In 1967, when I was a freshman in high school my art teacher told me that though my drawing was good and showed creativity, if I wanted to be an ‘Artist’ I needed to use my art to express more of myself.
I didn’t understand. When I thought of something I wanted to express I just figured out an image and created it. It was usually political in those days (sometimes psychedelic). But it wasn’t personal, really. She gave me a biography of Frida and it changed my life.
Twice today in the house where she was born, lived, suffered, became an artist, loved her Diego, and finally died, I was moved to tears. But I laughed too.
And was inspired.
And had a wonderful, wonderful day.