115 years ago today, the Mexican artist was born who, like no other, has become a universal icon of the feminine. During his lifetime, she was considered the exotic flower on the buttonhole of the great Diego Rivera. It was not until the 1970s that she was rediscovered by the women's movement and declared a symbolic figure. And posthumously artistically surpassed her husband's legacy. In addition to painting, her life was shaped by endless suffering: by pain, powerlessness, lovesickness, political independence, miscarriages and trusting recognition as an artist. She was a surrealist, but didn't want to be labeled as such. For her, her opulent appearance was a commitment to her indigenous roots, although in Mexico that meant having to endure racism. But despite all the injustice - it is her colorful paintings that transcend the pain in an irrepressible love of life. This eye-devouring swarm of plants, animals, dream things. I love Frida Kahlo for the tough delicacy of her own revolution. Always getting up and dancing life. Dear Frida, wherever you are now - I hope there will be a lot of drumming in your honor today, with music, schnapps and mountains of flowers!
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