What the Water Gave Me, by Sarah Gorham

What the Water Gave Me, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1938

​What the Water Gave Me, by Frida Kahlo 

We might as well be there, reclining in Frida’s ancient bathtub, staring at her toes, erect, reflected in the water. Horror is an excellent way to get inside. Once seen, it never abandons us. Let me be specific:

Rather than bubbles or gels or soap scum, the tub is crowded with miniatures. A tiny eighteenth-century couple hiding behind fern fronds, a naked woman floating on a raft (or bed?), an arm wrapped around a bare-assed lover. Are those beets dangling at their feet, are those gourds stained by the blue-green water? A pretty dress (in white, maroon, buttery yellow) floats by. And these are just the pleasant little things. 

For in the foreground are the artist’s thighs, vines slithering over her skin. Knee level, we must close our eyes: a miniscule corpse face-up, half in and out of the water, and behind her a great balloon of hair. But what’s a volcano doing there? In the center, a skyscraper into the sky, even though the lava is still burning. We’re grateful for the miniature tree of paradise but, regrettably, a red-headed woodpecker has perished in its branches. 

The only images in scale are the toes of the artist’s feet just below the drain plug, one big toe overlapping the next. Imagine her gait—an excruciating pinch, every time she takes a step. And as if this weren’t enough, she’s painted a mirror image in the water that might be mistaken for a pipe organ. Music inspired by fiends and devils and little goblins. Perhaps there’s a candle burning in her bathroom. 

Or maybe a surgeon will flip on a surgical light in the middle of the night and reveal what she really is: just a woman trying to wash away the pain. The limp from her early bout with polio, the bus accident, the steel forced through her body, which required sixty surgeries. The alcohol and drugs she turned to for relief. The divorce from Diego. 

And through this all, her outfits. Floor-length dresses that hid her deformed leg. The widespread skirts and bodices and blouses, lined with gold. Royal colours—reds and purples, greens and indigoes. Embroideries and lace, mirroring her effusiveness and new persona. Her highness, her majesty, her grace; the queen she so deserved to be. 

​Sarah Gorham

​Sarah Gorham is a poet and essayist, most recently the forthcoming essay collection Funeral Playlist from Etruscan Press. She is the author of Alpine Apprentice (2017), which made the short list for 2018 PEN/Diamonstein Award in the Essay, and Study in Perfect (2014), selected by Bernard Cooper for the 2013 AWP Award in Creative Nonfiction. Gorham is also the author of four poetry collections— Bad Daughter (2011), The Cure (2003), The Tension Zone (1996), and Don’t Go Back to Sleep (1989). Other honours include grants and fellowships from the NEA, three state arts councils, and the Kentucky Foundation for Women.