Issue 10, Art: Frida

Art by Samriddha Roy, Poem by Mrunmayee Saudade

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Frida: beautiful.

I could be Frida,
In another life
Or be Frida reborn, reincarnated.
The eyebrows, you see?

Frida Kahlo was an artist.
Mexico’s most famous woman painter
A woman known all over the world
For her art, for her face, for her life,
For her marriage and for her affairs
A woman known by all;
A woman understood by none.

“I was born a bitch, I was born a painter.”
She said.
I’m too fearful to be a bitch.
I couldn’t paint to save my life.

The artist’s way, they say, is strewn with pain and more pain.
Pain is what makes the artist.
Frida knew pain, all forms of it.

Her paintings are self-portraits.
Allegories of pain.
I have known no pain
Well, maybe. But no, I have known no pain.

Polio left one of her legs thinner that the other
So she wore long colourful skirts
In the last year of her life,
They cut off her leg to save her life.
“Feet, why do I want them, when I have wings for flying”
I stand on two feet
Both my legs are the same size, and
I can’t see my wings.

Frida’s body was frail, broken. But Frida,
Frida was strong and bold in her weakness.
She didn’t dress herself in clothing
She wore the colours themselves.
She wore flowers in her hair
And loved herself.
It was not that face
Which fashioned Frida;
She crafted it.
Her unibrow did not make her unique;
The fact that she didn’t carve it into ordinary submission did.
I don’t think when I dress.
I wear men’s clothes
And hope the day will get over soon.
I am nothing like her.
She wore flowers in her hair.

I want to be like her
To experience her beauty – self-assigned
To understand her art – self-taught
To feel the passion of her heart
Her passion for colour, for Diego, for pain, for life
Her passion for herself,
The narcissist – the human
“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best.”
Maybe she painted herself because no one else could know her
No one else could capture her on a canvas.
No one could confine her with a paintbrush.

I cannot be Frida.
But maybe I don’t need to be.
Maybe I don’t want to be.

Art by Samriddha Roy, Poem by Mrunmayee Saudade

Samriddha is is an impulsive kid with eyes looking for visually appealing stuff all the time, be it movies or art or a rikshawala sleeping in his auto. She has automated hands, giver her a pencil and any surface, and there you are with a scribble in front of your eyes.

Mrunmayee spends her days grappling with words printed on dead trees and her nights staring at the stars. She has resigned herself to the coming of autumn in Germany, but she somehow likes the rain and falling leaves, secretly. She also laughs very loudly and a lot.

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