Pallas Frida Athena

“When Athena Met Frida

Under a glass roof, where light danced,
Two figures met by fate's sly chance.
Pallas Athena, in bronze arrayed,
And Frida Kahlo, her colours displayed.

Athena stood, her fist held high,
A sentinel beneath the Malmö sky.
Her armour gleamed with ancient lore,
Yet her gaze spoke of something more.

Frida arrived, with her wild, dark hair,
Flowers blooming in her steadfast stare.
Her paintings hung like windows to pain,
To love, to fire, to loss, to gain.

"Ah, Athena," Frida said with a grin,
"Warrior goddess with steel for skin.
Do you know the battles we’ve fought since your time,
Not with spears, but with words and rhyme?"

Athena replied, her voice like stone,
"I’ve watched from Olympus, though not alone.
I’ve seen women rise, their fists like mine,
Claiming their strength, refusing the line.

"But tell me, Frida, your battles seem raw,
Your body is a canvas; your life is the law.
How did you stand, with the weight you bore,
When the world sought to close every door?"

Frida laughed, though her voice was tight,
"Not with armour nor ancient might.
But with brushes dipped in my blood and tears,
I painted my truths, my hopes, my fears.

"You wielded a spear, and I wielded pain,
Yet our struggles aren’t so different; the gain remains.
We both demanded the world take heed,
Of women’s power, their will, their need."

Athena nodded, her fist clenched strong,
"Then perhaps, Frida, we’ve both belonged.
Not just in battle or mythic frame,
But in the hearts of those who dare stake a claim.

"Here in Malmö, let them see,
A goddess of bronze and a painter set free.
Together, we stand across time’s great floor,
A testament to women, forevermore."

And so they remain in art’s embrace,
Two icons hiding in a timeless space.
Athena, the shield; Frida, the flame,
Each a legend, yet one and the same.
Malmö, December 2024

In July, Frida had been in Malmö for almost a year and had already performed in three plays at the Nöjesteatern. By autumn, she was scheduled for a fourth. It was also seventy years since she had left Earth to journey to her star. The thirteenth of July held no special reason for her to celebrate. Time-travelers rarely have cause to commemorate their death dates, as they dislike speaking about death. Moreover, most perceive eternity as infinitely preferable to their time on Earth. Behind them, they leave pain and illness, and in eternity, they can live at any age of their choosing, free from the fear of death or other anxieties.

However, Frida chose to honour her short life on Earth—only forty-seven years—because of a celebrated event in the art world: the Frida Kahlo Retrospective. This retrospective, not just a collection of paintings but a celebration of women's strength and resilience, uplifted and empowered all who experienced it. Frida's version of Klimt's ‘Woman with Fan’ was one of many important paintings, each a testament to the power of art to inspire and empower.

It brought together all the paintings Frida had created after she had laid down her brush for the last time. Her life had been marked by severe health issues, and from 1953, she was bedridden following an amputation. However, this did not deter her from her passion for painting or even participating in political events; her bed was carried wherever she wished to go, a testament to her unwavering determination and courage. Her resilience in the face of adversity is a source of inspiration for all, a reminder that creativity and passion can thrive even in the darkest times.

Frida embarked on an ambitious project that set her apart from other artists in eternity. She encountered creators from all eras and decided to paint extraordinary women from history with whom she identified. This unique project, with its fresh and innovative interpretations of historical art, was a testament to her creativity and the power of art to transcend time and space, sparking intrigue and appreciation among audiences. It remained unknown until the paintings were discovered recently—not by chance, but carefully orchestrated by Frida herself.

Thus, the paintings at Malmö’s Moderna Museet, including canvases and statues featuring Frida, reimagine well-known motifs but now incorporate her face and body. The entire collection was discovered in a hidden room behind a wall at Casa Azul, her home in the Coyoacán neighbourhood of Mexico City. Three dozen previously unknown paintings caused a global sensation and sparked intense debate, as their style did not match her known works. The international attention these paintings received underscored the exhibition's significance, making it a cultural event of global importance. The world was particularly captivated by Frida’s interpretation of Botticelli’s Venus, a testament to the universal appeal of her art.

