I can empathise with your pain Frida! As an artist, the pain of repeated rejection is profoundly disheartening, yet it does not diminish my passion for painting, nor will I let it break my spirit. My love for art remains unwavering; to abandon this creative pursuit would be akin to the death of my soul. I was proud to submit my work to one of Australia’s most prestigious art competitions, the Sulman Prize. We artists continually harbor the hope of winning recognition for our lifelong dedication to both a personal and public cause. Such acknowledgment signifies our readiness and the worthiness of our art to be displayed and judged by both aficionados and the public.
However, when I learned the identity of this year’s Sulman Prize judge, my optimism waned. Familiarity with his work led me to believe my chances were slim, and indeed, I was not selected as a finalist. While this outcome was expected, I remain undeterred, as winning requires being part of the competition. I had heard that Art Prizes are a bit like a lottery, therefore participation is essential! Curiously, a simple post-it note with a shopping list was chosen as one of 40 finalists, a decision I cannot comprehend. I wish there were a Salon des Refusés for the Sulman Prize (as the Archibald has) where the true masterpieces, crafted with dedication and meticulous refinement, could be appreciated. To quote Salvador Dalí. “Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it!” This sentiment resonates with us (artists), as we strive for more than just submitting a shopping list on a post-it note.
Recently, I had the privilege of viewing Frida Kahlo’s paintings up close at an exhibition at the Art Gallery of South Australia. The exhibition, focusing on Mexican contemporary artists prominently featured Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Having studied Frida extensively through various biographies, I understood her deep self-expression through her art. However, seeing her brush strokes in person provided an entirely new perspective. Frida’s use of tiny brushes, typically associated with hyperrealism, achieved the naive style she is renowned for, and this was particularly striking. Her extensive body of work, over 200 pieces, is remarkable, especially considering her physical limitations. It is evident she spent most of her days seated (sometimes strapped to the chair) at her easel, reflecting on her imperfect physicality through her art. Every raw emotion she experienced was channelled onto the canvas, making her art a vessel for understanding her immense physical and emotional pain.
Frida’s approach in life, having faced death directly, was filled with an unmatched fervour to live fully and experience every moment? Her choice to wear flamboyant Tijuana skirts to disguise her polio-stricken leg and the brace that supported her body was a testament to her ingenuity by defying the conventional fashion of the times (1920’, 30’s). Externally, she was a stunning figure, determined by her bold fashion statements. Internally, her body was frail, but her spirit was indomitable. As a modern woman ahead of her time, Frida was bisexual, promiscuous, audacious, and resilient. She embraced her vulnerability while living in the shadow of her husband, Diego Rivera. All these aspects of her life she laid bare on the canvas, exposing her personal struggle through her art, and this is what gained her recognition as one of our greatest Surrealism painters of that era.
After her passing, Frida Kahlo became a phenomenon, a modern martyr born from her tragic existence and enduring suffering. Frida was physically broken by a trolley car accident at the age of 19, which left her maimed for life. She endured 32 spinal operations and ultimately faced the amputation of her leg below the knee due to complications from polio contracted in childhood. This final blow (at age 46) broke her spirit; despite maintaining an optimistic outlook for most of her life, she fell into a deep depression. It is suspected that she chose to end her own life. Her poignant final words, “I hope the exit is joyful and I hope never to return,” suggest she had reached the limits of her endurance.
My deep fascination and research of Frida promoted me to invite her into my studio, through a portrait (of her). I was inspired by a photograph taken by her lover, Nikolas Murray, in which she looked stunning, as she often did in his staged studio photographs. She appeared very Mona Lisa-like, with a slight smirk and elegantly folded hands. This made me wonder if it was possible to capture the spirit of the deceased, to commune with her in some way through the act of a dedicated painting. And so, I promised Frida my best efforts and asked her if she would accompany me with the process – to become my muse.
Everything proceeded smoothly until I reached her face. X-ray images of this painting will reveal at least five different renditions of Frida’s face beneath the final layer. The journey to creating this painting, representing a mended Frida, stemmed from what I initially perceived as a massive failure. Or perhaps, it was not! Frustrated and convinced that painting from a photograph was too difficult due to its lack of dimension, the idea of Kintsugi struck me. The concept of reconstructing Frida Kahlo through the Japanese art of Kintsugi came to me like a lightning bolt, even though it was a gradual and often frustrating process to arrive at that point—an experience that underscores why I love art. This method of embracing flaws and imperfections seemed the perfect approach to honour Frida’s brokenness.
In a bold move, I blacked out her entire face to start anew. To create distinct sections of her best paintings, I applied gold leaf cracks. This process involves using glue to adhere the gold leaf to the dedicated line, then brushing off the excess. As I brushed, the gold broke apart like gold dust, scattering across the entire painting. In that moment, I was struck by the poignant coincidence of Frida’s trolley accident, where she was found impaled on a pole, bloodied, and covered in gold dust—the spilled remains of another passenger’s gold paint pigment.
Recognizing the profound connection between my creative process and her life story I smirked with acknowledgment. Perhaps she was trying to teach me – to find my own voice, in recognition that portraits aren’t my thing – but masks are.
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