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โค๏ธ Really looking forward to seeing what you have created ๐
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Kahlo's is less a sketchbook than an illustrated diary. She kept it through the last ten years of her life, much of that time in bed after the accident that shattered her spine.
Some pages burst with colour and figures. Others are almost entirely handwriting, sprawling right across the paper.
On one of them she sat testing her coloured pencils and wrote down what each one meant to her. Not the names, the meanings. Green, warm good light. Yellow, madness and sickness and fear, and also part of the sun and of joy. Blue, electricity and purity, and distance, and tenderness can be this blue too.
She wasn't making any of it for us. She was putting down what was in her, on whatever page came next.
And across the top of one spread, in her own handwriting, she titled it ๐ฎ๐ช ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ. My real world.
Your sketchbook is allowed to hold the words too. Some days that's the whole entry. ๐ค
๐๐ข๐จ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ง๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ข๐ณ๐บ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐๐ณ๐ช๐ฅ๐ข ๐๐ข๐ฉ๐ญ๐ฐ, ๐ค.1944โ1954. ๐๐ฏ๐ฌ, ๐ค๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ช๐ญ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ค๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ.