The Art Of Frida Kahlo Is A

It Is Living And Ceasing To Live That Are Imaginary Solutions. Existence Is Elsewhere.

The Mind Which Plunges Into Surrealism, Relives With Burning Excitement The Best Part Of Childhood.

To See, To Hear, Means Nothing. To Recognize (or Not To Recognize) Means Everything.

Of All Those Arts In Which The Wise Excel, Nature's Chief Masterpiece Is Writing Well.

Beauty Is Like A Train That Ceaselessly Roars Out Of The Gare De Lyon And Which I Know Will Never Leave, Which Has Not Left. It Consists Of Jolts And Shocks, Many Of Which Do Not Have Much Importance, But Which We Know Are Destined To Produce One Shock, Which Does...the Human Heart, Beautiful As A Seismograph...beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.