Rosalyn D'Mello: Art as a port of entry into the world

To see Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits firsthand is to feel the pulsating throb of your heart and sense a frisson extending through your body

I am more of a spontaneous traveller. I don’t spend hours researching my destination. I simply arrive and surrender to the immediacy of what surrounds me, and then rely almost wholly on the kindness of strangers. When I landed in Sydney from Brisbane, for instance, I should have been smart and simply taken a cab from the airport to Mosman, where I was slated to stay. Instead, I saw the sign for the train terminal that claimed to get you into the city in 15 minutes flat. A sucker for public transport, I gladly strolled my luggage down the escalator and found a desk from where I purchased an Opal card that works across modes, from trains to ferries to buses. Then I hopped on the right train, but wasn’t sure where I ought to get off. So I asked the man sitting opposite. He confirmed that Wynyard was the perfect exit point. My fears allayed, I took my seat. The man came up to me and said that if I liked, he could drop me off at the bus station. I agreed. He helped me with my bags; we exchanged names; his was Andrew. He escorted me to the exit and then directed me to Stand A, from where I could get the bus to Spit Road.

Artists and spouses Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. Pic/Getty Images

It so happened I caught the bus to Spit Junction, which meant I had to get off and take another bus. But the driver, who seemed Indonesian, calmly suggested I wait a few minutes. The bus would terminate at the depot, and he could simply drop me to my actual stop, since he’d be off duty. So I exited at St. Theresa Church and sheepishly said “God Bless You” to the driver, then began to walk towards the crossing so I could get to the road going down to the harbor. As I waited for the pedestrian green light, I was asked once more if I needed help with my bags. I accepted the offer. “Where are you going?” the man with kind eyes asked me. I told him the address. “That’s my house, the Air BnB!” he said.

It was sheer coincidence. But when such synchronicity repeats itself, you do start to wonder if in fact you are truly beloved of the universe.

Yesterday I spent the day at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, feasting on the Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera show. I am accustomed to viewing exhibitions with my hands behind my back, one palm encasing the other. Last afternoon, I could feel the pulsating throb of my heart as I encountered Frida’s self-portraits firsthand. As her eyes confronted mine, I could feel something like frisson extending through my body. Just as I entered, I read the two quotes imprinted side-by-side as stand-ins for Diego and Frida. “The only artist in the history of art who tore open her chest and heart to reveal the biological truth of her feelings,” read the citation by Diego. Frida’s response? “Diego was everything; my child, my lover, my universe,” echoing the last painting in the show, The love embrace of the universe, the Earth (Mexico), Diego, me and Senor Xolotl, which has Frida holding Diego in her arms as she herself is held by a maternal entity symbolising the cosmos, with a backdrop echoing masculine and feminine energies. One of the most moving photographs was of Frida in her hospital bed using a hand mirror to paint her iron corset. It testified, among other works, to something she had said once about her stare; “I knew the battlefield of suffering was reflected in my eyes. Ever since then, I started looking straight into the lens, without winking, without smiling, determined to prove I would be a good warrior until the end.”

Sydney is littered with tourists who seem more adept at navigating its sprawl than I. So as to stick to my daily budget, I walk to bus stops, I take the trains, I hop onto ferries. While most fellow tourists are busy on whale watching cruises and trips to Taronga Zoo, I spend my day in museums and galleries. Last night, as I walked the streets from the Art Gallery with legendary Aboriginal artist Richard Bell, I saw the city through his eyes. As we crossed the posh Hyde Park, he recounted how his father and many of his people were forced to live in tents in that very park, because they couldn’t pay rent. It explained the painting I had seen of Bell’s at the gallery that said, “Pay the Rent”, that spoke of the injustices his people had suffered. I’m convinced I am learning more about this continent than I possibly could have through the eyes of a tourist. Art is my port of entry.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx. Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

"Exciting news! Mid-day is now on WhatsApp Channels Subscribe today by clicking the link and stay updated with the latest news!" Click here!