retratos

Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not have had to represent the truth of change--only to give stability to one beautiful moment.
-George Eliot

On Saturday afternoon I took in an exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery called "Retratos: 2000 Years of Latin American Portraits." The travelling exhibit (it will be at the San Antonio Museum of Art early next year, my Texan readers!) features over 100 works from more than 15 countries and, as the title indicates, also spans a considerable period of time, so the paintings are divided into five eras: precolumbian, viceregal, independence, modern, and contemporary. The show's anteroom included one piece from each period, and though initially thrown off by the anachronism, I had just decided that I liked what appeared to be an unorthodox curatorial choice when I moved into the next room, the beginning of the exhibit proper, to discover the divisions.

The exhibit was extremely well curated, with information about each painting in English and in Spanish, and unlike many bilingual shows that I have seen, each language seemed to have been written by a native speaker (or maybe I'm just used to the clunky, word-for-word translations so characteristic of Russian museums). I had fun practicing my moribund Spanish by not letting myself read the English. Plus, there was a plethora of undergraduate art history majors milling about, chatting up the visitors, and offering to answer questions, in English and in Spanish. I spoke with one (her short blonde hair pulled back with a huge, red faux flower that provided some contrast with her all-black ensemble, the seeming uniform among the students), and she provided some helpful insight into the viceregal period.

Some of my favorites included these two, from the viceregal and independence periods, respectively: Fray García Guerra and Manuela Gutiérrez.



I also enjoyed the following two, from the viceregal and modern periods, respectively: Doña María Mercedes and Elisa Saldívar de Gutiérrez Roldán.



The one on the right is by Diego Rivera, an unusual departure for him, but I think it anticipates the style of his later murals. But everything in the half-dozen rooms or so paled in comparison with the Frida Kahlo self-portrait on display. And I do mean "paled" quite literally, as this painting pulses with color and vibracy--the oils even glitter.


This small version hardly does justice to its beauty, so I invite you to examine a larger version. Now, I am very biased about Frida, since a couple of years ago I read a wonderful biography by Hayden Herrera, an art historian who did an excellent job of analyzing Kahlo's works and placing them in the context of her life. The book contains many, many pages of color plates of her paintings, which is, in my opinion, the only way to write about an artist. (Nothing frustrates me more than reading about a piece of art and not being about to look at what is being explained.) My next favorite work at the exhibition was this contemporary homage to Kahlo, Frida de Mi Corazón.


I love that it is so Frida-esque. It's what I would want to paint to show my appreciation for Frida if, well . . . I could paint.