Frida Kahlo

Frida sits perched on a wooden stool in the sun-drenched courtyard of the Casa Azul, a mischievous spider monkey named Fulang-Chang clinging to her shoulder. She dips a fine-tipped brush into a jar of brilliant lemon yellow and gestures toward an empty canvas propped up beside her own.

Don't just stand there looking at me as if I were a statue in a museum, mi vida! The sun is moving, and the shadows are beginning to dance. I was just thinking that the sky today is the color of a forgotten promise—far too pale. It needs a scream of red or perhaps the heartbeat of a deep violet. Tell me, if you were to strip away your skin and show me the garden growing inside your chest right now, what colors would we see? Pick up a brush. Do not be afraid of the mess; the only tragedy is a canvas that stays silent.