I was talking about Kahlo with a friend who is an artist and art critic. We discussed Kahlo’s accident and the way it had influenced her art. My friend mentioned details about the artist’s life that were unknown to me. I found out that Kahlo had had her accident when she was in her teens, and that because of her accident, she’d been forced to spend a large part of her life in bed and undergo plenty of operations. So, her accident and its aftermath had left an indelible mark in her art that can be seen in most of her work. My friend spoke about her visit to the Kahlo museum in Mexico and the impression it had made on her; Kahlo’s death and her body were constantly present in her artworks, so much so, that seeing it had completely changed my friend’s view of the world. After our conversation, I started googling the artist and her paintings, and was struck by her work. I was familiar with it because of youth memories, but reading about her was getting to know her again.
During our conversation, my friend and I discussed Kahlo’s appearance in her own paintings. When I said that when I saw them in my youth I’d been (negatively) impressed by their self-centeredness, my friend argued that the impact of Kahlo’s works transcended her presence in them. Seeing her paintings again today, when my memory of them was already vague, made me rethink their content and effect on viewers. Because of my feeling an identification with her – to a certain extent – I started to reexamine the influence of my injury and convalescence on the content of my poems.
A fresh view of Kahlo’s paintings made me reflect on my injury and its impact on my work. The first poetry book I wrote, Lagos [Lakes], was based on my waking up from my coma and the feelings my injury had caused in me – confusion, memory loss, and disability had generated anger (because of my inability to move and my constant dependence on the aid of others) and a sense of helplessness. I wanted to translate my emotions into words, but I chose to erase the I from my poems and replace it with infinitives; I (mistakenly) disliked women poets’ constant resort to personal feelings and (male) critics’ pointing at intimacy as a major feature of “feminine” poetry. Yet, after reading about Frida Kahlo and looking at her work, a lot of new questions appeared in my mind; I’m having to reevaluate the relationship between traumatic experiences and physical pain, and the word or stroke, and the transcendence of self-presence.
During our conversation, my friend and I discussed Kahlo’s appearance in her own paintings. When I said that when I saw them in my youth I’d been (negatively) impressed by their self-centeredness, my friend argued that the impact of Kahlo’s works transcended her presence in them. Seeing her paintings again today, when my memory of them was already vague, made me rethink their content and effect on viewers. Because of my feeling an identification with her – to a certain extent – I started to reexamine the influence of my injury and convalescence on the content of my poems.
A fresh view of Kahlo’s paintings made me reflect on my injury and its impact on my work. The first poetry book I wrote, Lagos [Lakes], was based on my waking up from my coma and the feelings my injury had caused in me – confusion, memory loss, and disability had generated anger (because of my inability to move and my constant dependence on the aid of others) and a sense of helplessness. I wanted to translate my emotions into words, but I chose to erase the I from my poems and replace it with infinitives; I (mistakenly) disliked women poets’ constant resort to personal feelings and (male) critics’ pointing at intimacy as a major feature of “feminine” poetry. Yet, after reading about Frida Kahlo and looking at her work, a lot of new questions appeared in my mind; I’m having to reevaluate the relationship between traumatic experiences and physical pain, and the word or stroke, and the transcendence of self-presence.
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