"I must have hit my head a lot harder than I had anticipated, or maybe breathe too much smoke because this is definitely nut-case crazy. Or a very creepy dream that feels way too real for my own good. I can pat my subconscious on the back for that o...
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I wake up in a bedroom, standing in a corner.
There's a woman in bed, with an easel propped on her lap as she paints.
I might be very illiterate when it comes to famous artist, but this one I recognize immediately.
She's too iconic and memorable for me not to recognize.
It's Frida Kahlo.
The eyebrows are a dead giveaway.
She's young.
And she's clearly bedridden. The bedside table beside her is filled with books, the room organized around her to make sure she does the least movements. Was she sick when she was younger? I don't know. My knowledge in art history is very limited. My art class failing grade is proof enough.
I wonder how I'm going to explain just popping in her room, but I still try my luck. It's not like I haven't been stabbed by a painting item before.
"What are you painting?" I ask, trying to make my voice as soft as possible.
She, very legitimately jumps a little in her bed in surprise. Pressing a hand to her chest, she says, "Dear god, I did not hear you there. Are you a new caretaker my parents have hired?"
"Yes, I'm here to help. But I haven't been told the specifics..." I trail off, looking at her bedridden figure.
"Dreadful bus accident," she explains.
This makes me have more questions. Did she get crushed by a bus like Regina in Mean Girls? Or was she in the bus when it got into an accident?
I'm curious now. She's young, and this era is probably not the best at physical therapy. Did she have sequalae from this accident all her life? I knew of her because she was such an iconic figure, but I had no idea about the struggle of her life.
I wonder, if it's a kind a weird prerequisite for artist to be somehow broken for them to leave a strong trace. The more broken the more timeless?
But I don't say any of that, instead I just tell her, "I'm sorry."
She shrugs slightly. "I survived."
I smile at her. "You did. You do. You will. Survive and thrive."
She lets out an amused breath. "Very omniscient of you."
I could go into a whole speech, but I don't. I don't think her life is as tragic as Vincent Van Gogh. I don't think she needs me to sing her praise.
I think she's just a young girl that needs a friend right now. She seems mighty lonely.
"So, what are you painting?"
I ask, but I've kind of figured out. I can see the canvas partially.
"A present. For my Alejandro," she said, her cheeks slightly pinking.
She's beautiful I realize. I didn't see her as particularly beautiful in her paintings, just unique.
But looking at her, the real her. She's truly beautiful.
"Oh, Alejandro?"
"My boyfriend. It's been... tense lately. So, I want to give him a present, to remind him of why he loves me."
I find this beautifully endearing. I don't think this boyfriend of hers is her end game though. Still, I'll support any love story if it means it'll give me and Gustave a fighting chance.
"Painting myself makes sense. I'm so often alone, so I'm the subject I know best," she continues, like she needs to explain herself, to make excuses.
"It's good," I reassure her, "I know someone else who does a lot of self portraits. I think they're all very lovely. I love to see him the way he sees himself."
"Do you love the man, or the painting?" she asks.
"I love both."
She sighs, looking back at her painting. "I hope Alejandro loves both too. I hope I'll win back his affection with this present."
"Is he your first boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"I thought I loved my first boyfriend too," I say, a little thoughtfully.
"You underestimate my feelings?"
I smile back at her, shaking my head. "No, I just think that if you can't win back Alejandro's affection, there's still room for another great love for you."
"Alex is the one and only man for me. He was with me. During the accident. He stayed with me at the hospital. Told the staff to take better care of me. He was there through my lowest low. I will always love him."
Her assertiveness is endearing. "Well, I wish he'll love your painting then."
"Me too."
"Do you need anything?" I ask, coming closer.
"Could you hand me the paintbrush over there."
I do as I'm told, being a silent helper as Frieda paints for her lover.
It's a warm summer day. I turn my head to the window, drinking in the sun. I wish Gustave was with me. I wish Gustave was always with me.
I wish I could have Frieda's assurance that my love will always be with me
In the end, I doze off on the couch beside Frida Kahlo, the soothing sound of the brush on the canvas, and the birds chirping, lulling me to sleep.
