Finding Frida

When I was a junior in college I took a Chicano Studies class.  I hated my professor.  At home I referred to her as “The Corn Grinder”.  She was constantly referencing the women of the Mexican Revolution who had followed their men into the battlefields and whose duty it was to grind corn to turn into tortillas.  It was a grueling task that hardened las soldaderas.  My professor was a hard-faced, sour woman; it was easy to imagine her having spent many years grinding corn.

Among the five books I had to purchase for the class was an enormous 600-page biography of Frida Kahlo.  Until then I had never heard of her.  As I began to read about her life and examine prints of her art I became quite fascinated.  She had endured so much suffering from such a young age and her paintings were boldly, primarily about herself; it was impossible not to be intrigued by her.

At the same time we were reading her biography, an exhibition of Frida’s work came to the Seattle Art Museum.  For extra credit we could visit the exhibit and write a short paper about what we saw.  Having somehow worked my way onto The Corn Grinder’s shit list, I was in need of extra credit, so I arranged to go with one of my classmates.

I don’t remember much about my trip to the museum that day.  I can’t remember the name of the girl I went with, how we got there, or how long we stayed.  I know my classmate and I discovered we had gone to the same high school, though she was four or five years older than me, and that she had been on the flag team.  And she was chatty, I definitely remember that.  Not annoyingly so, but enough that I remember that about her.  As we perused the exhibit she talked and I listened while trying to remember what I was observing so I could write something decent later on.  I can’t remember how far we had gone or which piece it was, but we arrived at one of Frida’s paintings, it was a small one, with lots of red in it.  I stopped to examine it.  I stepped very close so I could get a good look.  I could see the brush strokes.  Suddenly it hit me: I was standing in front of a piece of art that had been painted by Frida Kahlo herself, most likely while lying in bed, where she spent the majority of her life.

Upon this realization, something changed.  The hairs on my arms stood up, I felt fluttering in my stomach and heart, a small gasp escaped from my mouth.  I could hear my companion continue chatting, but it was like in the movies when the camera focuses on a sudden change of events, like when two characters realize they’re in love with one another; outside dialogue continues and can be heard, but it’s incomprehensible.  I have no idea how long I stood there, gaping; I just couldn’t look away!  It was as if I was afraid that by looking away some invisible bond would be forever broken.

When I finally snapped back to, I didn’t know what to do next!  I wanted to turn to my classmate and grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say, “This was painted by Frida Kahlo, herself, in her sick bed!  And we’re here, in the same room with it, standing in front of it, admiring it!”.  It was like being in her presence, like Frida was there, like we had formed an everlasting connection!  But, instead of acting maniacal and making a scene, I stepped away, coolly, not wanting to expose the fact that I was feeling as giddy as a thirteen-year-old at a Justin Beiber concert.

After that things were different.  It was like a light had been switched on so I could see better.  My head and heart were where they should have been from the beginning, but we had reached the end of the exhibit.  Why hadn’t I paid closer attention when we first arrived?  I wanted to start from the beginning and go back through, but I couldn’t figure out how to explain to my (obviously bored) classmate how I felt and why I wanted to start over.  As we exited the exhibit I stopped to look at one last piece.  I remember it as clearly as if I had just seen it today; it is the only painting I remember from my trip to the museum.  It was “Portrait of Natasha Gallman” by Diego Rivera.