flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
Can I just say that if you have a young child who’s already terrified of the dark, and showers, and being left alone, and spiders, and needles, and, really, life, you should not take her to see a Frida Kahlo retrospective. I don’t recall how young I was when my mother took me to that exhibit, but I was too damn young. In fact discussing it with my mom the other night (not because Frida Kahlo stalks my nightmares or anything, just because I’d drawn the cartoon), she apparently was not familiar with Kahlo’s work before that show either — she just knew there was a show at the museum in San Antonio, and we were in San Antonio, and trips with my mom tend to revolve around museums. Anyway, my mom agreed that the show was scary and I was way too young for it, and then promptly told me that she was going to be doing a Kahlo lesson with her 1st to 5th graders the next day.
So, if you have a kid in the Houston area who came home terrified, crying and muttering about unibrows and spiders and open wounds, my mother is your child’s after school art teacher. Hooray!
I told her that it was going to be a lesson rivaled in creepiness only by that one she did with a Hebrew school class when they made Edible Baby Moses, but she seemed sanguine*.
*calm. Also, point of interest, bloody. Thanks, Joss Whedon!