The first time I talked to Frida I thought she must have been from another world; with those sparkling eyes, a splendor that dulled even her Tehuana dress, and that way of walking – softly, but firmly.

And the first time that I could be with her outstretched on a blanket, I could feel that even her bandages, which tormented her under her clothes, became silk tethers, became volatile cotton when attached to her skin. Yes – she was from another world.