HER BODICE HAS BEEN RIPPED—NOT NEATLY CUT, BUT RIPPED—FROM shoulder to waist, revealing—guess what! A luscious, round breast? No. What do you think this is, a penny romance? No, the subject’s insides, her viscera. Because the flesh has been severed as well, slit to expose a living, pulsating heart. Pulsating, pumping blood in spite of the fact that the arteries have been sliced open, tubes or hoses lopped off in the middle, gaping orifices, mouths without tongues, pipes leading nowhere, except for one—a long vein that wraps around her back, working its way along the outside of her frilly blouse, down to her skirt, where it falls gracefully under her elbow like a thin red ribbon. Then it extends under her wrist and continues beyond her hand into the folds of milky cloth, where she catches it with a surgical pincer and snips it off. Snip! And the blood from the vein pours onto the fabric and forms a pool. Some of it seeps into the fibers, but some of it flows into rivulets that trickle toward the floor. Globs that seem still to be pulsing, streamlets that impel themselves forward with the rhythm of heartbeats, only now the viscous liquid has nowhere to go, so it gathers in a crimp in the material and drips down toward the hem, smudging the cloth. The stains blend in with the embroidered floral pattern. You can hardly tell the crimson flowers from the bloodstains. Petals, droplets, ribbons, stems, leaves, all part of the delicately woven design.
Well, you asked me to describe my favorite painting, didn’t you? It’s funny you should ask that now, after all this time. We haven’t talked much about Frida’s work. For me it’s hard to talk about liking or loving a painting by Frida, because I know when they all were painted, why they were painted, what they mean. They’re all wonderful, but a lot of them are hard for me to look at. The one I’m describing to you is called The Two Fridas. It’s a large painting, a square painting. It was done about the time we’re talking about, 1939 maybe. Before Leon died.
It shows two images of Frida. Frida alone with herself: one Frida is holding the hand of the other Frida, because Frida has only her own hand to hold. Does that make sense? At that time, she and Diego had begun to grow apart, although Diego was completely supportive of Frida’s painting. “She’s the best portrait painter alive,” he would say, but then he’d treat her like garbage. He’d stop talking to her for days, or else he’d go over to her place and hole up in the bathroom. She’d make a wonderful lunch for him, and he’d refuse to eat. Nopales salad, roast pork, guacamole with chipotles, and for dessert, those little butter cookies we call lenguas de gato—dishes that Diego loved. But he’d just go sit on the toilet.
In the painting, both Fridas are sitting up straight as a rod, but those expressionless faces are just masks that hide pain. That’s how she wanted to portray herself, you see. Strong. Moving on with her life, pushing ahead in spite of everything. Invincible Frida! But you know she’s suffering, because she’s split in two. One Frida is wearing a Tehuana costume with a lacy ruffle. That’s the Mexican Frida, her authentic self. In that image, her heart is whole. “That’s the me that Diego loved,” she said. The other Frida, the one with the open heart, is wearing an old-fashioned gown, maybe a wedding dress. “That’s the me that Diego abandoned,” she said. The Tehuana Frida holds a tiny portrait of Diego from which a vein shoots out and joins the hearts of the two Fridas, but the unloved Frida snips it off. They’re both Frida, Frida trying to get free, trying to cut herself off. But even though she’s severed the vein, it continues to drip. Diego’s love, it just won’t be stemmed.
Sometimes I think that The Two Fridas is not about just her. It’s about her and me. I’m the other one, the unloved one—the pretty one—because one of the figures is prettier than the other. She holds my hand, and I sit there, looking strong and brave. Invincible Cristina! I think my sister painted a picture different from the one she thinks she painted. Is that possible?
What do you mean, why is it my favorite painting if it causes me such pain? I didn’t say it was my favorite painting, did I? I did? Well, I guess it’s because I see my own feelings in it. What I mean is, it expresses not only Frida’s pain, but also my own, not only how sorry I felt for my sister, my twin, but also the sense of abandonment that I was experiencing. That painting makes me feel sad, just like old photographs of dead people make you feel sad, whether you liked those people or not, because it helps me relive the times when I lived life so intensely. It hurts, that’s true, but the thorn that those images drive into my heart reminds me that I was once alive.
