Frida as Medea

The painting depicts Medea as she might have looked had she chosen reconciliation over revenge, like Frida. Instead of committing the ultimate act of destruction, she would have come to Jason with a bouquet of marigolds—the flowers of death, symbolising the end of their relationship and the beginning of a new phase—rather than taking the lives of their children. For her vengeance, Medea earned eternal damnation, gaining neither restored honour nor the respect of others. Frida’s way of punishing her unfaithful husband, Diego, was bloodless and far more refined.

Frida Kahlo's legacy endures, her influence more significant than ever, while Diego—despite his stature in his time—has faded into her shadow. Viva La Vida is the perfect title for a grand retrospective dedicated to her. Her art, life, and pain have become immortal, and the world remains captivated by her story, a testament to her enduring legacy.

Today, people gather in cinemas, exhibitions, and online to honour her life. Frida’s paintings stare back, vivid and defiant, her story told again and again. Her enduring and timeless art continues to captivate the world, for she was never just a muse or an icon. She was a revolution in herself and now stands among history’s most renowned women.

Stay tuned to see how this dramatic comparison unfolds. Who’s winning—Medea or Frida? The contrast between their stories is a fascinating journey that will keep you engaged.

“Frida’s Medea
Standing before the canvas, bold and free,
Yet bound by ghosts of history.
A brush, a blade—what’s the divide?
Frida painted pain she could not hide.

Diego, the elephant, Frida, the dove,
Bound by fate, yet not by love.
Like Jason’s choice, like Medea’s pain,
Two millennia, yet the story’s the same.

Betrayed by love, deceived by trust,
Yet art arose from grief and dust.
No blood was spilled, no child was lost,
But on the canvas, she paid the cost.

She traced the wound, the lover’s sin,
A cut that bled from deep within.
Not steel, not fire, nor poisoned thread—
But colours where her soul had bled.

Medea’s rage, Medea’s cry,
A love once bright was left to die.
A sacrifice of trust and dreams,
Yet paint transformed her silent screams.

Not dragons fierce, nor flames untamed,
No children's cries in vengeance maimed.
But every brushstroke, a tale retold—
A woman’s war, both fierce and bold.

She danced with fate, with loss, with truth,
Embraced Medea’s bitter proof.
Yet, in the end, her hand held tight—
A brush, a heart, still burning bright.

For love destroyed, still, love remained,
Her art, her voice, her wounds reclaimed.
No tragic end, no bitter tomb,
Just Frida—painting through the gloom.

Yet time, that sculptor of the past,
Has carved Frida’s name to last.
The world remembers, brush in hand,
How bold she was, her love, her stand.

The elephant fades, his shadow now small,
While she enthrones above them all.
No longer his dove, no fragile art,
But the name that beats in every heart.”
Malmö. January 2025

Knowing Right, Choosing Wrong
"A strange new force drags me along. Desire and reason are pulling in different directions. I see and approve the right way but follow the wrong," said Medea in 700 BCE, expressing her inner turmoil and the conflict between her love for Jason and her duty to her father.

Psychologists often quote Medea's struggle between her love for Jason and her duty to her father as an example of ‘The Divided Self’—the eternal conflict between the ‘id’ and the ‘superego’. This warrants an explanation. 'The Divided Self' is a psychological concept referring to the internal conflict between our desires and moral conscience. Sigmund Freud defined the id, ego, and superego as the three interlocking components of the human psyche. They form the foundation of psychoanalytic theory, termed initially ‘das Es, Ich, und Über-Ich’ in German.

The parallels between Medea and Frida Kahlo are striking when examined through themes of betrayal, passion, pain, and a love so intense it teeters on the edge of destruction. Both were formidable, strong-willed women, unforgettable in their defiance—but also wounded, betrayed, and capable of dark emotions.

Medea's betrayal by Jason, when he abandoned her for Princess Glauce, plunged her into a state of grief and fury. In a tragic act of ultimate revenge, she sacrificed her children, a deed she knew she could never recover from.

