Today, Frida Kahlo’s image sells everything from socks to stationery. The iconic Mexican painter known for self-portraits that delivered social commentary in a style that merged surrealism, magical realism, folk art and totems of Mexican culture has been so ubiquitously merchandized, it’s easy to overlook the fact that Kahlo was a revolutionary artist who overcame staggering obstacles within and without the art world.
“Frida … A Self Portrait,” which opened Friday at Glencoe’s Writers Theatre, digs deep into her life. In the 75-minute, one-woman show written and performed by Vanessa Severo, Kahlo sits firmly at the center, with Severo playing both the artist and a constellation of those in Frida’s orbit, her parents, doctors and sometime husband and fellowartist Diego Rivera among them.
Directed by Joanie Schultz, “Frida” is a visually lush, emotionally rich story of the artist as a young woman. Kahlo never has the chance to become otherwise: She died in 1954, at 47. But while tragedy blooms throughout “Frida,” the piece is pocked with joy and humor.
“I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim,” Severo-as-Frida wryly observes early on.
Severo forces the audience to confront Kahlo’s lifelong battles with the same unblinking attitude that radiates from Kahlo’s portraits, daring the audience to really look, and truly listen.
The piece is framed by a deathbed interview Kahlo is giving at her beloved Mexico City home, the Casa Azul. Flashbacks merge with the present as Kahlo recalls pivotal moments from her childhood, her artistic career, the bus accident that nearly killed her and her brutally tempestuous relationship with Rivera.
Severo also weaves a strand of her own story into “Frida,” breaking the fourth wall, dropping out of character and addressing the audience directly. And while the departure from Frida’s world is initially jarring and bumps right up to the edge of self-indulgence, it mostly works. As did Kahlo, Severo has her own history with physical trials that would hobble most.
Kahlo’s accomplishments during her lifetime were significant: She exhibited in New York and Mexico, and was the first Mexican artist to have her work shown in the Louvre. Yet Severo makes abundantly clear that Frida was forever in the shadow of Rivera and stymied by the sexism that put her there.
“It’s not you,” she tells Diego after one of his many affairs and exhibitions. “It’s all of you.” It’s a sweeping statement about men, but it feels real and raw and undeniable.
Severo portrays the traumas that pushed Kahlo from “soft girl” to a “hard woman” with ruthless physicality. Kahlo was born with polio. In a tough-to-watch scene, we see Severo become Frida as a child, her German-born father demanding she get up and walk even as she screams in pain.
Kahlo did learn to walk, but at 18, a bus accident left her impaled by a metal rod, her pelvis shattered in three places, her clavicle snapped, her back and ribs broken, a prognosis of (per Severo’s dialogue) “at least two years of complete bed rest” and the assurance that she’d never walk again or bear children. Kahlo had some 35 surgeries related to the accident. She spent her years of bed rest creating 143 self-portraits.
At times, Severo forgoes words entirely, telling swaths of Kahlo’s story using gorgeous, dream-like choreography backed by sound designer Thomas Dixon. During the extreme violence of the bus accident, Severo — who is clearly a gifted dancer — writhes on the stage, evoking pain with a terrible beauty. Later, a crooning love song from the 1930s provides the incongruous, swoony sonic backdrop as Frida suffers years of miscarriages. Coping with Diego’s many affairs, she dons a ruby-red dress and dances with a spirit of unmistakable vengeance.
There is some redundancy in “Frida.” Severo punctuates her play with scenes of the artist’s desperate morphine intake. These are powerful and gutting the first two times. By the third, they’re repetitive.
The flowing action plays out on Jacqueline Penrod’s airy set, which features a trio of clotheslines hanging with garments Severo dons and sheds as she morphs into different characters.
Perhaps the most indelible and powerful element within “Frida” comes when Severo slowly, silently dons the crown of flowers featured so indelibly in Kahlo’s portraits, and then — adding a shawl, changing a dress — enacts some of Kahlo’s signature works. The scene feels like a sacred ritual immersed in defiance, hope and beauty, and it captures the joy and creativity that burst forth even in times of extreme trial.