FRIDA AND THE LOOK

(Self Portrait II, 1940)

There's a great article up at The Smart Set about Frida Kahlo and what the author, Morgan Meis, refers to as The Look: The level stare that Frida of the self-portraits aims at us the viewer. The articles begins with:

"It's The Look that gets to you. Frida Kahlo took up a variety of subject matter and dabbled in a number of styles. All of it worth seeing. But in the end it is the self-portraits that endure and that fuel her ever-increasing stature in 20th century art. That's because in the portraits you get The Look. The Look is the Frida Kahlo stare. If you've seen any of her self-portraits then you have seen it. It is an expression that barely changes throughout a lifetime of paintings. Costumes change, parrots flutter into the frame, monkeys come and go. The Look never wavers."

But, he says, Frida Kahlo in her photographs does not have The Look. This author considers why that might be so, suggesting perhaps the photos are more authentic. It could be the other way around, of course. Or one of several other theories I could create rather quickly.



Each new generation seeks to define itself. Within that generation, subgroups also draw their dividing lines, their boundaries of identity, usually with an air of "no one has EVER done this before" and "we have stumbled upon an immutable truth here". When subgroups within a generation are unusually large and/or economically privileged, as in the case of Baby Boomers, these delusions will be more pronounced.

In my generation, we rejected the post-war definition of woman and instead rifled through every human attribute regardless of previous gender assignation to come up with our own construct. Some of us did this from an essentialist perspective, i.e., we believed we were "reclaiming" or "reaffirming" innate qualities of womanhood which had been stolen under the patriarchy. Others of us were more clearly coming from a consciousness-raising spawning ground of believing that by examining our conditioning with others like us (in this case, women raised as girls), we could destroy the artificial constraints of gender and create a new kind of woman -- as Judy Grahn put it, "Look at me as if you have never seen a woman before." These two theoretically contradictory groups were able to work together in community without much conflict for a time because our primary task, that of redefining woman, necessarily began with separatism.

Separatism seems to be an essential liberation stage for all groups who are target for oppression living within a larger society dominated by those who are not target for that oppression. It is an ongoing process, as some members pass beyond the need for separate space to self-define and new members arrive to take their place. It's neither a sacred territory nor a "phase" to be ridiculed; it's just part of a process.

However, once you enter another stage, when you have reconstructed or reclaimed your identity, the differences become problematic. Women who were essentialists quite rationally, according to their principles, would seek to continue on in community without the deleterious influence of those who were innately oppressive. Women who were constructionists, on the other hand, would prefer community with those who had likewise done their work of self-definition and sought to create a larger culture where the old beliefs would no longer be visited on any child, in alliance with anyone who loosely fit a similar description.

It's hard to know how this division might have resolved itself, of course, because the dominant power structure asserted itself in a highly-effective, multi-pronged backlash against all the separatist, identity-based movements of the 1960s and 1970s. This backlash is still ongoing and has been incorporated into the fabric of education given to succeeding generations, especially at the university level. Higher education has been returned primarily to those with class privilege or a willingness to seek approval from the elite. This trend is accelerating.

The so-called "third wave" (or beyond) of feminism has its own definition of woman, which is at times an anti-definition, and its own community wherein essentialists and constructionists choose to ignore the contradiction of their belief systems in order to promote a perceived common agenda. In the "new" feminism, gender itself is seen as malleable (a constructionist view) but also somehow innate for those who are "born in the wrong body" (an essentialist stance). Masculinity and femininity are theoretically detached from gender and available to all, but are still primarily linked to the traditional gender and are usually proclaimed to be innate and congenital, as is sexual orientation. Naming males, male conditioning, and/or masculinity as the dominant end of the power dynamic is often considered, at best, old-fashioned.

There is, as in previous generations, a touching but completely unrealistic faith in the ability of individuals to overcome conditioning by simply choosing to be different. Thus, just as my generation believed aspiring to working class ethics and values was enough to sidestep our classism (and racism), the current generation cannot see its own sexism and screams in protest when it is pointed out to them, demanding that intentions and "suffering" trump behavior. This is common to American culture, a by-product of our being an addiction-based owning-class empire (as outlined by Anne Wilson Schaef), where good intentions provide a free pass for those unwilling to embrace the incremental, painful change of recovery.

