me with me, she with she

gotta get out a quick one about a review of all things. the new yorker review of frida kahlo's show in minneapolis. perhaps it's the same show as the one that was at museo del barrio a few years back. not sure though. god that one was protested on by spics in new york who were mad that the museo didn't have any porto rikkins in there at the time. i was just livid cuz of all the people to protest, frida, frida? really? she who has given spic chicks of all stripes a whole vocabulary of flavor, please. everyone, porto rikkins and mexicans and all the other random spiclings from lands no one's ever heard of (like myself), owe such a debt, fuck em if they don't understand. anyway, this reviewer does, peter schjeldahl, he killed it. i know i'm doing a critique of a critique but i'm good at that. i might have mentioned that in a previous post. anyway, he admits to his near-cultishness in the end, to being a fan and he loves her so well in this piece. he gets how she gets herself, how in her self-portraits she's not looking out at the viewer but at herself looking at herself, exuding "a superbly indifferent confidence." perfect. he talks about her pertaining more to an avant-garde called new objectivity more than to surrealism and i wonder if that has to do with objectivist stuff i've learned about in poetry, the precursors of language school folks, sort of abstract and precise at the same time, stuff i am all about. i saw a little portrait of hers at moma in august among all the folks, dali and miro and magritte and everybody and i was just swelling around all them but when i got to her, i bust open. it was so little and intimate her piece. an early one. her sitting in a chair, dressed in a man's suit, her hair cut off in pieces on the floor and the lyrics and music to a song in spanish clearly sung by some dude about how i don't love you anymore cuz you cut your hair. here it is: http://www.moma.org/collection/browse_results.php?criteria=O%3AAD%3AE%3A2963&page_number=3&template_id=1&sort_order=1. it's "mire si te quise fue por el pelo, ahora que estás pelona ya no te quiero," "if i loved you if was for your hair, now that you're bald i don't care." i was so thrilled that she put songs in her paintings cuz i put songs in my poems. i was so happy to see this lady staring out at herself like i do at me in the lens of my camera, in the reflection of my computer screen. schjeldahl also called her "blissfully scornful of self-importance," more perfect phrasing, more words to live by, to become. she is a great latin love of mine, one of the first, way before bolaño, as self-aware and brilliant and a lady, dammit. so glad to be reminded that her self-portraiture wasn't about ego but about self-exploration, the dissecting of the only specimen that deserves such terrible, amazing scrutiny.

and now, to address the new day, happy halloween! after the article, i ignored the tedious work at home i had to do and donned my outfit for tomorrow/today, the reprisal of my role as she-hulk, this encore performance for my niece. i still fit in the torn jeans and shirt but it don't matter if it's tight cuz she-hulk is busting out of her shit too. i will get to work but frida and halloween and the 3-dolla trader joe's wine makes me dream, be me and not me. excuse me while i paint my nails black.