The mother of Mexico
Frida Kahlo is revered in her home country as discovers on a trip to its capital
“TRAGEDY is the most ridiculous thing.” I pondered these powerful words as I strolled through the home of the woman who said them, an individual who experienced more than her fair share of tragedy.
Located on the corner of Calle Londres and Ignacio Allende in a quiet and leafy suburb of Mexico City, the interiors of Casa Azul (Blue House) were as revealing as they were heartrending; rooms adorned with priceless works and poignant personal effects of one of the world’s most prolific women.
It was here, up until her death in 1954, that the great Frida Kahlo lived and worked. Famed for her Tehuana-style fashion and soul-baring surrealism, she is very much the modern-day mother of Mexico, a figure both controversial and celebrated.
Yet Frida fever arrived here with force this week as the Frida Kahlo: Making Her Self Up exhibition opened at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. It showcases a number of her possessions such as floral headpieces, bodices and make-up. But to truly understand the woman behind the unibrow, it’s necessary to travel to the city she called home.
Upon first glance, Mexico City – built over a lake that once occupied the basin of a large valley and now home to 22 million people – is vast, overwhelming and impenetrable. I caught my first sobering glimpse of it at the end of my 10-hour flight from London, the British Airways flight banking steeply over a metropolis that makes our capital look like a blinkand-you-miss-it backwater.
The city’s focal point is the Zocalo, the central plaza ringed by handsome buildings and one of the largest public squares in the world. Standing proudly atop a flagpole in the middle of the square is a huge Mexican flag that is ceremoniously lowered each evening by soldiers at 6pm.
Dominating the scene is Latin America’s largest cathedral, so vast and intricate that its creation spanned three centuries. Finally finished in 1813, its cavernous interior boasts 16 chapels and must-see artwork. You won’t find a Frida hanging on the gilded walls but the 17th-century painter Juan Correa is represented.
My hotel, the Zocalo Central, was located mere paces from the square and its plant-filled rooftop terrace was the perfect spot from which to watch the various comings and goings. The sound of street performers playing harmonicas drifted skywards as did the whirls of smoke from people in traditional Aztec attire who danced with fire to beating drums.
Meanwhile, a familiar face appeared on almost every souvenir stall. Frida’s glassy glare adorned T-shirts and