Recently @museofridakahlo posted a reel of their conservation team cleaning the bedding and mattresses of the beds in Frida’s house. Essentially ~ they were making her bed ~ one of the most intimate places of her life. It felt both moving and odd to me. The beds were small and striped ~ the bedding was beautiful ~ delicate and sentimental ~ something about the act despite their gloves was familiar in a familial way~ perhaps we can all relate to making the bed of a loved one or having a bed made for us by someone who loved / loves us. Frida spent much more of her life in bed than most people, most artists, a locus of creativity ~ a social place~ I imagine it also held the tension of being a deeply comforting place and also a place she was at odds with. I imagine part of her spirit still lingers there, sewn into every rose petal, within an errant brushstroke invisible to the human eye but ever there just the same. I feel a kinship with the idea of bed as home. As a kind of shell or egg of dreams one can curl up in and sink into oblivion within. I’m glad her bed remains. I’m glad her jars of paint remain, that her pencil markings on the walls of her home remain, that her corsets and dresses remain, that her strange and violent and powerful work remain despite the hardships it took her to physically make it. • To zoom out, far out, I’ve been thinking on one of my other obsessions ~ outer space ~ comets & black holes ~ the idea of riding the tails of comets, much like the idea of holding a wolf by the ear, and hearing the strange music of black holes. Did she think of these things too? Did she dream of the world of night stretching out above us and how it remains a mystery ? I like how we share the same moon~ night after night. • Our ancestors stretch behind us like the stars stretch out above us and my mind attempts to hold the beauty of this thought while horror seemingly stretches out endlessly like an algal bloom on this earthly realm. I hold the tension that two things can be true : being alive is beautiful and being alive is a terror. It’s both. It’s being in bed wishing for the abyss and also, looking up at the night sky, filled with wonder.