In the Spring of 2004 I visited the artist Frida Kahlo’s house, La Casa Azul, named for its stunning, cobalt blue walls. I remember there being a slow, steady pace to enter the house-turned-museum; this was a house you didn’t rush through. As you can imagine, there was a lot to see—from her famous, colorful skirts on display, the ones she used to conceal her underdeveloped leg after contracting polio, to her elaborate kitchen, to her elegant bed, fashioned with a mirrored canopy she used to paint her many self-portraits while bedridden, to at last, her art, both fantastic and disturbing.
Frida Kahlo was a complex being. But then again, aren’t we all?
Beyond her complexity and self-declared strangeness, lies a woman who loved herself.
Kahlo spent much of her life in extreme physical pain. Psychologically, it is said she struggled many hardships, too. But despite all that, if you were to study her life, I believe you would agree that Frida Kahlo did in fact, love herself. That is, she learned to love herself. Continue Reading