“I want to be inside your darkest everything.” — 

Frida Kahlo, The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait

(via swanfuckerraspberrymilk)




El Venadito (The Wounded Deer) by Frida Kahlo, 1946

El Venadito (The Wounded Deer) by Frida Kahlo, 1946




Las dos Fridas (The Two Fridas) by Frida Kahlo, 1939
"My blood is the miracle that travels in the veins of the air from my heart to yours."

Las dos Fridas (The Two Fridas) by Frida Kahlo, 1939

"My blood is the miracle that travels in the veins of the air from my heart to yours."




proustitute:

Frida Kahlo, The Two Fridas (detail), 1939

proustitute:

Frida Kahlo, The Two Fridas (detail), 1939




 frenchtwist:
Frida Kahlo in a hospital bed, drawing her corset with help of a mirror by Juan Guzmán, 1951 Frida Kahlo wore plaster corsets for most of her life because her spine was too weak to support itself. She painted them, naturally, covering them with pasted scraps of fabric and drawings of tigers, monkeys, plumed birds, a blood-red hammer and sickle, and streetcars like the one whose handrail rammed through her body when she was eighteen years old. The corsets remain to this day in her famous blue house—their embedded mirrors reflecting back our gazes, their collages bringing the whole world into stricture. In one, an open circle has been carved into the plaster like a skylight near the heart. Frida’s corsets hardened around unspeakable longing. They still frame an invisible woman, still naked in her want, still calling to deaf men in the rain. I find them beautiful. She would have given anything, perhaps, to have a body that rendered them irrelevant. [ftp]

 frenchtwist:

Frida Kahlo in a hospital bed, drawing her corset with help of a mirror by Juan Guzmán, 1951

Frida Kahlo wore plaster corsets for most of her life because her spine was too weak to support itself. She painted them, naturally, covering them with pasted scraps of fabric and drawings of tigers, monkeys, plumed birds, a blood-red hammer and sickle, and streetcars like the one whose handrail rammed through her body when she was eighteen years old. The corsets remain to this day in her famous blue house—their embedded mirrors reflecting back our gazes, their collages bringing the whole world into stricture. In one, an open circle has been carved into the plaster like a skylight near the heart.

Frida’s corsets hardened around unspeakable longing. They still frame an invisible woman, still naked in her want, still calling to deaf men in the rain. I find them beautiful. She would have given anything, perhaps, to have a body that rendered them irrelevant. [ftp]