Frida Kahlo
Frida Kahlo
Frida Kahlo de Rivera, born Magdalena Carmen Frieda Kahlo y Calderón, was a Mexican painter known for her self-portraits...
NationalityMexican
ProfessionPainter
Date of Birth6 July 1907
CityCoyoacan, Mexico
CountryMexico
ideas forever littles
Everyone's opinions about things change over time. Nothing is constant. Everything changes. And to hold onto some dogged idea forever is a little rigid and maybe naive.
self risk suffering
To trap one's self-suffering is to risk being devoured from the inside.
song storm want
I want a storm to come and flood us into a song that no one wrote.
destiny earth destroying
Mankind owns its destiny, and its destiny is the earth. We are destroying it until we have no destiny.
laughter light laughing
Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.
swim sorrow things-learned
I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things learned how to swim.
white racism males
Sexism and racism are parallel problems. You can compare them in some ways, but they're not at all the same. But they're both symptoms inside the white male power structure.
sick long broken
I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy as long as I can paint.
looks biscuits lovers
Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are a bourbon biscuit.
thinking enduring-to-the-end the-end-of-the-day
At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.
i-love-you-more skins littles
I love you more than my own skin and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do, and i’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you.
leaving humans clumsy
I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.
love-you wings sky
Can one invent verbs? I want to tell you one: I sky you, so my wings extend so large to love you without measure.
pain crazy flower
I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.