Amedeo and Frida

I have been watching some interesting films lately. Modigliani starring Andy Garcia as the Amedeo Modigliani and Omid Djalili as his rival Pablo Picasso. I mention who plays Pablo Picasso becuase it was a great portrayal, and it was by a Bahai actor from the UK. Omid is also a renowned comedian in Europe but in this film his performance was solid and memorable.

Anyway, the story is about an artist that has such a strong desire to paint, but for principle...not for money. His rival against Pablo Picasso is somewhat based on a difference of lifestyle (one making money, the other impoverished) but a competitive one laced with jealousy, power and maybe even friendship. Sadly, after the artist dies from a combination of alcoholism, TB and ill health, his love and muse jumped out of her 5th floor window killing herself and her unborn child two days after Modigliani passed.

This was a sad ending, but a true one. I had to ask myself why I liked Modigliani's paintings to begin with, they seem to reflect a pure feminine texture to the women he paints. Pure in the form that they are unguarded, or at least as he sees them. Interesting though how his life unraveled so quickly and yet he left a legacy for others too see into his world that he created.

Next comes Frida starring Salma Hayak. I was unexectedly impressed and frankly carried away by the character portrayal. A movie about a woman who expressed her physical and mental anguish through her art. Her story essentially starts with a beautiful and energetic youth with liberal (bordering radical) ideas and a bounce to her step. Most unexpectedly, she was in a horrible accident that created spinal and bone injuries which would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Despite her miraculous recovery and regaining her ability to walk again, she endured many surgeries, readjustments and so-called restorative treatments which never resolved the ongoing pain. Also, physical pain was not her only source of her art. After her accident, while seeking an artist's opinion, she acquainted herself with an older famous painter who ignited her passion and led her down a path she could not turn away from. He (Diego) was her fellow colleague-artist who understood her whims, art and passion, but who had an voracious appetite for women, whether or not he was married. So Frida accepted him with his faults, and added some more layers of heartbreak to her life.

She painted her emotion directly onto canvas, it seemed she painted for that reason. Her legacy is a bit off putting, but real and as evident of her anguish as is her view on her life events unfolding before her.

Pause.

After watching both, I pondered where art comes from and how it is developed. It can reflect people's love, pain, life, passions and dreams. The great gift that we all have is that we can interpret these living processes whether through singing, poetry, writing a book, taking pictures, directing a film, dancing, drawing, sculping...More of this should be done to capture a deeper sense of reality.

This is the gift of art. To embrace a part of ourselves so closely that we can bottle this inner mystical reality, and then release it onto a permanent fixture. For ourselves to gain better insight of what we found, but also sometimes maybe just once in a while, for others as well.

"No sooner had I approached the heart's door and said, "Show thyself to me!"
than He appeared before me in the midst of that nearness.
From all sides I became surrounded by the warmth of that ecstasy.
He became completely I, and I became completey He,
I, the heart and He, the beloved of my heart.

My Ka'ba is the earth of your nearness.
Your face is the torch that illuminates the world.
The curls of your tresses are the chains of my soul.
The arches of your two eyebrows are my heart's Qiblih;
our ringlet is my cross in the monastery."

Excerpted from a translated poem written by Tahirih a heroine and martyr when she was 36 years young, during 19th century Iran, known as the 'Persian Joan of Arc' as a leader of emanicipation of women in the Orient.