A few months ago, some friends and I went to the Immersive Frida Kahlo Experience in Los Angeles, CA. The concept of the exhibition is that the viewer walks into a few cavernous spaces onto whose surfaces multimedia of Frieda’s artwork and words are projected, juxtaposed with photos of relevant era events—all amidst music and mirrors to maximize the effects. The presentation was powerful, as expected, but what surprised and shook me was how violently the pain of Frida’s corporeal existence was rendered. Rather than the expansive and transformational atmosphere I was expecting, I felt imprisoned—hemmed in by the ugly reality of a woman’s body that seemed to rebel against the soul it contained. For someone in the throes of middle age, it was a powerful recognition.
Of course, I was aware of the basic tragedies of Frida Kahlo’s life. Contracting polio in early childhood. Meeting Diego Rivera as an impressionable teenager. Victim of a terrible bus accident in which she was impaled thorough the hip with a steel pole. Several miscarriages. The accumulated months and years of her life spent lying in bed to heal, always becoming less than she was before. Seeing her art magnified as it was in the exhibit really brought home the intimacy of her message. Her body was displayed from the inside out: bloody organs and warped fetuses, veins looping into the air around her head, umbilical cords connecting one Frida body to another Frida body. I was transfixed by the art’s vulnerability and saddened by the reality it conveyed.
As I’ve aged, I’ve found myself in something of a silent war with my body. I realize how much I’ve taken for granted over the decades: the flow and flexibility of well-lubricated joints, the satin sheen of my hair, tone and muscle without much effort. I am as guilty as anyone of thinking “that’ll never be me” when my elders complained about stiff knees, face jowls appearing overnight, their inability to eat cheese. And yet, here I am—just like everyone else.
I have been blessed to have had relatively good health. I’ve never broken a major bone. I haven’t had to battle a crippling disease. My limbs and brain have worked appropriately for what I’ve asked them to do. I recognize this privilege and am thankful for it. To see the incredible pain and adversity that a woman like Frida Kahlo suffered and then recognize that she took everything that happened to her and transformed it into art was a humbling experience. Is it possible for me to display some of that bravery?
Entering our third phase of life, we begin to understand that with each passing year we change irrevocably. So often we are focused on the external signs of aging. (I am as guilty of this as every other woman I know.) Only recently have I stopped to consider the deep mysteries within the shell and how those might become the filter through which I will experience the world. Who will I be when my body becomes more enemy than friend? Will I give myself grace or rage against inevitability? Can I accept this cycle for its gifts as well as its challenges?
I hope so. It’s nice to think that at the end of my life I will sincerely thank my body for its service and calmly release my soul to whatever comes next, though I’m sure the reality will be much more complicated. According to her biography, Frida wrote the following in her diary a few days before her death: “I hope the exit is joyful—and I hope never to return.” After everything that she endured, that seems about right. We all deserve some joy at the end.
