I knew before I left the house that it was going to be packed. It was both sold out and valet parking only. The sun went down as I was driving north on Pacific Coast Highway and traffic through SurfTown was slow.
I suppose it is about as close as anything truly Frida was going to get to my home. 2012, many of her paintings were at LACMA in a show, In Wonderland ~ Women Surrealists in Mexico and the U.S.. I went to that three times. And just two years ago, I went to Mexico City for a week to see as much as one can see on Frida Pilgrimage. But this was coming here. People could see her here. And there is something particularly romantic about it being the Museum of Latin American Art.
On the way I decided that nothing was going to piss me off – nothing – not lines or idiotic remarks or standing for hours just to get a glimpse. It was not going to be the night to see each and every photo in detail. That was going to a weekday in an empty museum. This was more a holy circumambulation to the altar of a genius. And I knew that each of us love her for different reasons ~ all of them worthy.
Leaving in daylight, arriving in full moon darkness made it seem like it was an entirely different world. Lines were all the way out of the front, the parking lot and out to the street. The outfits were extraordinary, clearly everyone dressed thoughtfully, as Tim Gunn would say. It was a triple crown of Mexican aesthetics, an art show and an opening party. It did not disappoint. Forty five minutes in line, the first I saw in the lobby was a row of dazzling Queens. De-Lish!
Galleries being packed I did what any sensible person would do ~ go to the lieu and then the shop. A few things Frida, pricy and pretty. Disappointed that there was no book of the show itself. There were a dozen retail booths on the other side of the building. Finally on to the galleries
The photos were tiny. Framed impeccably in big white matts and neutral thin frames. It was the most respectful mount I have ever seen. They all were eye level and it was clear, “step in and look, look closer.” You could see them better in a book but seeing them was secondary to feeling the gasping love fest. The photos were separated almost chronologically: Family, Loves, Pain. Some were alone and some framed in 3’s or 4’s. There were about seven or eight that were gigantic blow-ups on the walls, announcing that a new category was starting.
I really did not look much at the actual photos, that is for another day. A private day. A day with tissue and a moleskin notebook. This evening I saw the astounding love for this revolutionary, bisexual, genius who painted what she felt. And one thing that is true above all else, her capacity for feeling and expressing it is still growing and highly contagious.
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