Dear Frida Kahlo,
As a kid I found you creepy. You flaunted your unibrow and your uterus. Why so many parrots and monkeys and naked breasts? I didn’t need you staring back at me, draped in garish fabrics.
Even after they educated me on the supposed genius of your technique, I couldn’t take you seriously. You seemed like a narcissist. A sanctified basket case. A chic Trotskyite who enjoyed being on the wrong side of history.
But last week I visited your house, La Casa Azul. I saw the room where you worked. The scuffed tables. The crumpled tubes of hardened paint. The rickety easel where you placed your wheelchair. You really scraped, didn’t you?
I saw our friends on the shelf. Whitman. Flaubert. Bartolomé de las Casas.
We should talk, Frida. I could get to like you.