They were lousy Communists. I mean really, really lousy ones.
They did it badly. Chauffeurs, cooks, maids, assistants, secretaries…really, they were bad at it.
But, avowed Commies they were.
Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera set the art world on end. She, the self portrait queen, and he, the muralist, changed art in the 20th century for good. Well, maybe not for good, but, at least for ever.
Their relationship was equally altering. Khalo admired Rivera’s work, contacted him for advice on a career in art, he recognized her ‘talent’, seduced her, and the rest is history.
They fought constantly.
They both had affairs.
They were jealous.
She had affairs with men and women, including Josephine Baker. The women, Diego tolerated, the men made his Latin blood boil.
If Frida could love the Fat Man, well, anything’s possible.
The were active Communists, spouting off all the time about the working man while living in luxury, travelling, and wining and dining celebrities.
They were friends with Trotsky, and put him UP for a while. Rivera was the son of a Jewish woman, a Converso, one who’d converted to Catholicism!
Their art was important, his controversial…
…her’s more self possessed.
And in their own odd way, they were in love.
Self-loathing aside, they managed to love together, even if they had to live apart from time to time. They divorced, remarried, and fought.
When she died, Rivera said, the day of her death was the most tragic day of his life, and that all too late he realized the most wonderful part of his life was his love for her.
It just goes to show you, uncommon men have common qualities. Love is love, no matter when or where. Finding love is wonderful, having it and not knowing it, a tragedy.