Under a white capitalist patriarchy, whatever genuine truths are uncovered by a particular generation will be blocked from transmission to succeeding generations by any means necessary. I therefore predict that within twenty years, those who currently identify as "trans" (by any of the current definitions of that term EXCEPT for those who believe gender is biologically innate and can be adequately transfigured by purchasing technology and appearance alteration -- because that belief system supports the dominant structure) will be open to ridicule and the target of scathing dissection by academic theories and papers. The genuinely revolutionary thinking which can be found in trans theory -- that all gender exists on a continuum and is equally available to anyone regardless of appearance, behavior or birth -- will be buried under another wave of backlash, some of which will arise within their own ranks. Ironically, the move to name "trans" as its own category deserving of separate protection instead of insisting that previous anti-sexism legislation applies to anyone of any gender will be part of what undoes the current movement. Insisting on a victim stance instead of finding common ground with the majority is what always does us in. Pity and even empathy run dry, eventually.

But drop the clutching-at-straws "cis" designation (as if there is ANY woman out there who will say she's never discriminated against because of how she doesn't fit the gender norm) and instead claim commonality with a working class, terrified-of-queers housewife by pointing out how she's considered "not a normal woman" because she wears too much make-up and trashy clothes, and you've forged an alliance that would make Dick Cheney shit in his pants.

(Self-Portrait by JEB in Dyke, Virginia, 1975 © Joan E. Biren, from Eye to Eye Portraits of Lesbians)

In 1979, Joan E. Biren (JEB) toured women's communities in the U.S. with a slide show containing the work of several lesbian photographers from the past. She was promoting the theory that we could recognize lesbians of any era or class by three often subtle identifiers: The Look, The Stance, The Clothes. At that time, our definition of "lesbian" would be more or less identical to at least one definition of "transgender" today. I saw her slideshow three times, because it raised questions in me I found exhilirating, about the ability of humans throughout time to step outside the boxes of oppression and find another means of expression -- and, beyond that, community.

When I was in my teens and not yet out to family and community, living in poverty in an impoverished rural area, my main outlet for hope and mind expansion was reading. The books available in libraries were my conduit (and the limits that implies, overwhelmingly white, class-privileged, and male-dominated works of literature). Without manipulation, let me give you a list of the writers whose works I found most meaningful, usually memorizing and/or copying out lines to put up on the walls of my bedroom:

Edna St. Vincent Millay
Emily Dickinson
Langston Hughes
Henry David Thoreau
Christopher Isherwood
Robert Frost
Mazo de la Roche
William Faulkner
Dorothy Parker
W.H. Auden
Mary Renault
Edgar Allen Poe
James Thurber
Margaret Mead
A.E. Housman
Lewis Carroll
Dalton Trumbo
P.G. Wodehouse
May Swenson
Patricia Highsmith
William Shakespeare

Every name on this list evokes a strong memory in me, a sense of their art having permanently changed my world view, much more than other writers. But it was not until I was in my 20s that I began to discover, here and there, slowly, that 14 of these 21 authors were unequivocally bisexual, lesbian or gay at some point in their lives. Two out of three -- what are the odds of that happening, unless something was being communicated between the lines? Whether it was an innate or a collected identity, somehow the way they strung words together found a response in my brain, a brain also seeking to collect my identity as a lover of women. Art can do that, because it is created by humans for other humans.

So, when I read about Frida Kahlo's "Look", I thought of something else entirely. I saw a sister in that expression, read into it a refusal to look away or play the heterosexual game. That's just me, of course, me with my conditioning and a product of my generation. You can come up with your own explanation. Below are several of her self-portraits and photographs of her taken by others. Go look.

(Self Portrait, 1926)

(Frida Kahlo in her patio, 1931)


(Self Portrait, 1930)

(Frida Kahlo in San Francisco, 1931, photo by Imogene Cunningham)


(Self Portrait 1937)

(Frida Kahlo 16 October 1932)


(Self Portrait with Monkey, 1938)




(The Two Fridas, 1939)




(Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird, 1940)




(Me and My Parrots, 1941)




(Self Portrait as a Tehuana, Diego on My Mind, 1943)

(Frida Kahlo 1938, photo by Niklas Muray)


(Self Portrait with Loose Hair, 1947)




(Self Portrait with the Portrait of Doctor Farill, 1951)

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LIFE IN A WHEELCHAIR

(Woman in a Wheel Chair with an Able Bodied Lover #1, photo by Tee Corinne, 1979, copyright hers; I knew the woman in San Francisco who is the "able-bodied lover" in this photo)

I was recently written privately by a woman who writes highly-respected work (especially by me) for another blog, asking me for advice. She's "come out" as disabled and is about to transition to a scooter, and she wanted to know what insight I could offer. I'm respecting her privacy by not revealing the details of her letter, but, as I informed her, I'm going to share my reply here because it contains a lot of thinking -- mine and others -- about life in a wheelchair. Please do share it on. I'm going to be writing at least two more posts about disability -- fostering community access, and answering some theoretical questions -- in the coming months.

Here's what I had to say this week:


You're right, I don't much get ignored in a wheelchair. When I do, it's because I'm too tired/upset to cope or I've chosen to go into radio silence.

