A Tale of Two Artists

by Beth E. Wilson, April 28, 2008

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. This past Easter Sunday, I had the chance to visit two exhibitions at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, both of which I’d been looking forward to with great anticipation. Between the blockbuster Frida Kahlo show, and another featuring the photography of Lee Miller—both of whom celebrated centenaries in 2007—I was expecting an embarrassment of riches. In retrospect, it was an at times frustrating, at times downright disappointing, experience—but one that I would recommend to anyone interested in the work of these women anyway. (The Miller show will have just closed as this issue comes out; the Kahlo show continues through May 18. Both will then go on view at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art this summer.)

As well known as Kahlo is today—especially since the striking bio-pic starring Salma Hayek in 2002—it’s still a rare thing to actually see much of her work. As a result, the prospect of seeing some 42 of her paintings seemed like it would be a real treat.

Unfortunately, as is often the case with these vigorously advertised blockbusters—it’s difficult to go anywhere in Philadelphia without encountering the world’s most famous unibrow—and despite a timed ticket system, the sheer mass of humanity within the walls of the exhibition made locating oxygen a challenge, let alone spending any time really looking at the work. (In the end, I concluded that the timed ticket scheme amounted to stamping the date and time the visitor arrived on the ticket, not actually regulating the number of people allowed in at any one time.)

It’s always an interesting exercise to encounter in person works that you’ve only seen in reproduction previously. For example, I was shocked to discover how large the famous Two Fridas painting was, each of the seated women approaching something like life size, even as most of her work was done on a much more intimate scale. I was struck by the intensity and power of some of her late still life paintings, which were done mostly as her health deteriorated near the end of her life. That these are less immediately popular—despite the strength of the works themselves—is testimony to the addictive power of celebrity, the primacy of personal charisma that draws the crowds to this exhibition to see their beloved “Frida.”

Kahlo is herself partly culpable in this cult of personality. It has much to do with the alluring myth that she helped to spin about herself, folding in the traumatic injuries she received while still a teenager in a terrible street car accident in Mexico City. (Impaled by a metal bar that exited via her vagina, Kahlo was to suffer almost constant pain, a series of more than 50 operations, and the inability to carry a pregnancy as a result.) Many of her paintings vividly portray the strong feelings and frustrations of her life, the infidelities of her husband, muralist Diego Rivera (who had an affair with Frida’s sister, among others), the miscarriages, and the richness of indigenous Mexican culture, always close to her heart.