I'm Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

You've probably seen at least one painting by Frida Kalo at some point in your life.

After all, she's considered one of Mexico's greatest artists.

But unless you're an art nerd like me, you might not know much about Frida, the person.

She was born in Koyoa Khan, a borough of Mexico City, and her family's home is often referred to as La Casa Azul, or the Blue House. And she notably lived with illness and injury for most of her

life. Frieda contracted polio when she was six years old, and even after she recovered, she walked with a

limp. Then, when she was 18 she walked with a limp.

Then, when she was 18, an injury from a bus and streetcar collision fractured Frida's spine and pelvis.

She wore a full body cast for three months and endured dozens of operations. It was then, during her long

recovery, that Frida's parents encouraged her to paint. They had a special easel made for her

so she could paint while lying in bed.

Some of Frida's self-portraits, paintings like without hope, the broken column, and the wounded deer,

reflect on the pain and suffering Frida encountered in life, both physically and emotionally.

La Casa Azul is now a museum, and Koyoakhan, where admirers of her work can go and see it for themselves.

I'd love to visit it someday. Today's poem is an exprastic poem, a poem inspired by a piece of art. It opens with an epigraphy that is a quote

by Frida Kahlo. It strikes me now, reading that line of hers,

that while she's talking about painting herself,

it can also refer to writing about oneself.

Perspective, Koyoa Khan by Corey Van Lendingham.

I paint myself because I am often alone, and I am the subject I know best.

Frieda Kalo

She is learning it

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