{"id":48865,"date":"2013-03-20T15:00:15","date_gmt":"2013-03-20T19:00:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=48865"},"modified":"2013-03-21T09:03:45","modified_gmt":"2013-03-21T13:03:45","slug":"diego-frida-and-me","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/03\/20\/diego-frida-and-me\/","title":{"rendered":"Diego, Frida, and Me"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Molly's<\/a>

Molly\u2019s Factory<\/small><\/em><\/center><\/p><\/div><\/center><\/p>\n

When a woman artist looks for her forebears, she sees a void.<\/p>\n

There are, needless to say, great female artists. There\u2019s Tamara de Lempicka, queen of art deco. There\u2019s Artemisia Gentileschi, forever in paintings, cutting off her rapist\u2019s head.\u00a0There\u2019s love-ravished Camille Claudel, making the hands of her lover Rodin\u2019s sculptures before being institutionalized for forty years. There are Mary Cassatt\u2019s paintings of children. But it can\u2019t be denied: the canon of Western woman\u2019s art is nothing compared to the canon of Western woman\u2019s writing.<\/p>\n

Noted Audre Lorde, \u201cOf all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper.\u201d While a writer may require only a room of one\u2019s own, an artist needs years of training, muses, a studio, canvas, paints, patrons, and, fundamentally, a world that lets her be grubby and feral and alone.<\/p>\n

Growing up, the women in art history who inspired me were primarily models: Victorine Muerent. La Goulue. Far from pampered, indolent odalisques, these are sexy, tough, working-class women, often with backgrounds in the sex trade. Notable contrasts to the genteel girls who studied flower painting along with piano and embroidery, my archetypes were flamboyant, glamorous self-creations, unabashedly employing themselves as their own raw materials in a world that would give them nothing else. I too worked as an artist\u2019s model. For an artist, the job is a paradox: you\u2019re clay for someone else\u2019s creation while longing to make your own. <\/p>\n

\"Shell<\/a>

Shell Game<\/small><\/em><\/center><\/p><\/div><\/center><\/p>\n

Of all the women who street-fought their way into the canon, my favorite, and almost certainly the most popular in the widest circles, is Frida Kahlo. Frida and her husband, Diego Rivera, were the golden couple of 1930s Mexico. Brilliant, famous, larger than life, they became concepts as much as people, and, in ways that have become clearer and clearer, concepts that represent with unusual neatness ideas of what a man\u2019s art and a woman\u2019s art should be.<\/p>\n

Diego was Mexico\u2019s greatest muralist, a classic god-monster of modernism. His passion for work was amoral, all consuming, all creating. He painted in fresco, a medium so demanding that if the plaster dries early you have to chip off the day\u2019s work and start again.\u00a0His murals in Palacio Nacional took six years.\u00a0He was obese. He looked like a frog. From the scaffolding, he shot guns at people who showed up to protest his work. He slept with half of North America. His paintings explored giant themes: communism, colonialism, industry, Mexico, war. If ever art was macho, termed in scale, scope, and swagger, it is the art of Diego Rivera.<\/p>\n

Frida, small and beautiful, famously adopted the dress of a Tehuana Indian. When she was a teenager, her back was broken and pelvis impaled in a street car accident, and surgeons alternately repaired and mutilated her for the rest of her life. Frida painted small, exquisite self-portraits in the retablo<\/em> tradition, dealing with the intimate domestic theater of sex and love, disability and pain, her relationship with Diego, with Mexico.\u00a0Take the cultural shorthand away and look at her work: it is unsentimental and lacerating. Frida was the type who would look at a disemboweled body unflinchingly, even if it was her own. Andre Breton called her painting \u201ca ribbon around a bomb.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Debt\"<\/a>

Debt<\/small><\/em><\/center><\/p><\/div><\/center><\/p>\n

The Communist Party considered easel paintings, as opposed to murals, bourgeois, because they could only have one owner. Nearly a century later, Frida\u2019s paintings are the truly populist art.\u00a0They\u2019re the totems for the Tumblr age, tiny rectangles of infinitely reproducible emotion. To understand a mural, one must stand before it.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Of course, concepts are best cast in stark terms, as abstract representations of truth. People, not so much. Diego made his own ass the focal point of his mural at the San Francisco Art Institute. Frida\u2019s communism was so fervent that one of her last paintings, done in a morphine haze after her leg was amputated, bears the title Marxism Will Give Health to the Sick<\/em>.\u00a0But history reads them along gender lines. Diego is masculine, intellectual, universal. Frida is feminine, emotional, personal.<\/p>\n

