Frida Kahlo in a hospital bed, drawing her corset with help of a mirror by Juan Guzmán, 1951
Frida Kahlo wore plaster corsets for most of her life because her spine was too weak to support itself. She painted them, naturally, covering them with pasted scraps of fabric and drawings of tigers, monkeys, plumed birds, a blood-red hammer and sickle, and streetcars like the one whose handrail rammed through her body when she was eighteen years old. The corsets remain to this day in her famous blue house—their embedded mirrors reflecting back our gazes, their collages bringing the whole world into stricture. In one, an open circle has been carved into the plaster like a skylight near the heart.
Frida’s corsets hardened around unspeakable longing. They still frame an invisible woman, still naked in her want, still calling to deaf men in the rain. I find them beautiful. She would have given anything, perhaps, to have a body that rendered them irrelevant. [ftp]
Reasons I Know I’m Getting Older
Posted by Alex Rudinski at 3:25 PM 2.13.2009
1. I prefer cranberry juice over other juice/fruit drink options.
2. I feel vaguely guilty when I download pirated movies.
3. I no longer cringe when I hear Journey/Bruce Springsteen/Rush.
4. The word most often used to describe my day is “frustrating.”
5. When getting out of a good chair, I sometimes groan.
5a. Chairs and the larger wold of sitting have become more appealing.
6. I stay inside when it’s cold.
7. Nineteen-year-olds seem frivolous in their extravagant lifestyle choices.
7a. I use the phrase “lifestyle choices.”
8. The Atlantic is my favorite magazine.
9. I like waking up early in the morning and getting to bed at a “reasonable hour.”
10. Plaid is my favorite color.
11. I will not buy or drink Popov, Vlad’s, Ezra Brooks or any variety of liquor that costs less than ten dollars per fifth.
11a. Nor Kool-Aid is an acceptable mixer.
11b. Nor is a 5 gallon Rubbermaid container an acceptable punch bowl.
11c. Nor is a red Solo cup an acceptable goblet.
12. People call me “mister” when I’m dressed nicely.
13. Some Saturday nights, I stay in and make collages.
14. I neatly fold my clean laundry.
14a. I do laundry more than once a month.
15. I appreciate 60 Minutes.
16. There are four cardigans in my closet right now.
17. Feeding squirrels stale bread is an acceptable way to spend an afternoon.
18. When driving, I leave my right blinker on for miles.
19. Crosswords are the bomb.
20. My tweed blazer has elbow patches.
Internt stalking my own boyfriend I camea cross an old blog of his he had started around the time we met actually, and was quickly abandoned like the journal you got for Christmas ‘97 and vowed you’d devote yourself to, atleast to say hi, daily.
These lists were probably what triggered our project, Honorable Mention, which much like that diary- was abandoned accidentally, as we drifted away in laziness. You can see that in the entries that were last posted (3 attempts at submission from the creator himself), which aren’t at all as sustainable and comical as the others (flip back into the previous pages, you will not regret it).
This reminds me of some many goods times - - and i will have more good times with those people tonight. love the broad set.
This made my day.
edit: The lyrics really hit home, to say the least. Just sent it to a good friend, who through the thick and thinnest of all of this is certainly one of my kind.
I can’t live in this city But I was born here And I know all these people Where they went to high school Where they got their angle Here they waited tables Still call me brother Like Cain and Abel
There, see all those old men How’d they get so swollen? I got so many broke friends Who say I owe them From when we were children How did it happen? Where is it going? Is that your question, man? Where does all your frustration lie? Why are you pulling out your hair at night? Just try and have a good time All the rest aside You’re still one of my kind
I can’t think in this city But I remember I know every story that it ever told me Well, I got the blueprint To create my own myth That’s what made it tragic Like a summer snowdrift
Yeah, going to call my first love Meet her at the new club Tell her all that I’ve done Finally be forgiven And get good and drunk Like it feels you’re young There are things against us But I will fight tooth and nail Stand in the sickening sunshine After staying out all night And maybe it’s the good life All the rest aside The rest aside The rest aside You’re still one of my kind
I can’t live in this city But I’ll probably die here Maybe that’s how you feel Like a poisoned cornfield Like a best friend backstabbed An abandoned train track We’re living straight-lined Are you one of my kind?
![Frida Kahlo in a hospital bed, drawing her corset with help of a mirror by Juan Guzmán, 1951 Frida Kahlo wore plaster corsets for most of her life because her spine was too weak to support itself. She painted them, naturally, covering them with pasted scraps of fabric and drawings of tigers, monkeys, plumed birds, a blood-red hammer and sickle, and streetcars like the one whose handrail rammed through her body when she was eighteen years old. The corsets remain to this day in her famous blue house—their embedded mirrors reflecting back our gazes, their collages bringing the whole world into stricture. In one, an open circle has been carved into the plaster like a skylight near the heart. Frida’s corsets hardened around unspeakable longing. They still frame an invisible woman, still naked in her want, still calling to deaf men in the rain. I find them beautiful. She would have given anything, perhaps, to have a body that rendered them irrelevant. [ftp]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m5ie41eJfM1qaxnilo1_500.jpg)
