I'd long had admiration for Frida's work. Her self-portraits are so moving and meaningful to me, and I feel she's very beautiful in spite of the everyday standards of beauty in the U.S.. Being a chronic pain patient, I can relate to her visions of suffering and yet find them pleasing to my eyes.
We took the day on Monday, driving into San Francisco, parking, walking through Buena Vista Gardens and into the geometry of the Museum of Modern Art building. Up to the 4th floor we climbed, slowly making our way into the crowded exhibit, following the people ahead of us—the place is so crowded we can't see at first just which painting is coming up. Shuffling, we see her paintings slowly, we are close to them, more close than others who are rushing to say they saw the exhibit.
Her method of applying paint is appealing, especially considering many of her paintings were done while she was lying in her bed, and confined in a brace or cast. Many of her works have tiny amounts of paint applied with what must be cat's whiskers. What else could lay down such little strokes?
The painting which moved me the most was "The Broken Column." The background is a ruptured Earth. Dry, dead grass covers most of the background, broken up by huge, dark rifts, like fault lines. The sky is blue, yet there is a foreboding grey cast to it, like Golgotha on Good Friday. In this portrait her hair is down and flowing, and she looks at the viewer, but not straight-on like in her other portraits, and there is no blood shed. She is naked under her brace, wearing a sort-of loincloth around her hips. Her torso is divided vertically, the rift slightly more dark than those of the Earth, and within the rift is a broken Ionic column, simulating her own fractured, crooked spine. Nails are driven into her loincloth, up her lower right side, crossing to her left side at the breast. Unlike her other portraits she is alone. No pets, no lover, no husband, no other Frida, making this one seem the most tragic of all. Her expression is that of being in pain, but being perhaps, too tired to cry. As I looked at the painting, I started to cry. I had to look away and choke back my grief so that I could get through the exhibit.
After we had seen the exhibit, we walked back through the gardens and down Mission Street where we spotted Mels Drive-in. Hungry, we went in and took a seat at the counter. Mel's is unique. Juke boxes are scattered through the eatery which you can operate with a quarter. Chrome and red leather predominate the furnishings and black and white photo stills from the movie, "American Grafitti" are action captured on the walls. I ordered a Blue Plate special; Rotisserie Chicken with vegetables and mashed potatoes. Honey ordered a burger with fries and a cup of coffee. Honestly, the mashed potatoes were lacking seasoning, even a little milk or butter while they were being prepared would have saved them. The chicken and vegetables were excellent. Later, Honey ordered up some pie ala-mode, allowing me to taste, yum!
Anna
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