’s one of the reasons I love her work so much.

After reading the diary, I wrote the following poem:

I call out to you

Listening intently

Wishing I had wings

Brilliantly transparent,

not heavenly

for I am no angel.

Tied to my soul

a dancing silhouette

to shelter my love

or to lift me up

carry me on the wind.

It is the breeze

I miss most

when it no longer

rustles through the leaves

sweeps up the air

all around me

so you can’t hear

the guttural sound

that escapes my lips

when I call out your name.

Death shroud

Halloween mask

Mourning veil

Living hell

Love. You.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

*Note: The photo is taken from “The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait.” It is one of the many sketches included in her diary.