Frida Kahlo and the Artist Within Me

I recently had a friend ask me if I considered myself an artist. I replied with a quick no, not me, thinking of all of the artists I admire- I am not like them. But in the days since I have spent more time thinking about what is art? What is an artist? What does it mean to create art through a mode that speaks to people, moves them, inspires them,brings them closer to self. A beautiful painting, a breathtaking photograph, an architectural masterpiece- art that is easy to identity. Can art be found in less identifiable moments? In the way I love my mom, or grieve my son, or sit in solitude. Am I an artist when I write a blog post, sing my son a song at his grave or share in this experience with a friend? Can feelings be art? Can moments? Can situations? All of which are created and experienced and witnessed. Am I the artist of my life?

This week while walking through the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the New York Botanical Gardens I came across this painting called "The Miscarriage". It was a moving piece, so much so that afterwards I came home and researched the story behind the painting. I came to to learn that Frida Kahlo experienced a tragic tram accident at a young age that made it impossible for her to bring pregnancies to term. Her first pregnancy threatened her life and so she had an abortion. Her next pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage and solidified the fact that she would never give birth to a live child. This loss happened when she was 25 years old and visiting the United States. She was bedridden for weeks before and after her miscarriage and created numerous works of art during this time. She painted about her grief from the hospital and throughout the rest of her life at times. Some articles I read attributed a change in her style, her art after this miscarriage and that this was what elevated her to the next level of artistic recognition. 

There have been times in the last couple of years where I have wondered if being so open about my grief has been a mistake. If being so raw, honest, and public about my pain has created more harm than good. Is it inhibiting my healing? And then I find myself in this small gallery looking at this painting of Frida- a self portrait of her, naked, crying, with a fetus and her pain. And I thought to myself- this is what an artist does. They take the raw exposed nerves and allow others to touch them with their hearts. No one brought me an easel and paints when I was at the hospital, not that I would have known what to do with them. But eventually I gave voice to my pain in a medium I understand how to navigate- words- and I shared these words with anyone willing to listen. My art. My heart. And while my words will never be in a gallery or published in a book or maybe even read by more than a handful of people, they are my representation of my grief, my art. And I will continue painting until I can longer pick up my brush.