Frida Kahlo was eighteen when, on 17 September 1925, a streetcar struck the bus she was riding in. Her spine was fractured in three places, and her collarbone, ribs, pelvis and right leg were fractured too. During the months she then spent in bed, with a mirror over it and an easel made for lying down, she began to paint.
Her mother has arranged a mirror above the bed, set into the panel overhead.
The girl in the bed is eighteen. Three years ago she enrolled at the National Preparatory School, one of thirty-five girls among about two thousand students, planning to study medicine. Now she's home from a month in the Red Cross hospital, and this bed is where she'll stay for months.
She asks her father for colours. He's a photographer, and in his studio she's learned to tint prints by hand with a brush. Then an easel arrives, made so that she can work without sitting up.
She starts by drawing. Then she paints.
When her first self-portrait is finished, in 1926, she gives it away.
What happened in Frida Kahlo's bus accident?
On 17 September 1925, when she was eighteen, the bus she and her boyfriend were riding "was unable to slow down and was struck by a streetcar", in the Museo Frida Kahlo's words. She was seriously injured, spent a month in the Red Cross hospital, and then faced months in bed at home.
The museum's biography lists three fractures to her spine, one to her collarbone and two to her ribs, and a fractured pelvis. Her right shoulder was dislocated, and her right leg had eleven fractures, with the foot dislocated as well. The same biography records chronic pain, long periods in bed and a series of operations for the rest of her life.
Her injuries are not a lesson here, and this page doesn't claim that painting, looking at herself or anything else eased her pain. If you live with pain or an injury of your own, please take it to your doctor, and if you're in crisis, contact your local emergency services.
How did she begin to paint in bed?
With what her family could bring to the bed. The Museo Frida Kahlo's timeline sets it down plainly: "Her mother has a mirror put in the panel over her bed, and with the colors she asked her father to get, Frida begins to draw. Her parents also have an easel made that allows her to paint while lying down."
The museum's longer biography adds that her father kept a box of brushes and colours, which she asked him to share, and that he put it in her hands. Her mother had a carpenter build the easel.
Painting hadn't been the plan. That biography says her first two art teachers, at the Preparatory School, don't appear to have had "any lasting influence on her vocation". She'd gone to the school, the timeline says, because she wanted to study medicine.
Her first self-portrait in oils, from 1926, was for her boyfriend. Many more followed across her life, and the biography, looking over all of her work, says: "The main emphasis is on her exploration of identity".
Curious about the names you answer to yourself? My Who Am I? masterclass goes into that question, and with the code GIFT26 it costs you nothing. Part three is guided, so a note first. Readers who have felt unreal or detached, or who are in treatment for it, are best advised to see a doctor before part three or to leave that part out, and any listener can stop the audio the moment they need to. Receive the Masterclass. Or read on.
What did she say no to?
A name. In 1938 she had her first solo exhibition, in New York, and the text written to celebrate it called her a surrealist. The museum's biography records that as "a term Frida rejected". It adds that she kept that movement's books on the shelf beside her bed all the same.
So she kept the books and turned down the word. A celebration of her work came with a name attached, and she didn't answer to it.
She wasn't practising anything I teach, and her life belongs to her.
One thing needs saying plainly, so nothing here is misread. Pain, injury and disability are not layers to unbecome, and they aren't a "before" to go back to. What un-becoming covers, and what it never touches, is set out in unbecoming everything that isn't really you. How to remember who you are is where I explain remembering as I use the word, and why it needs no return to an earlier you.
Can you give three minutes to the view?
Some health points first. Reading this isn't a form of therapy or medical care, so whoever is treating you, pain team included, still comes first. Stay with any treatment or medication you're prescribed, and keep your helpers close. Recovery counts here too: whatever programme you're working, keep working it, with the same people beside you. If you're prone to feeling unreal, or far removed from what's around you, ask your doctor's view beforehand. If you're in crisis, contact your local emergency services.
This exercise points your eyes outward, never at a mirror. You'll need three minutes and a view of people passing: a window, a doorway, a balcony or a spot outdoors where you feel at ease. Not while driving.
Leave this exercise out if you live with social anxiety or panic, if how you look or how others look at you is bound up with distress of any kind, whether over eating, weight, skin, scars or anything else, if a visible difference means people tend to stare, or if alcohol, drugs or self-harm come into it. Any of that's worth raising with a doctor. You can stop at any moment and ring your doctor.
- Choose your view. A window, a doorway or a quiet spot outside, wherever feels easy.
- Let your eyes rest on the scene. Colours, shop signs, what people are carrying, the light on a wall.
- Notice when your attention turns back to yourself. A plan for later, a worry, a thought about being seen. Let it go by.
- Each time, let your eyes find one thing out there. A colour, a word on a sign, a leaf moving.
- Stop when three minutes are up, or sooner.
One minute counts. If fear rises, or you start to feel far off, stop, feel the floor and tell someone you trust.
The scene kept moving the whole time, at its own pace.
Is the masterclass a fit for you?
It won't suit every reader of this page. Three tests sort that out.
- For questions about yourself, not about her. It says nothing about Frida Kahlo or her paintings, so it won't serve anyone who came here for art history.
- For the present, not the past. Its subject is who's here now, not your personal history. If it's your history you want to work through, a therapist is the person for that.
- For identity, not for pain or a crisis. It offers no relief from pain, injury or illness, which are matters for your doctor. On a hard night, put this aside and call a doctor or a helpline. If you're in crisis, contact your local emergency services.
My own caution on the guided part, not the page's: if unreal or detached feelings are familiar to you, or you're in treatment for them, see a doctor before you play it, or don't play it at all. Pressing stop is allowed at any point; if you do, look around the room, feel the floor under your feet and call on someone you trust.
The names I'm worst at remembering belong to other people's dogs.
In Safae's review on Amazon.com, about my book: "This is a different way of seeing life, of seeing ourselves and of living."
Robert Simic, guiding the remembering.
P.S. A name handed to you long ago can still be answering for you this week. The freedom is in the removal. The masterclass takes up names and roles like that, free with GIFT26. Receive the Masterclass