Minx Frida in a Straw Hat

“A Royal Dilemma

King Gustav sat in his chamber alone,
his crown askew, his worries unknown.
Not for the realm, nor the people's plight,
but for the heirless future, cloaked in night.

Sofia Magdalena, his queen so fair,
yet silence hung heavy in their shared lousy air.
No spark, no fire in the midnight's hue,
and the whispers grew: "What will Sweden do?"

He summoned Munck, the Master of the Horse,
a trusted man, steady in his course.
"You are loyal, a friend who won’t betray,
help me learn what words cannot convey."

Munck entered the chamber, calm and wise,
with lessons of love beneath starlit skies.
He pointed, he guided, with tact and care,
while Gustav listened to the task laid bare.

Munck stood behind, his tool held high,
a glint in his eye as the moments flew by.
But questions lingered, whispers frail—
did it land right, or did he slip and fail?

In the chamber where lechery spoke,
it’s easy to stumble; the line is a joke.
A tale of balance, honour and jest,
was the king’s triumph fate—or the Master’s best?

But rumours spread fast; tongues would not cease,
"Is the bloodline true, or was Munck the beast?"
They pointed to the man who stood by the bed,
claiming his counsel had crowned instead.

At last, a son was born, young Gustav Adolf,
and Sweden’s throne found its riddle resolved.
Yet even today, the tale’s golden glimmer
speaks of the king's dilemma, a legend that lingers.

The Master of the Horse became lore untold,
a quiet chapter that history holds.
But one truth remains: whatever tales imply,
the heir’s story lives for all to deny or imply.

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 amused by Frida’s addition to a picture of the Swedish King Gustav III and how the Master of the Horse fixed the King's intercourse with his Queen.

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.

While Frida Kahlo, a staunch defender of artistic integrity, would never condone the destruction of another artist's work, she would certainly appreciate the power of satire. Adding a Salvador Dalí moustache to a poster or reproduction or doodling on the sculptor Sergel’s satirical depiction of how Gustav IV Adolf was conceived are all forms of artistic protest with a long and resilient tradition of making fun of disagreeable authorities.

In ancient Egypt, the roots of protest through image manipulation can be traced back to the erasure of names and alteration of pharaohs' images. For instance, after the death of Pharaoh Hatshepsut (circa 1458 BCE), her successor, Thutmose III, had her depictions and inscriptions defaced or modified. This early form of protest, through the manipulation of images, is a testament to the long-standing tradition of satire.

In Babylon, cuneiform texts were distorted. Priests edited inscriptions to ridicule Nabonidus, Babylon's last king (circa 6th century BCE), criticising him for neglecting his religious duties. These alterations created a historical caricature of the king.

In ancient Greece, graffiti defaced statues, such as the Hermes statues, vandalised during the Peloponnesian War (5th century BCE). Faces were distorted, and comical features or symbols were added, protesting against leaders and oligarchs of the time. For instance, the distorted faces and added symbols were often a commentary on the perceived flaws or misdeeds of the leaders. Had Salvador Dalí lived then, his moustache would indeed have been widely used.

In the Roman Empire, satirical images were common, such as the ‘Alexamenos graffito’ (1st or 2nd century CE). This Roman wall drawing depicts a man (Alexamenos) worshipping a crucified figure with a donkey’s head, an early example of anti-Christian imagery. Even earlier, Pompeii and Herculaneum were rich in humour and satire, preserved in graffiti, wall paintings, and mosaics. Public and private spaces alike were filled with caricatures and sharp commentary. In Pompeii, a politician was depicted with disproportionately large ears, symbolising his inability to make decisions. Graffiti in the amphitheatre mocked gladiators, such as Celadus, who was described as a "hero who ran like a hare," with bunny ears added to his image. Mythological scenes were also twisted, as in Herculaneum, where Hercules was given goat ears in a parody of the hero myth.

Private homes sometimes featured subtle satire; for instance, an inn in Pompeii depicted guests with grotesque facial expressions alongside the caption, "Here we serve both food and gossip." Another inscription mocked a husband: "Caius, while you're away, your wife is very kind to me." Mosaics were also used for humour, such as one in Herculaneum, where servants were depicted with oversized heads and small bodies, likely mocking the lower classes.

Political satire appeared in graffiti, like, "Vote for Vatia—he’ll fix your shoes too!" mocking a candidate's qualifications. Greek philosophers were occasionally ridiculed, as in Herculaneum, where a confused philosopher was portrayed to mock Greek intellectualism. Bakers’ workshops often included playful jabs, such as a painting showing a baker with an exaggerated backside—perhaps an internal joke among workers or a comment suggesting the baker was gay.

During the Renaissance, parodies of religious art were widespread. In the 16th century, attributes like bottles and grotesque faces were painted on the ancient statue of Pasquino, occasionally including comical moustaches, mocking the church's authority and corruption. This became an early form of public satire.

These examples illustrate how humour and critique have been embedded in visual culture throughout history, often conveyed with sharp wit and visual flair. They are significant because they demonstrate the enduring tradition of satire in visual culture, serving as a form of protest and social commentary. These acts of visual satire often had a significant impact on the society of the time, influencing public opinion and discourse.

