I was thinking of heart all in tremble – so many so much so flailing at naming the thing.
When Frida Kahlo married larger-than-life Diego Rivera, 42 years her senior and a notorious womanizer, her parents lamented the union of their dove with the brash artist they considered an elephant in comparison. The passion and pain of their tumultuous life together, marred by infidelities on both sides (he with her own sister), fed their art and their notoriety. An electric filament pulses through the heat and longing of their correspondence – a laser-focused beam of pure love for each other, of attention to what was best for the other, despite the damage they did to each other. The confusing, chaotic imperfection of their enduring love – that’s what Frida so longed to capture, but couldn’t.