It helps to understand why people have a hard time dealing with those in a wheelchair. Their stupidity can be off the charts, coming from otherwise intelligent folks. Here's what I've figured out or learned from other crips:

(1) Seeing disability, actually looking at it, reminds them of their own fragility. Sooner or later, live long enough, they'll be there. It's one leg in the grave, doncha know. (I mean, if you have legs.) Fear makes people shut down.
(2) Seeing any kind of physical helplessness reminds people of when they were helpless and at the mercy of able-bodied people who were supposed to care for them: As infants and children. We were all treated as objects then, even in great families. We were preverbal and could not communicate our needs well. It was a harrowing experience, and nobody wants to remember the bad parts of it. You as a crip bring it up and, if what they are reliving is the preverbal period, they don't even know how to put it into language.
(3) Seeing you having a hard time (or what is interpreted as a hard time) makes them sad. They care about you. They want it to not be happening to you. People who don't know what to say to someone who's just had a death in the family, for instance, will likely also not know what to say to someone in a wheelchair.
(4) They're trying to remember what it's okay to say and do with someone who's disabled. Dammit, what was it that Marleen Matlin explained that time?
(5) Your assigned role is to be heroic, inspirational, brave, self-effacingly funny. If you don't play your role, it confuses them. (We call it the Christopher Reeve model.)
(6) They're wondering if you and your significant other still have sex, and if you do, what on earth is it like. (I'm not joking.)
(7) When they were growing up and saw someone visibly disabled, their parents hissed at them "Don't look." It's a hard training to overcome.
(8) They're afraid you're going to be unjustifiably pissed at them because they are still able-bodied -- that's the other role crips get to play in movies, etc., the out-of-control angry/depressed gimp who can't seem to accept god's will and dumps on everyone around them.
(9) Despite the admonitions to "not look" and the cloak of invisibility you seem to don the minute you sit down in a wheelchair, the reality is that wherever you go, everyone in the vicinity is suddenly and acute aware of you. Looking at you sideways, wondering if they are supposed to help you. This means that not only YOU are the elephant in the room but also anyone who is your companion becomes an object of scrutiny. The general rule of not drawing attention to yourself, trying to "look normal" but "blend in", becomes impossible if you are with someone in a wheelchair.
(10) If you are anything other than skinny, if you smoke a cigarette or drink a beer or eat a doughnut, those will immediately become at least part of the reason you are in a wheelchair. (Especially if you're fat -- expect the kind of attack that the Right Wing levels on gays, particularly among so-called progressives.) And now that it is partly or mostly your own damned fault, they don't know what to say to you because why would you crap on yourself that way?
(11) Speaking of crap -- they're terrified you're going to smell bad up close. Or that you'll talk in a way that's hard to understand. Or drool, or spit, or jerk your arms. If they don't look at you, they won't have to witness any of that.
(12) They've heard that offering help is offensive, even if you clearly need it. They may have heard this from another disabled person.

(Dorothea Lange, famous photographer and movie-maker, 1936; she had a wizened right leg and dropped foot from polio as a child, and always limped)

What becomes clear, after seeing this list of what could be gumming up the minds of those around you, is that (a) you will have to try to read which one(s) are true for them, (b) initiate the conversation about it, with a sense of humor, (c) educate them on the spot, and (d) do it all over again maybe ten minutes later. In my experience, it's the only way to keep the circuits flowing. It sucks, and you will become furious about it eventually, but you can get through that too. It's the only route to having a good life. You are now Crip Guru.

What will help is if you have a friend or two willing to undertake this role with you, acting as your ally in public and your confidante in private. Which means they'll have to allocate a great deal of resource to deal with what comes up for them and, inevitably, Change.

If you have one friend who does that, you'll be better off than most.

What usually happens is that friends start off with grand intentions, but that Change requirement is a big, big hurdle. If you are their only disabled friend, for too many of them it's just easier after a while to drop out of the picture. They don't mean to do it, and don't make a conscious choice. It's just such a hassle having to notice if the store has a wheelchair accessible bathroom or to arrive early so you can get in the car or -- all the slow-downs and extra attention you have to spend now, they do too. Only they don't really have to do it, if they forget to tell you about the museum opening with your favorite painter coming next week.

I really didn't think this would happen with me, because I have tremendous inner strength, I had such an enormous network of friends, and I simply NEVER asked people to deal with my feelings about it all unless they offered more than once. I was shocked at who turned out to be the worst at facing my new reality -- folks in the health care field (some of them), folks who were great about liberation issues, folks with hidden or intermittent disabilities themselves. Who turned out to be the best were parents (natch) and 70's era feminists who went through consciousness-raising and learned, the hard way, that Change means more than rhetoric or intention. Plus, they already had that "Biology is not destiny" theory running regulator on whatever conditioning remained.

