Photograph courtesy of Zenith Richards / Met Opera.
In May, the opera El último sueño de Frida y Diego will open at the Metropolitan Opera. The opera centers on the artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera—but not exactly as themselves. On the Day of the Dead, after Rivera prays for Kahlo’s return, she travels back from the underworld to visit the land of the living. There she finds Rivera, about whom she feels ambivalent; in life, their relationship had been characterized by his infidelity and emotional turmoil. The one rule: she can’t touch anyone, not even him. What happens between them when she exists only in spirit form? And what is it like for one of the great painters of the body to be back in the world without one? This opera explores mortality, pain, and the afterlife of a difficult love. It also manages to be sometimes funny and surprising, with a dynamic cast of other characters, including a feisty keeper of the underworld named Catrina and a young actor named Leonardo, who is enamored with Greta Garbo.
For our Art of the Libretto series, I spoke to the playwright and librettist Nilo Cruz, who wrote the words to the composer Gabriela Lena Frank’s score. Cruz is a Cuban American playwright and won the Pulitzer Prize in 2003 for his play Anna in the Tropics. In recent years, he’s delved into Spanish-language opera and orchestral songs in collaboration with Frank. The libretto for Frida y Diego was in progress for fifteen years before the first performance in San Diego in 2022. After I read the libretto, we spoke about the formal challenges of writing an opera about historical figures, the role of visual art in the piece, and big questions like, What happens to love after death?
INTERVIEWER
How did this libretto start for you? Was it with an image, or a scene, or a story?
NILO CRUZ
The composer Gabriela Lena Frank and I were at a coffee shop, and she talked to me about the idea of writing an opera about Frida Kahlo. I said, “Ah, I really don’t want to write a biopic.” It had been done. And then she played me a piece of music—very quietly, almost as if she were opening a small door—which had to do with the Day of the Dead. What struck me was not only the sound but the atmosphere. There was something ritualistic in it, almost circular. You could feel the presence of the living and the dead coexisting in the same musical space. It wasn’t mournful. It was luminous. I thought, Let’s start the opera with the Day of the Dead. Frida is dead, and Diego wants her to come back to the world. And suddenly it became clear to me—this is the world of the piece.
How did you approach these two artists and their relationships to each other and their lives through a less literal lens? Were there pieces of their biographies you wanted to dive into?
CRUZ
I read something about Diego that confirmed to me that the opera should take place on the Day of the Dead. When Diego was at the end of his life, he decided he wanted his ashes to be united with Frida’s, even though he had married again. I thought, This is the center of the story. It’s about love after death. Their love was so tumultuous in actual life. I was intrigued by the idea of taking away the body—taking away the flesh—and having them meet in spirit.
The underworld, limbo, and purgatory appear often in myth and the classics. Were there any tales that were on your mind as you were writing?
I started to think about what the rules of this liminal world should be, so I thought of the Greek myth “Orpheus and Eurydice,” and the rules in that story. In “Orpheus and Eurydice,” it is Orpheus who goes into the underworld—by charming the gods with his music—and when he is guiding Eurydice out of the world of the dead, one of the rules is that he cannot turn back. I thought, Well, it could be interesting in this world of Frida and Diego if the dead could not touch the living—if Frida is touched by Diego, she has to relive the pain she experienced in life, not only physically but emotionally. I thought that would be an interesting law to have in the opera, and of course, that it would be interesting for that law to be broken, which then causes the tragedy of the piece. I loved discovering, little by little, the complexities of this unfamiliar world. For me, opera should embrace the mythical, or grand themes.
The character of Catrina, who determines who gets to return to the land of the living, seems to enforce or set these rules. How did you see her role in the opera?
She’s the keeper of the infra-world. She’s the one who really holds the keys. She’s a little bit of a classic trickster, or like that feisty man or woman we encounter, if we’re at an airport or customs, who makes it difficult for us to enter another country. There’s some corruption to her power. But also, there’s something wise in what she says to Frida—if you go back to the world, you’re going to be tempted to embrace Diego. You’re going to be tempted to paint again. Frida used to paint her body, but that body is no longer pulsing with life, no longer within her reach. One of the questions the opera poses in the second act is, How do I paint my absence? That question is not posed for the sake of seeking an answer.
Can you tell me a little bit about your collaboration with Gabriela Lena Frank on this libretto? How did the interplay between the music, the story, and the words look for you?
As a librettist, I’m always aware that I’m serving the music. It’s a humbling experience. Coming from the world of theater is a good thing, because theater is all about collaboration and interpretation—you place the work in the hands of others, and it begins to transform. Here it’s a little bit different, because you provide the words and then the words should diffuse in the music.
What are some of the formal challenges of writing a libretto versus a play?
A play lives in language. An opera lives in duration. One moment in an opera can expand for five minutes. Maybe you give the composer a full sentence. They might take one word and heighten it, expand it even more. Maybe the whole sentence disappears into music. I find the composer becomes an editor of the piece as well. The written words—the lyrics—aren’t the only thing establishing the dramaturgy. The sound of a flute can also be part of the storytelling. The entrance of a clarinet can guide us through an emotional moment. Do you actually need that phrase, or can it be given to an instrument?
My understanding is that you worked on this opera for a very long time—fifteen years. How did it develop in ways it wouldn’t have otherwise, because it was such a long creative process?
I started writing, and I turned in the first act to Gabriela, but nothing was happening. Part of it was practical. We couldn’t secure the commission money to move the piece forward, so it entered a kind of suspension. And that period was difficult, but it was also deeply productive.
Gabriela and I continued working together on other projects. I wrote an oratorio for her, Santos: The Powers That She, which was commissioned and performed by the San Francisco Girls Chorus. We worked on a song cycle called La centinela y la paloma (The keeper and the dove), an early sketch of Frida and Catrina on the Day of the Dead—a piece for soprano and chamber orchestra. We also worked on the Conquest Requiem, which was a commissioned piece as well, and on a piece for the Los Angeles Opera called Las cinco lunas de Lorca (The five moons of Lorca). All throughout that time, Frida y Diego remained in a process of gestation. We were getting to know each other more deeply as collaborators.
I was interested in the role that painting and art and color play in the opera. How did you approach translating this visual medium into a musical one?
I thought that art could be a bridge between the worlds. I was thinking about Frida’s painting The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Myself, Diego and Señor Xólotl, which also depicts a liminal space. She’s holding Diego like a child. You can see cracks in the earth in that painting, which suggest a kind of threshold between one world and another—it’s a mythical landscape. That painting became an inspiration for me. And then Diego’s painting Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park was also instrumental, because there you see characters from different periods in time mingling with one another. In our version of El último sueño, these time frames also converge.
In the opera, there’s a moment when you can really see the power dynamics that played out in their lives. How did you think about their relationship, about whether or not it could transcend death as they moved between the worlds?
Especially in the second act, many of their unresolved conflicts return to haunt them. These tensions begin to resolve because the body is no longer fully present for either of them—he is sickly, and she is pure spirit. The body remembers through pain. It isn’t just physical pain but emotional pain. Outside their bodies, they’re both able to revisit memories, and somehow there’s a moment of redemption and forgiveness. What adds a final layer to the relationship between these two beings is art. Through art, they find transformation—a metamorphosis from the carnal to the emotional. For me, that is love after death.
The Metropolitan Opera’s new production of El último sueño de Frida y Diego opens on May 14 and is directed by Deborah Colker and stars Isabel Leonard and Carlos Álvarez. Tickets and schedule can be found here.
Sophie Haigney is a writer working on a book about collecting. She is an advisory editor of The Paris Review.
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