Those moments of enlightenment, or some kind of epiphany one gets after they've been kicked by a muse, are not new to me. I walk around with my eyes and ears open and it is not uncommon that something catches my attention to the extent that the THING becomes a creative inspiration. By creative I don't necessarily mean to produce something material. It might merely be a thought, a good idea or plan for the future. It happens to be a conversation I've heard, people I observe on the bus, on the street, anywhere, but most of the time my inspiration is materialised in a person, whether I know them or not.
It might be their appearance (maybe that's why I have a bad habit to stare at people), their positive or negative radiation, their style of language, their laugh, their actions, their art... I like people (but sometimes I hate them though). They're unique. Each and every one of us is.
One of my inexhaustible source of inspiration is Frida Kahlo. What a woman and an artist Friducha (as her husband Diego Rivera used to call her) was ! Her story is almost incredible: how a body so petite and subtle could bear obnoxiousnesses as hers did, and despite all this radiate so much vitality and life. Although she didn't take life as something to enjoy, rather to endure, for those who had a chance to meet her she was simply unforgettable.
Her art is something to not be forgotten as well. Her paintings are crude, painful and uncompromising. Looking at them and knowing a bit of her story, gives me a feeling of getting deeper into her world. And after one very recent event in my life I can understand her even more. I look into her eyes through the painting and I see pain (it looks like an etymology thing: PAIN - TING... maybe it should have been: PainThing). This pain resembled the one I had been seeing every day in the mirror in my eyes. And I guess if I ripped my chest open and looked inside at my heart, I would see a black spot staining its surface. And I'm sure Frida did have it there too.
Dear Frida
Dear Frida, I can’t help myself from wondering,
About the same thing your body refused to bring.
Did you plan your message of pain to share?
For the sorrow of canvas and your black stare,
Transferred to my eyes and stayed there.
You said you paint your reality, past and future,
Did you think about your dreams being mutual?
Of all the times you’d hurt yourself with brush
This time you came to me close, got me crushed,
By nightmares of white sheets and a red blood rush.
My heart was crashed by my own Diego
Body cold as ice, his soul hot like fuego.
Torn me up like a letter, all flesh and bones,
Having his mouth full of precious stones
Caused that my body ended up like yours.
"Mi pintura lleva con ella el mensaje del dolor."
No comments:
Post a Comment