(The Broken Column by Frida Kahlo, 1944)

Luckily for me, in the five years or so before I became undeniably crippled, with the kind of rolling chimp gait that children point at across at mall, I went through two other cathartic changes. One was that I resumed having a relationship with g*d, after having chosen atheism at age 13 to get away from the toxicity of fundamentalism. Problematic as my faith is, at least it preceded being in a foxhole, so to speak, and I can trust I chose the change rather than being forced into it by desperation.

Secondly, I accepted that the abuse of my childhood had left me damaged. I don't believe such damage, even severe, is utterly permanent -- given enough resource, time, and motivation, I have a fairly open-ended belief that damage can be healed. Though few of us have enough resource and time, even if we find the motivation. Every progressive therapy and worldview I had encountered insisted that I not see myself as damaged, because that was somehow giving in to hopelessness. But I had the chance to dive deep with Staci Haines, another major leader in the incest survivor movement (author of the Survivor's Guide to Sex and founder of Generation Five), and when she labeled herself as damaged, I felt an enormous relief in saying "Me, too."

Intellectually, I knew it wasn't shameful to admit what had happened to me. I just had to forgive myself for letting it happen to me, after I'd forgiven all the people around me for not intervening.

This made it a LOT easier to accept having a broken body, when the time came.

I also found a new-agey type, Buddhist energy worker, who was willing to consider any possibility about what was going on with me but had no agenda for me -- a rarity. So when I was ready to look at the symbolism of having my knees go out, for instance (I'm a poet, metaphor is my life's blood), she worked with me only as much as I requested, in the direction I chose. When you're searching for a therapist or spiritual guide or whatever, I think that's an important early question: Are you going to have an agenda for me? If you think you see something going on for me that I don't agree is true, will you be willing to drop your own thinking and let me be the expert about my own path?

(Ripley with an Assistive Device.)

Practical suggestions:
(1) Figure out when/where you're likely to need help and write it down, then send it to the people in your life to eliminate their having to guess. Tell them they can volunteer (if that's all right with you), get someone else to organize it, and expect to have to remind them every so often.
(2) Always have something meaningful or restorative to do when you have to sit waiting on somebody. You will spend an inordinate amount of time waiting.
(3) Since you're getting a scooter, you'll be self-powered, but if you wind up in a manual chair for any amount of time, expect to have to train people how to push you. They will volunteer when they have no ability or sufficient strength, and put you at risk, then get huffy when you yell at them to stop because you're about to go over a 4 foot ledge.
(4) Carry your recharger with you everywhere and expect to have to hit up strangers (businesses, park police, etc.) for a recharge in case of battery death.
(5) For your significant other(s), expect that you will have to hear/witness/comfort their grief and despair about you. They realistically cannot always take it elsewhere. They should have another resource besides you, but for the sake of your relationship, they need to be able to bring it to you as well. You can actually grow closer through this.
(6) In my kitchen, I use an office task chair -- it's a lot more maneuverable.
(7) If you're buying a reacher, spend the bucks for a solid one. The collapsible ones die fast.
(8) If a bedside commode means you can pee quickly and drop back to sleep fast instead of making an arduous trip to the bathroom, returning tired and fully awake -- consider it. Your rest will determine your quality of life to a greater and greater extent.
(9) Everybody on urban streets prefer to use the cut-outs at the corners instead of stepping up and down from curbs. You'll have to compete for them with unconscious folks who step in your path. It will be tempting to run them down after a while, or at least honk at them, but -- well, that's up to you.
(10) Older buildings which have had to be retrofitted for ADA compliance (city halls, universities, libraries, etc.) tend to have access at the back, hard to find, involving scary elevators and dark walkways. Ask for company, and call ahead -- be insistent about knowing how to get in. This goes for bathrooms, too -- ADA compliance doesn't always extend to restrooms. And you'll need to set aside a little extra time. When I went to the Hirschhorn Art Museum in Washington, D.C., part of the Smithsonian, the elevator in the main lobby was not deep enough to accept my scooter (a common problem). I had to go to the loading dock and ride the elevator used to transport statues, a chamber 25 feet tall and 400 feet square. It took twenty minutes to rejoin my friends.


People want to do the right thing. They want to be good folks -- like Thomas, they yearn to be useful. So, exploit that gently. Tell them what's up right away, make a joke out of it if you can (but not seriously at your expense), and expect awkwardness pretty much everywhere you go. Right below awkwardness can be the most incredible sweetness and sincerity, and in my experience, it comes my way much more often than anything else because I'm open to the connection.

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