In my treacherous youth, I must admit that I was completely entranced and beguiled by all the costumes and props used by THIS FIERCE BROAD — all of it expertly employed so that she might festoon her broken body, attack the canvas, and SPIN HER WITCHY MYTH FOR THE AGES. And, HOLY SHIT — did she EVER.
However, now that I am an Old Dragon, myself — all done with contrived objects and nonsense, and shaking off scales at an alarming rate — you know what? FUCK all the mantillas, the mangoes, the monkeys, and the mustaches. FUCK ALL ARTIFICE.
This right here — THIS — is the greatest, most revealing image of Miss Frida Kahlo that I have ever gazed upon amazed. Seeing it for the very first time a few days ago, it took my breath away. No pomp, no pose, no dreamlike apparitions of a Tubby Bug-Eyed Lover gouged into her hirsute forehead. At long last, it is just her and her FORMIDABLE POWER and PRESENCE. Raiment removed, stripped bare…basking in the sun, like a clean, clean bone.
That’s how I howl, that’s how I bowl, that’s how I roll:
TO THE MARROW, BABY.