Author: elahehia

Frida Kahlo: one of the loveliest women to have ever existed.

As a woman with severe depression and anxiety and other mental fuck-ery who paints her nightmares, I’ve been inspired by Frida in a way that “normal” people can’t empathize with. Don’t get me wrong, I’m nowhere near as talented, intelligent, or wholly beautiful as Frida is but when I look at her life, I feel hope, rather than pity at the travesty her human experience was.

On Halloween, I acted on a recent whim to dress like her and made a thorn necklace and dressed as Frida from her Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace, Hummingbird, and Unibrow. It’s not only one of my favorite paintings but one of my favorite paintings ever. When I look at this painting, I see myself. I see my blood where the thorns pierce my neck and I see the beauty around me and the sadness in me. An indescribable sensation of relief washes over me as I realize that someone so famous, loved, and even revered has felt the what I have felt and perhaps that is why art itself is so appealing: there is a spiritual and intellectual connection between the audience and the artist and we feel compelled the same way the artist was when they created their work.

I’m reading a book right now called A First Rate Madness: Uncovering Links Between Leadership and Mental Illness. Reading it is like looking at a work by Frida. The description of historical leaders and innovators who have turned their experiences into something creative, beautiful, and brilliant is inspirational to no end; once convinced that my condition was hopeless and my life was futureless, I now dare to think that perhaps not all is lost. And I feel hope. Which is all we ever need, right?

I don’t want to turn this blog post into a corny mush fest, inviting everyone to turn negative experiences into something positive and then give examples of people who have done this in the past. I’ve heard enough of those condescending, douche-bag lectures for several lifetimes. I just want to thank the likes of Frida Kahlo and Van Gogh for showing me that beauty was possible in places of utter ugliness and despair. I want to thank them for not just instilling emotion in me but for understanding me. I want to thank Frida for being so fucking smart and independent and  awesome and providing me with an actual role model: someone who was completely different and okay with that.

My first post on this blog, The Irrelevance of the Artist, spurred some debate with an intellectual friend of mine. He insisted that the artist was integral to the art because so much of art is its meaning and intention, which is derived directly from said artist. I disagreed: once the artist is done creating his work, his intention and his opinion matter no more than any other observer’s. Very quickly, I realized the foundation of our argument was not disagreement regarding the role of the artist as much as it was a disagreement on what art is.

To him, I gathered, art was something deliberately created to carry the artist’s intent. To me, such a definition was too limiting. It meant art could only be man-made and have a specific purpose or statement in mind. To me, art is an interaction and a provocation. Not necessarily something meant to elicit anger and frustration but something meant to elicit. Period.

Therefore, in a way, everything is art, n’est-ce pas? From the laughter of a child which inspires awe to the cockroach which sparks repulsion. From Picasso’s The Old Guitarist to the strum of a guitar of an old man on the street. Even intangible concepts such as the incomprehensible infinity of the universe and unimaginable promise of the future are art. Art is thought and emotion and physicality and dirt and nonsense and sense. It is human consciousness and everything the consciousness reacts with. The idea that something that vast could be narrowed down into something physical, created with an intention in mind is ludicrous, perhaps even blasphemous.

While art is as old as the human race itself, the need obsession with defining exactly what it is has come about fairly recently (that we know of). I will not pretend to know why nor will I publish my thoughts with a possible why if and when I do come up with one. Because it doesn’t matter. My opinion – this entire blog post – is not fact. It is truth. It is art. You, reading this, what is happening right now is art. And as the artist typing this blog post, I want to let you know that it’s almost done. So I’m about to step back now and let you think and feel what you want. Maybe I’ll leave you with a Herman Melville poem because… hey, why the hell not? It even rhymes.

Art

In placid hours well-pleased we dream

Of many a brave unbodied scheme.

But form to lend, pulsed life create,

What unlike things must meet and mate:

A flame to melt – a wind to freeze;

Sad patience – joyous energies;

Humility – yet pride and scorn;

Instinct and study; love and hate;

Audacity – reverence. These must mate,

And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,

To wrestle with the angel – Art.

I want to talk about one of the most terrifying things that occurred to me in the recent future.