Frida Kahlo shared with me her personal and spiritual reflection on this piece. I cannot recount the entire story except as part of a whimsical exhibition presentation. However, art experts summoned to study the collection were supported by notes Frida had left alongside the paintings. The handwriting was unmistakably hers, and the commentary was essential for understanding the purpose of the works and why she had hidden them. Simply put, the world of the 1950s was not ready for such messages—they had to wait for their time, and that time is now.

Me: "Pallas Athena, the gleaming statue in the middle of the floor—who is she?"

Frida: (gesturing proudly toward the sculpture) "She is my pride and, in many ways, my alter ego. I have no known sculptures on Earth—not because I never tried, mind you. I did. But sculpture wasn’t a medium I chose to explore significantly, at least not publicly. My early attempts ended up in the trash heap. When I left Earth in 1954, I wasn’t quite finished."

Me: "So this Athena is unfinished business?"

Frida: (nodding) "In a sense, yes. I sculpted her here, in the stars, with guidance from Auguste Rodin, who lived on a neighbouring star long before I arrived. You know him—The Thinker, The Kiss. He was a master at capturing the essence of human strength and vulnerability. He taught me enough to craft my Pallas Athena, although I’ll never claim his level of mastery.

"But Athena is unmistakably mine. The flowers in her hair, immortalised in bronze? That’s as much a signature as any name etched in stone. And see her clenched fist? That’s no accident. It’s a deliberate feminist symbol—a statement that Athena, like the women of today, is ready to fight."

Me: "A clenched fist on a goddess from antiquity? Isn’t that a bit...anachronistic?"

Frida: (smirking) "And why not? Athena is timeless. She doesn’t belong solely to ancient Greece; she transcends eras. Nearly 4,000 years ago, she was born of Mesopotamian goddesses like Ishtar and Inanna—women who refused to stay in the shadows. Athena, like them, stands for wisdom, justice, and the power to create and protect."

Me: "So you think she was a feminist?"

Frida: (leaning in, eyes sparking) "Feminist? That depends on your interpretation. Athena didn’t march for suffrage or demand equal pay, but her entire existence is a challenge to patriarchy. Think about her birth—no womb, no mother. She sprang fully grown from Zeus’s head, armed and ready. She wasn’t born of flesh but of intellect. If that isn’t a feminist act, I don’t know what is."

Me: "Or maybe she’s just Zeus’s creation, his pawn? You can argue that being born from his head ties her to male authority."

Frida: (frowning, crossing her arms) "Or you could argue that she took what men like Zeus wanted to control and made it her own. She wasn’t docile or obedient. She shaped her destiny with her sharp mind and her spear. Athena didn’t wait for the world to make space for her—she claimed it."

Me: "Fair point. But she wasn’t perfect. Look at the myth of Arachne. Athena punished her for being talented and for daring to challenge her craft. That doesn’t scream sisterhood to me."

Frida: (sighing) "No, it doesn’t. Athena wasn’t flawless, and that’s the beauty of her. Even our icons have their cracks. Her rivalry with Arachne is a reminder that even brilliant women can falter. But does that make her less divine? Or does it make her more human?"

Me: "Okay, but would a modern Athena march for women’s rights? Would she hold a placard instead of a spear?"

Frida: (grinning) "Absolutely. I sculpted her clenched fist with that in mind. I am sure Athena would have joined the contemporary marches, standing tall, her armour clinking with every step. She would have been at the front, shouting for justice, her intelligence and strategy guiding the movement.

"That’s what I wanted to capture in this sculpture—a goddess who doesn’t just stand for wisdom but for action. She’s not here to decorate the halls of Olympus. She’s here to change the world."

Me: "But does that make her feminist or just pragmatic? Protecting cities, crafting tools—wasn’t that more about power than equality?"

