Frida, Fame and Diego



high.org

When I was young I idolized public figures. It didn’t matter who you were--the president, a movie star, an author--I thought that because of the high number of people who knew your name or face you were set apart from the rest of humanity, from us normal people.

That was before I realized that for the majority of people who gain notoriety fame, and particularly the lack of privacy, can be an incredible inconvenience. Sure, some people are fueled by the idea of being in the spotlight. But most of the time the insanely famous are normal people. As John Lennon understates in Beatles Anthology, “We were just a band…who made it very, very big. That’s all.”

One of the trickiest things about fame is the more people know about you, the less control you have over your public opinion. Perhaps artists are the luckiest in this regard, they have their artwork to speak for them long after they physically die. Still, people will remember what they wish. “Yeah, I know about Van Gogh. He’s the one who cut off his ear and sent it to the woman he loved because he was crazy.”

I thought a lot about fame after enjoying the exhibit “Frida and Diego: Passion, Politics and Painting” with my wife at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. As the exhibit explained, Frida Kahlo was a self-taught amateur painter who married Diego Rivera, the most important Mexican artist of his time. Married for twenty-four years, Frieda and Diego lived passionate and often contentious lives together. Did their fame add stresses to already violent tendencies?

Suppose fame did make their lives more difficult. Would Diego rescind his artistic influence if it meant living a quieter life? Probably not--people with Diego’s talent and drive are a gift of humanity to itself, and often I think artists know just how important their role is in the grand scheme of things.



pbs.org

Though self-taught, Frida Kahlo made her own mark in the Mexican art culture with still-lifes, self-portraits and emotionally charged pieces bordering on surrealism. She suffered several miscarriages because of a bus injury, and the paintings which depict the subsequent emotional and physical pain are as gripping as they are grotesque. I found myself reacting to these paintings with cynical detachment, partly because I am a male and have difficulty relating to motherhood, or motherhood lost. I thought, well if Frida is in this exhibit fifty years after her death, certainly her legacy is worth the pain of not having children. But how can I be so sure, and who am I to judge?

I am also cynical because I am jealous. Let’s face it: I will never create art like Frida Kahlo or Diego Rivera, but I would like to. And I would like to be recognized for such greatness, because what else substantiates achievement but critical acclaim? Something inside me tells me, you don’t want to be famous, it’s never what it’s cracked up to be. But I’m still deathly curious what it would be like.

The other day I was grateful that after reading one of my video game reviews, a poster said they enjoyed it very much. I was overjoyed--someone likes my writing! But we all know how the math goes: the fuzzy feelings of nine compliments can be leveled with a single negative one. I know I shouldn’t stake my sense of fulfillment in the adoration of others, but it’s so easy to.

Earlier this week I had an encounter I’ll remember for a long time. Recently elected, our new mayor came into the café where I work and ordered his standard bagel with butter and apple juice. But this day he looked different--he was simply glowing with rest and the relief that comes from victory after a year-long campaign. I was so happy for him. Sure, he chose to be a politician, but no one deserves to be exhausted every day for a year. I wonder what the future holds for me, and which ways I’ll choose to wear myself out for the good of everyone.