Frida Kahlo & My Constant Companion, Magdalene
There's something beautifully ironic about naming a dog after one of history's most fierce and independent artists. But when I first met my rescue pup, with her expressive eyes and stubborn spirit, "Magdalene" just felt right – a nod to Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón, the woman who turned pain into some of the most powerful art the world has ever seen.
More Than Just a Pretty Face in Art History
Most people know Frida Kahlo for her unibrow and flower crowns, but there's so much more to her story that resonates with me as a disabled artist. She wasn't born into the art world – she was headed for medical school when a horrific bus accident at 18 changed the trajectory of her life. Confined to bed for months, with a specially-made easel and a mirror placed above her so she could paint herself, Frida discovered that art was something she had to do.
"I paint myself because I am often alone and I am the subject I know best," she once said. As someone who spends a lot of time managing my own disability, I feel this in my bones. There's something profound about turning inward when the world feels hostile or inaccessible, about finding subject matter in your own reflection when everything else seems out of reach.
The Power of Self-Portraits
Frida painted herself obsessively out of necessity. When you're dealing with chronic pain, when your body becomes both prison and home, you learn to study yourself with an intensity that others might find uncomfortable. Her self-portraits were acts of rebellion against a world that wanted to look away from disabled bodies.
I think about this when I'm working on my own self-portraits. There's something radical about claiming space for yourself as an artist when society often treats disabled people as invisible or inspirational objects rather than complex human beings with our own creative visions. Frida refused to be either invisible or purely inspirational – she was raw, political, sexual, angry, and beautiful all at once.
Turning Pain into Power
What strikes me most about Frida's journey is how she transformed her suffering without romanticizing it. Her paintings from her later years – works like "Broken Column" and "Without Hope" – don't shy away from the brutal reality of living with a deteriorating body. But they also don't wallow. There's a fierce dignity in the way she portrayed herself, even when depicting her darkest moments.
She once wrote about wanting her art to be "useful to the revolutionary communist movement," but I think her greatest revolution was refusing to let pain have the final word. Every brushstroke was an act of defiance against the idea that disabled people can't be full participants in the world of art and ideas.
Finding Beauty in Unexpected Places
Like my dog Magdalene, who finds joy in the simplest things (for Mags, EVEYRTHING is a party!)– a patch of sunlight, an interesting smell, the sound of my paintbrushes against canvas – Frida had this incredible ability to find beauty and meaning in her immediate surroundings. When travel became difficult, she painted the view from her bed. When her health declined, she painted still lifes of fruit and flowers that pulsed with political symbolism and personal meaning.
This is something I try to remember in my own work. You don't need to be climbing mountains or traveling the world to make meaningful art. Sometimes the most profound subjects are right in front of you – in the mirror, in your backyard, in the way your dog looks at you like you hung the moon.
The Myth vs. The Woman
Popular culture has turned Frida into a kind of tragic romantic figure, but the real woman was so much more complex. She was funny, she was political, she had affairs, she fought with her husband Diego Rivera, she taught students who called themselves "Los Fridos." She struggled financially for most of her career and had strong opinions about the art world (she famously called the French Surrealists "coocoo lunatics").
She was, in other words, a whole person – not just a symbol of suffering or female strength, but a working artist trying to make sense of the world through paint and canvas. That's the Frida I try to channel in my own work, and it's the spirit I see in my dog Magdalene when she's being particularly stubborn about how long I’m taking to prepare her meals.
Lessons from La Casa Azul
Frida spent most of her life in La Casa Azul, her family home that's now a museum. I love the idea that her most important workspace was also her most intimate space – that she didn't need a fancy studio to create work that would outlast her by decades. Sometimes the best art comes from the deepest familiarity, from knowing every corner of your world so well that you can see the extraordinary in the ordinary.
When I'm having a particularly difficult day with my disability (my brain, not my body, if you’re wondering), I think about Frida painting from her bed, creating worlds within the confines of her room. It reminds me that creativity doesn't require perfect circumstances – sometimes it requires the opposite, the pressure of limitations that force you to dig deeper and find new ways to express what needs to be said.
Why Magdalene?
So why name a dog after this complex, fierce artist? Maybe because dogs, like Frida, have this incredible capacity for living fully in the present moment, for finding joy and meaning in whatever circumstances they're given. My Magdalene has the same kind of stubborn dignity that I admire in Frida's self-portraits – she knows who she is and won't apologize for taking up space. Even if it is my side of the bed. Ahem, excuse me, her side of the bed.
Plus, there's something beautifully subversive about a disabled artist having a dog named after another disabled artist. It's a quiet daily reminder that we belong in the tradition of art-making, that our perspectives and experiences are not just valid but necessary.
Frida Kahlo died at 47, but her work continues to speak to people who feel like outsiders, who've had to fight for their place in the world, who've learned to make art from whatever materials they have at hand. Every time I call Magdalene's name, I'm reminded of that legacy – and of my own responsibility to keep adding to it, one brushstroke at a time.
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About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through blog posts, printables, courses, and the “This Might Get Messy” podcast, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.
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