Frida: (her tone sharpening) "And what is power if not a tool for equality? Athena allowed women to create, build, and shape their own lives. She was the goddess of crafts and technology, for crying out loud. She didn’t just defend Athens; she named it after herself. She carved out a legacy that endures millennia later. Call it feminism or pragmatism, but she made sure women had tools to survive and thrive."

Me: "Still, I’m not sure she’d fit neatly into the feminist mould of today."

Frida: (laughing) "Of course not! Athena doesn’t fit into moulds—she shatters them. That’s the point. Feminism isn’t about perfection; it’s about progress. Athena wasn’t flawless, but she stood for something bigger than herself. She stood for strength, wisdom, and the audacity to create a better world.

"And that’s why I sculpted her as I did. She’s not just a relic of the past. She’s a reminder that women have always been forces of change, whether they wield spears or placards."

Me: (pausing, looking at the statue) "So, Athena isn’t just a goddess. She’s an idea."

Frida: (softly) "Exactly. She’s every woman who’s ever stood up, spoken out, and refused to be silenced. And if that isn’t feminist, then what is?"

Me: ”Inte minst på senare år har du själv mer och mer bland kvinnor framstått som en gudinna. Hur ser du på den rollen?”

Me: "Not least in recent years, you have increasingly been seen as a goddess among women. How do you view that role?"

Frida: (leaning back, a wry smile playing on her lips) "A goddess, you say? That’s quite a title. I should thank those who think of me that way, but I don’t feel comfortable with it. Goddesses are worshipped, placed on pedestals, and admired from a distance. That’s not who I am. I’m much too human for that kind of reverence."

Me: "But isn’t that part of the appeal? You’re not some distant, untouchable ideal. You’re relatable—flawed, honest, raw. Perhaps that’s why people elevate you."

Frida: (nodding thoughtfully) "Maybe. I'm grateful if they see something in my life or my work that strengthens them or helps them understand themselves better. But being placed on a pedestal comes with a price. It risks turning me into something static, unchanging. A goddess doesn’t bleed, doesn’t struggle, doesn’t doubt herself. But I did—all of it, every day."

Me: "Do you think people romanticise your pain?"

Frida: (her expression darkening) "Oh, absolutely. It’s easy to admire suffering from a safe distance. People see the self-portraits, the broken body, and the heartbreak and weave stories about strength and resilience. But let me tell you—there’s nothing romantic about waking up in agony or watching your life unravel because your body refuses to cooperate.

"Do I admire the way I turned pain into art? Yes. But I’d trade every painting to walk without pain, to live without betrayal, to love without scars. The goddess narrative erases that reality."

Me: "So you reject the idea of being a symbol of strength?"

Frida: (her gaze sharp) "No, I embrace it—but not without context. Strength isn’t about being unbreakable; it’s about rebuilding yourself repeatedly, even when you’d rather give up. If people see me as strong, it’s because I lived my truth, no matter how ugly or messy. But let’s not mistake that for divinity. I was strong because I had no other choice."

Me: "Do you think women need goddesses—figures to look up to, even if they’re flawed?"

Frida: (pausing, her voice softening) "Yes, I think they do. But not the kind of goddesses who float above it all, untouched by life. We need goddesses who’ve been in the trenches, known pain and joy, messy and brilliant, and everything in between.

"If people see me as a goddess, I hope they see one with dirt under her nails and fire in her heart. One who wasn’t perfect but tried to live honestly. One who fell a hundred times and got up a hundred and one."

Me: "So, if you’re a goddess, you’re one with scars?"

Frida: (smiling faintly) "Exactly. My scars are my medals. They tell my story—not just of suffering, but of survival. If I’m to be seen as a goddess, let it be as one who shows that beauty, strength, and divinity all live alongside pain, imperfection, and struggle.

"After all, isn’t that what makes us human—and isn’t that what truly connects us all?"

Me: "You might not like pedestals, but I think you earned yours."

Frida: (laughing) "Don’t even think about it! Pedestals are cold, lonely places. I’d rather sit here with you and talk about what really matters. That’s far more divine than being worshipped from afar."