A few weekends ago, my friend and I went to Dlectricity, an outdoor art show featuring electricity. The eclectic exhibits featured sculptures made of light fixtures, laser shows, and flashlight performances. The most memorable one wasn’t the brightest one or the the one that flashed the most but a fairly simple one.

It was called Psychic Effects: A Delicate Balance and it was by Dana Bell. It was a like a department store’s window display, only the background was a video collage of famous horror scenes and the mannequins were expressionless women dancing as if they were in a trance.

It was enchanting and appalling at the same time. They still haunt me, those bizarre dance movements of the women who seemed trapped behind the glass yet liberated at the same time because they seemed to know something that no one in the audience did.

The most memorable part of the exhibit was when in the middle of the odd dance sequence, both the “mannequins” lifted their hand and pointed at the audience. And didn’t lower their hand. I waited. And waited. And waited. But their hand didn’t lower. The crowd started shifting uncomfortably and it wasn’t from the chilly breeze outside. Their fingers were pointing vaguely toward at us and the only movement was their hand gliding so that the finger pointed at everyone. It was accusatory and accused of all the sins we had committed and waited for us to crumple up with guilt. And the crowd was now a unified body eager to defend itself against this wordless, indeterminate allegation.

And I waited. For those women, with their terrifying lack of disappointment, frustration, anger, or any expression whatsoever on their face, to lower their finger. I wanted to plead with them, tell them that I had done nothing wrong and it was unfair of them to point their finger at me when I was innocent of whatever they were accusing me of. Nothing. They kept pointing. The void of expression now seemed cruel. I was on an open street but couldn’t move. It seemed that their fingers and blank gazes were holding me and would not release me until I gave them something.

And finally, after what seemed to be eternity, they lowered their fingers and continued with their outlandish choreography. I released the breath that I did not realize I was holding in. I refocused on the sidewalk I was on, in the city I was in, and the people I was next to. I still do not know what occurred at that moment but I understand that it was something gripping and evocative and paralyzing.

As I looked around the crowd, I noticed I had not been the only one holding my breath in.

The last time my parents visited Ann Arbor, we took a walk in the chilly weather to the Ross building. Though I’ve lived in Ann Arbor for a while, my parents had never really visited until then and I was eager to show them the interesting and beautiful architecture around campus, especially the school I studied in.

As we were approaching the building, I pointed out the bronze sculpture next to Lorch Hall that vaguely resembled bones. I asked my dad what he thought it was and he immediately walked up to the corresponding plaque to read the provided information. He was surprised that it only contained the author’s name, not his intentions or his core message.

I asked him why the author’s intentions mattered. And I pose the same question to you.

The artist is the creator of a provocation. A piece that represents, challenges, or illustrates something he or she has observed. It is a direct interaction with society. But it has nothing to do with you.

Art is not meant to be a definite, a concrete the way we prefer things to be, a constant that is reliable, or a fact we can memorize. It is fluid and abstract and that is the most terrifying and breathtaking thing about it. It can mean everything, anything, and nothing, all at the same time. It is not the physical piece itself but the emotion and thought the viewer or participant feels and thinks upon experiencing it.

My room, without a doubt, at any time, on any day, is covered with newspaper, tubes of paint, charcoal, and baubles I use to express myself. When I make something, I do it almost intuitively – my hands know what colors I want to use, where I want the lips to go, which buttons to use to form human hair – and when I am done, I am done. I no longer have a part in it and neither does any artist. They are transformed from being a creator to an observer of their art and their opinion of what it means and what it represents are as important or as arbitrary as anyone else’s.

We have the innate desire to look at something and understand everything about it. We look to figures of authority to do so, people with experience and knowledge. In art, we turn to the artist. But this would imply that there is something about art that is a fact. Something that remains constant no matter who stands in front it. This is wrong. As much as the concept of universal human emotions is touted as some unquestionable truth, it is not. While something beautiful like a smile can invoke the same warmth in my heart as it can in the heart of someone from a completely different background, it has different implications, different effects, and is the manifestation of different thoughts.

An artist stating what their art means is an artist telling you what you should think and feel when you experience their art, which defies the inherent purpose and essential quality of art. The interaction between the physical piece and the participant that is art is tremendously intimate and cannot be explained.

The plaque did not lack information. In fact, it had more than what was necessary.