Baroque artists excelled in creating caricatures of royalty, such as modified copies of van Dyck’s ‘Charles I Dismounted’. During Cromwell’s republic, portraits of King Charles I were altered to ridicule the monarchy. Additional features like oversized moustaches and absurd clothing were added to the reproductions.

Frida was inspired by Marcel Duchamp's legendary moustache piece, the image that gained its title—’L.H.O.O.Q.’ in 1919. Duchamp added a moustache and goatee to a reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci's ‘Mona Lisa’ as a protest against traditional artistic ideals. This work became an icon of Dadaism. Duchamp's title, ‘L.H.O.O.Q.’, is a playful linguistic pun. When pronounced in French, it sounds like ‘"Elle a chaud au cul"‘, which roughly translates to "She’s hot in the ass" or "She’s horny."

This was part of Duchamp’s Dadaist humour and his way of challenging traditional art conventions. Combining the playful title with adding the moustache and goatee on ‘Mona Lisa’, he made an ironic commentary on the sanctity of art and contemporary notions of gender and sexuality.

In the 2000s, we have examples like Banksy and his modified works, such as ‘Rage, Flower Thrower’ (2005). Banksy’s famous piece, depicting a man throwing a bouquet, has been vandalised with added moustaches, mocking its peaceful message. Banksy himself has occasionally used the Hitler moustache in his works to critique extremism. The Hitler moustache serves as a powerful global symbol, used both as mockery and protest, often with strong political overtones. Portraits of political leaders during and after World War II were frequently defaced with the infamous toothbrush moustache. It was drawn on everything from political posters to images of Churchill, Roosevelt, and other leaders—sometimes as a protest against fascism, other times to ridicule their opponents. A notable example is the manipulation of Stalin's images in the West, where he was given a Hitler moustache to depict him as equally evil.

Returning to Frida’s defacing of 18th-century King Gustav III, the king, the creator of the satirical image, Ehrensvärd, were good friends. The artist loved sketching scenes from everyday life and the people he met, almost like a visual diary. His drawings were often exaggerated, humorous, and not without a touch of malice—caricatures and satires, even of the king himself. One such infamous drawing depicted the king’s alleged impotence and the absence of a royal heir.

No reasonable person would ever claim that a picture proves something happened—not in how photographs or films are often perceived as "the truth." But as they say, there’s usually no smoke without fire. Take Gustav III of Sweden, for example. His strained relationship with his wife, Queen Sofia Magdalena, resulted in a sexless marriage, ultimately ending the royal succession. To address this delicate issue, the king called on Adolf Fredrik Munck, the Master of the Horse, to intervene literally. Munck wrote about how he was summoned to the royal bedroom to assist the couple. Unsurprisingly, this led to rumours that Munck might have been the actual father of Gustav IV Adolf.

But can we trust such an image? Certainly not—especially not if the people depicted are shown engaging in something as scandalous as sexual activity.

Consider today’s deepfakes. Recently, TikTok videos seemingly featuring Tom Cruise have caused a stir. But they’re not real—they’re deepfakes created using artificial intelligence to make it look like the Hollywood star appears in the clips, even though it’s someone else on camera. Shocking? Perhaps. But this is nothing new—images have been manipulated for as long as they’ve existed.

Take the Soviet Union, for instance. Authorities routinely erased unwanted parts of history, including the people they had eliminated. A key part of this effort involved retouching photographs to remove these "non-persons." The results were often compelling, though occasionally the compositions appeared awkward, with strange empty spaces where a former ally had once stood beside Lenin or Stalin.

And yet, manipulation often revolves around one theme: sex. The first deepfake videos, which emerged on Reddit in 2017, superimposed the faces of celebrities onto the bodies of porn actors. Gal Gadot, Scarlett Johansson, and Taylor Swift were among the first victims before Reddit eventually banned deepfake pornography. But this kind of ridicule didn’t begin with modern technology.

In 1991, the Swedish adult magazine ‘Hustler’ published similar doctored still images of politicians, royals, and celebrities in "intimate" scenarios. The magazine pasted the heads of public figures onto porn actors’ bodies. The argument didn't hold up in court when the editor attempted to defend this as satire. The Swedish Supreme Court fined him heavily for defamation and ordered him to pay significant damages—10,000 euros to political figures like Ingvar Carlsson, Mona Sahlin, and even pop stars like Lill-Babs and Carola.

But this kind of public humiliation didn’t begin with photography. Drawings have long been used to ridicule those in power. For example, there’s a famous illustration of Gustav III and Queen Sofia Magdalena in their bedroom. The king is depicted as notably unimpressive in his performance, with a comically small penis, while Munck, standing nearby, appears fully prepared to take on the task.

So, can we trust images? No. But then again, we can’t always trust words either, can we? But we can trust that Frida had a great time defacing the royal portraits. Frida Kahlo had no regard for royalism, representing the oppressive power structures that she and her husband, Rivera, opposed.