My dad’s first question when I returned from Mexico City was, “did you go to Frida’s house?” While my suburban peers spent weekends at the mall, I have memories of watching obscure films and going into Manhattan with my family to see art, packing lunches to save money. Diego and Frida were the holy grail of painters: modern innovators, vibrantly colorful, larger than life, drenched with narrative, political, yet intensely personal. My interest only grew as I came into my own politically and sexually. And since I was with a bunch of other queers on this trip, it was sort of a no-brainer that we’d go to the Museo Frida Kahlo.
The house is magnificent. I could get lost in the vivid color of the blue. It’s huge, with an interior courtyard and a cactus garden. Like other artist’s homes, I was struck by the smallest details of the inner lives of two brilliant creative people: the playfulness of the kitchen, the book collection, her wheelchair in her studio, the seemingly out of place medical chart of a growing fetus. Some of her clothing was on display: traditional yet modern, a radical nod to her indigenous heritage, but also useful for disguising the braces and contraptions underneath. She was so colorful and unusual, apparently children would ask where the circus was when she passed by.
Londres 247, Del Carmen Coyoacán, 04100