Frida’s career was taking off. After her fling with Trotsky, it was as though she had to paint to lose herself. And even though Diego treated her horribly, he pushed her to exhibit. She had never wanted to show her stuff, at least that’s what she said. But Diego started making contacts with galleries, and before she knew it, she had a show going up right here, in this cesspool we call Mexico City. She was lucky that way. She had Diego. Even after her betrayal with Trotsky, she had Diego. What does a woman have to do to make a man that devoted to her?
Her foot tortured her. “Devil’s hoof,” she called it. “The devil’s got me on the rack again,” she’d say. “You know, he gave me his own hoof to punish me. He sneaked into my bedroom one night and stuck it onto my scrawny leg. Too bad he didn’t screw me while he was at it! That’d be a hell of a fuck, wouldn’t it, Cristi? I mean, the horny old goat! Horns growing right out of his skull! He must fuck like … he must fuck like the devil!” And then she’d burst out laughing. But it was a forced laugh, because she wanted you to know that she was suffering yet putting on a brave face.
Even though she complained all the time, she kept on painting.
“I don’t know why anyone would want to buy my paintings,” she told people. “I’m sure everyone would rather have one of Diego’s. But Diego’s are so expensive, they settle for buying one of mine.”
The devoted wife content to paint for fun. Art for art, not for money. It was just a show. I mean, what if she really didn’t sell? What then? She could always just say, “Oh, I was never a serious artist. Painting has always been a hobby.” How could I not see through it? I’m not as dumb as people think, you know. I knew Frida like the palm of my hand, and I knew it was all an act to preserve her pride, just in case. Silly, isn’t it? What I mean is, how could she not sell? After all, she was the wife of the great Diego Rivera.
Diego blamed Frida’s affair with Trotsky on Trotsky. Afterward, he and Frida got back together again, at least for a while, and Diego arranged for the sale of four of her paintings to the American movie star Edward G. Robinson. Did you see him in Little Caesar? I did, but I never got to meet him in person. Robinson’s real name was Emmanuel Goldenberg. Did you know that? A Jewish name: Goldenberg. Why do movie stars always change their names? I guess because in Yankeeland, people are so prejudiced. Anyhow, the sale got into the newspapers, and people started to pay more attention to Frida’s paintings.
Around then André Breton came to Mexico. You know, the French poet. I did get to meet him. Breton was a big shot, the father of surrealism. Frida and Diego took Breton around everywhere, and Breton said that Frida’s paintings were the essence of surrealism. That’s what he said, the essence of surrealism. He said her combination of Mexican folk motifs and fantasy made her one of them, one of the surrealists.
But Frida hated Breton. He was full of himself, she said, always spouting out ideas that sounded profound but were actually just bullshit. “Surrealism unites the conscious and unconscious realm of experience so completely that dream and everyday reality become indistinguishable from each other. Reality becomes a surreality.” That kind of stuff. I heard him say it so many times that I know it by heart. “Surrealism unites the conscious and unconscious realm …” What’s that supposed to mean? For us Mexicans, death and ghosts and dreams are all just part of everyday life, so what’s the big deal? The Virgin of Guadalupe and the corner florist are both real. The skeletons that dance for the Day of the Dead and the clerk who stamps your identity card are both real. “Pompous ass,” Frida called him, and she was right. But we both adored his wife, Jacqueline. She was a pert, smart, warm woman. A painter, just like Frida.
“Cristina, chérie, you must come to Paris with your sister!” she told me. You see, André had agreed to arrange an exhibition for Frida in France.
But I couldn’t go. The plan was for Frida to go first to New York, where she would exhibit at the gallery of Julien Levy, a friend of Diego’s. Then she would leave for Europe.
