A week ago I was standing in front of the painting “The Broken Column” in the Fabergé Museum in St. Petersburg, and looking at the Frida Kahlo. And Frida unblinking, looking proud and aloof from his pain, oozing self-portrait at me. The woman looked at the woman through time and space. The dark eyes were the eyes of Frida failed Madonna – mother.
“In every woman there is a bit of Madonna’s” – I thought, trying to catch the elusive look of Mexican artist – Frida with the picture looked not only at the viewer, but straight to the Eternity. She was accustomed to look death in the face ever since the age of 19 had an accident and was injured, and about which to write something scary – just start whining somewhere in the abdomen, and instinctively want to cover up his hands. Her feminine nature was already pierced, before numerous infidelities of her husband, the famous painter Diego Rivera, a feeling which forced Frida suffer year after year.
Spine Frida then, in his youth, had been broken in several places, bus handrails iron pierced right through her, she miraculously survived. In reality it always includes doctors, hospital beds, miscarriages, blood, unborn children – all this is reflected in her paintings, in all these pulsating flower buds of embryos inside in desperation with which she looks at the viewer with a treasury of the laid bed-linen.
On one of the pictures that is exhibited today in the Faberge Museum on Frida bed directly on top of the hospital blankets installed an easel – the most it looks like a stairway to heaven, I have it first and took the ladder.
Her story – it is not only the history of the disease, but also the history that is for a man, for a woman – creativity. It is a way to express themselves in an unspeakably difficult situation. Freda never stopped writing, even cruel suffering. She and began to write something just because it was bedridden after an injury.
Because of their pain Frida Kahlo was able to lay down the endless swan song, and I think the honesty with which she expressed her feelings in paintings today can not help a woman who is experiencing the most unbearable – miscarriage, betrayal, unrequited love, infertility.
When you look at her paintings, you cease to feel the existential loneliness – this is a woman who felt the same as you, and managed to make it so that your co-communication here and now there are no obstacles: no language barrier or temporary. Any, even the fact that you have divided the death. This is art.
Frida to “broken column” – broken but not broken. She is almost naked, against Mexican native land, always darivshey her strength and comforting, and looking, looking, looking. Let the column-spine, which we see through her gaping insides, and fractured in several places, it firmly holds the final transformation into ruin Medical Corset (I see in this a metaphor indomitable will). Kahlo never give up. This artist has created from its heavy, but it is the fate of an ordinary woman (how many of the world’s destinies?) A real epic.
Frida longed to be a mother, but that dream did not come true. She’s madly in love with her husband, pathologically unable to keep her fidelity. Her life was all, but now it is important that the left – sincere, fearlessly and even shamelessly candid picture of the experiences that are often trying to get round shame, ridicule, devalue, or pretend that they do not.
It is terrible to admit that love can bring misery. What we often unbearably bitter from what we do is not given, but why is not given – and we do not know. And do not ask “why?” Is to ask “what can I do about it?”.
I stood in front of Frida Kahlo, staring at the nails dug into her tanned body (as I explained to the guides in the hall, “to drive a nail” and “fool” in Spanish expressions sound very similar), and thought: Now, I’m 30 years old and I am also a woman, and also know something about the wounds and nails.
I also know the taste of deceit, treachery and betrayal, and I, too, like her, have no children. I remember I once came across a recent article about the desires of patients from European hospices and one Netherlander wished in the last hours to look at Rembrandt Gallery. Her wish was fulfilled. Photography, where she looks at a favorite painting, made me cry.
I thought that if I were in a similar situation, would ask me to be brought up on a gurney to the dark-eyed Mexican Madonna left in this life without a child. We would have understood each other.
Better yet, I thought, if I do not have to look into the eyes of death Frida. If around me will sit loving children and run do not understand anything small grandchildren, and growing cold palm I feel the warmth of another’s wrinkled hands, the one on which I rested my whole life and which is now, in the moment of my personal encounter with God, still He squeezes my.
And if “love” is the last word, who uttered in this world and that I have time to tell me close, you do not need any beautiful performances with a gurney and painting my whole eternity gather beside me. Well, except for the one that waits beyond.
And while all this is not, I can continue to do their own thing as Frida did her. Because if the fire is transformed nature, a man transformed by creativity. The way in which we can express myself here, on this earth, it is very, very important. Find the best way to arrange themselves then strive to fulfill the most important human mission – to understand God’s plan for themselves and try to put yourself in the fullness of all available, as have the strength. Run themselves in the literal sense of the word. And for each it will be a purely personal way. Pictures or a family – everyone chooses. The main thing – to act without fear, without expectations, but with hope and with the hope that still happens.