This is not unusual. Women\u2019s art gets to be about sex, family, love, body, pain. Men\u2019s art can do those things, but also be about everything else.<\/p>\n

\"Hivemind\"<\/a>

Hivemind<\/em><\/small><\/center><\/p><\/div><\/center><\/p>\n

When women paint themselves, it\u2019s narcissistic. When men paint themselves, it\u2019s the human experience. Autobiographical essays by women are confessional, T. M. I. Self-portraits are selfies. A male artist friend once complained about hot girls drawing themselves. I said it was a simple case of owning the means of production. We live in the freest time to be a woman artist, but still, the path we are supposed to follow is clear.\u00a0We should endlessly dissect ourselves, our love lives and cellulite, our vaginas and hearts.<\/p>\n

In my own art, I looked outwards. What\u2019s called the male gaze is equally an artist\u2019s gaze, a precise perspective that is consuming, rapacious, and unafraid of turning humans into objects. The man leering on the street corner is me trying to draw a hot young journalist in my sketchbook. I\u2019ve drawn myself a half dozen times, and it never ceases to be jarring.\u00a0Why look in the mirror when I can creepily stare at everyone else?<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve done several murals. Mural work is art at its most blue collar and most sublime: half carpentry and half metaphysics. You\u2019re exhausted and filthy, \u00a0wobbling on a rickety platform, but you’re creating a world. Anyone who enters a room you\u2019ve painted does it on your terms.\u00a0When I do murals, I feel as if I\u2019m John Henry, racing the steam engine through a mountain. If I will die, it will be with a paintbrush in my hand.<\/p>\n

Last year I started doing giant paintings about the revolutions of 2011. I was inspired by Diego Rivera.<\/p>\n

\"Our<\/a>

Our Lady of Liberty Park<\/em><\/small><\/center><\/p><\/div><\/center><\/p>\n

If I have something to say to women, to artists, it\u2019s this: Explore the radical possibilities of facing outwards. Take up space.\u00a0Be big.<\/p>\n

I want to give particular mention to two artists who, because of their scale and their social conscience, I see as the heirs to Diego Rivera. Kara Walker is an African American artist who does classic, black-paper silhouettes on a massive scale. Her intricate shadows offer treacherously beautiful looks at slavery\u2019s horrors.<\/p>\n

SWOON is a New York street artist. She makes giant, graceful woodblock prints of average people, and then risks arrest as she wheat-pastes them in public spaces around the world. She builds earthquake proof homes in Haiti, designs art centers in New Orleans, and had her punk friends build a pirate flotilla out of garbage and sail it to lay siege on the Venice Biennale.<\/p>\n

The art of love and pain is powerful. But it\u2019s not the only art. I want to see more men who paint like Frida Kahlo. I want to see more women who paint like Diego Rivera.<\/p>\n

Molly Crabapple is an artist and writer living in New York. She learned to draw in a Parisian bookstore, and once sketched her way into a Turkish jail. Her latest project is \u201cShell Game,\u201d a series of large-scale paintings about the revolutions of 2011 that will be on exhibition publicly in spring 2013. She writes a monthly column for <\/em>VICE Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When a woman artist looks for her forebears, she sees a void. There are, needless to say, great female artists. There\u2019s Tamara de Lempicka, queen of art deco. There\u2019s Artemisia Gentileschi, forever in paintings, cutting off her rapist\u2019s head.\u00a0There\u2019s love-ravished Camille Claudel, making the hands of her lover Rodin\u2019s sculptures before being institutionalized for forty […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":502,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[10424,35,10418,10421,10419,3156,3356,3220,10425,10423,10420,67,2426,10417,10422,36],"class_list":["post-48865","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-andre-breton","tag-art","tag-artemisia-gentileschi","tag-audre-lorde","tag-camille-claudel","tag-communism","tag-diego-rivera","tag-frida-kahlo","tag-kara-walker","tag-la-goulue","tag-mary-cassatt","tag-painting","tag-politics","tag-tamara-de-lempicka","tag-victorine-muerent","tag-women"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nDiego, Frida, and Me by Molly Crabapple<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 20, 2013 \u2013 When a woman artist looks for her forebears, she sees a void. 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