It was the publicity event of the decade. Maty, Adri, and I had planned a going away party, but Frida would have none of it.
“Diego wants something really lavish, darlings. We’re inviting absolutely everybody, from the Trotskies to President Cárdenas.” Lázaro Cárdenas was Diego’s new hero. Instead of living in the presidential mansion in Chapultepec, he lived in his own little house. No more taking orders from the political bosses, he said. Instead, he would listen to the people. He would return Mexico to its revolutionary ideals. Can you ever really believe politicians? I don’t know, but Cárdenas won Diego’s trust, and it’s true he had the balls to nationalize all the oil companies, and to do that, he had take on the Americans. Well, you probably won’t appreciate that part of the story, but the fact is, in Mexico he was the new hero, the new god. We all adored him. Even I did. In those days I believed everything they told me. Anyway, you can’t give a party for the president of the Republic and serve enchiladas made by your sister, even if the president of the Republic says he’s just a campesino. They handed the matter over to Lupe Marín, the great Lupe!, the most acclaimed party planner this side of the Río Bravo. Lupe hired a professional cook with a whole kitchen crew, which was fine with me.
Lupe and her hired hands outdid themselves. Endless platters of stuffed chayote peppers, chicken in peanut sauce, enchiladas verdes, enchiladas rojas, pork stewed in pulque, mole poblano, Mexican flags of green, white, and red rice, every kind of dessert you can think of—quince paste, almond cookies, coconut balls, fruits, cheeses—what else?—tequila, grenadine punch, sangría, wine. I went to Frida’s party, even though I felt awful and still couldn’t eat normally. I had just had an operation myself, you see. A gallbladder operation. “Really, darling, you look as droopy as a limp dick,” Frida whispered in my ear. “And you look as mangled as a modernist sculpture, with your deformed leg and crooked back,” I cooed in hers. Or maybe I didn’t actually say it. I may have just thought it.
Society ladies and politicians fell over themselves to get close to the honoree. And the place was crawling with actors and actresses. Armendáriz, who was in María Candelaria and Flor Silvestre with Lola, María Félix, Sara García, Carlos López Moctezuma, who was in El gendarme desconocido with Cantinflas, Paulette Goddard. (Paulette was going to turn into something of a problem later on, and so was María Félix.) And me, right in the middle of it all, sharing recipes for mole poblano with Sara García. You can imagine, the place was buzzing with reporters, all hovering around Frida. Frida, the Star. She had prepared a huge list of guests that she had invited to her show in New York—the Rockefellers, the Luces, Alfred Stieglitz, Lewis Mumford. She was dropping names like horses drop turds.
“You know, I’ll be painting Clare Boothe Luce’s portrait when I’m in New York. And the artist George Grosz has promised to show me his studio. No, Diego doesn’t hold grudges. Both of us want John and Nelson to be there. Oh, Fallingwater! I’ve already accepted an invitation from Frank Lloyd Wright and Edgar Kaufman to see it. Nikolas Muray the photographer blah blah Meyer Schapiro the art historian blah blah (it helps to be part Jewish, darling) Conger Goodyear blah blah Dorothy Hale blah blah (I’ll be painting her portrait, darling) Sigmund Firestone blah blah blah blah blah.”
Both she and Diego put on quite a show at the train station. Again, the baby talk.
“My precious Froggie, how will you manage alone?”
“Mi niñita chiquitita. If you need anything—anything at all …”
Tears, tears, and more tears. “Oh, my darling Dieguito. Pobue bebito, pobue ranita.”
“Fridita, Friduchita. I know you’ll be a huge success. My bebita linda.”
Only a few of us knew how close these two buffoons were to a divorce. When the spotlight wasn’t on them, when no reporters were watching, they hissed at each other like alley cats.
At last she was gone. She didn’t write to me during this trip, either, not once, although she did write to Maty and Adri. What did I have to do to make her happy? I kept asking myself. What did I have to do to make her forgive me?