Frida Kahlo was not betrayed by a king but by Diego Rivera—the husband she adored despite his relentless infidelity. His affair with her sister, Cristina, was one of the deepest wounds of her life. Unlike Medea, Frida never chose physical revenge, but her response was just as intense, just as artistic. Instead of harming Diego directly, she turned to her art to transform her suffering into something eternal. She cut off her long hair—a symbolic self-destruction, a protest against his betrayal—and painted herself holding scissors as if severing something more profound than just strands of hair. Was this her version of Medea’s act? Not literally, but symbolically.

Frida and Diego never had children, though she longed for them and endured multiple painful miscarriages. But if we consider her art as her ‘children’—the creations she and Diego shared—Frida’s vengeance was not harming him physically but destroying their shared world in another way.

Consider the absurdity of their physical contrast—Diego was a massive presence at 188 cm and over 150 kg, while Frida, delicate and petite, was his ‘little dove.’ Yet her brushstrokes were sharper than any knife, and her paintings bear witness.

Through her art, she exposes her pain and Diego’s betrayals, leaving their relationship raw and vulnerable to the public eye. She ‘killed’ the illusion of their perfect love by laying bare its wounds, just as Medea killed the children who symbolised her bond with Jason.

They separated after his affair, though they reconciled and remarried within a year. During that time, Frida lived as if freeing herself from him—just as Medea severed ties with Jason. She had her lovers, both men and women and sought independence, though Diego remained a gravitational force in her world.

Medea destroyed her future through revenge—she became a fugitive, forever marked by her actions. Frida, in her way, destroyed her body, pushing herself through endless suffering to compensate for Diego’s betrayals. She drank, smoked, partied, and immersed herself in her art, sometimes to the point of self-destruction. Her self-portraits, often filled with pain and blood, became a ritualistic reenactment of her martyrdom.

If Frida fully embodied Medea, her vengeance would not be to kill but to immortalise betrayal—art as an eternal curse upon Diego. Rather than destroying her ‘children’ (her paintings), she used them to lay bare her suffering, punishing him by allowing the world to see his infidelity, his failings, and his impact on her—a metaphor as powerful as any myth.

Yet in the end, Frida chose a different path—a more brilliant act of revenge: forgiveness, not for Diego’s sake, but for her own. The world had seen his betrayal, and by taking him back, she reclaimed power. Women sympathised with her, while Diego’s legacy was forever intertwined with the wounds he had inflicted upon her. What men thought, she never cared to ask.

After their reunion, they chose to live as free partners—together, yet apart. They combined their strengths while sparing themselves the erosion of daily coexistence. Frida secured a resolution that lasted until her final breath.

Here is a brief account of Jason’s betrayal to understand why Frida chose to embody her sister from antiquity.

Euripides’ classical tragedy Medea opens in conflict. Jason has abandoned his wife, Medea, and their two children. He hopes to elevate his social standing by marrying Glauce, the daughter of Creon, the King of Corinth, where the play is set. Every event in the story unfolds from this initial betrayal, and the central figures revolve around it.

Outside the royal palace, Medea’s nurse laments the events that have led to this crisis. After a long series of trials and adventures—including exile—Medea and Jason had built a home and a life together. His sudden abandonment crushed her to the point that she cursed her existence and that of her children.

Fearing her wrath, King Creon banishes Medea and her children from Corinth. She begs for a single day’s reprieve, which he grants, unaware that she intends to use that time for revenge. Her plan escalates—not only does she intend to kill Creon and Glauce, but she also decides to murder her children to inflict maximum suffering upon Jason.

Jason, blind to the depth of her fury, dismisses her as irrational. He claims his new marriage is for everyone's benefit. Medea, disgusted by his weakness, rejects his hollow offers of assistance.

By chance, Aegeus, King of Athens, arrives in Corinth. In exchange for her knowledge of certain potions that might cure his sterility, he offers Medea sanctuary. Now assured of a future, she has nothing left to lose. Her vengeance solidifies—she will kill not only her rival and her father but also the children she bore Jason. Their loss will wound him more than anything else.

Feigning reconciliation, Medea pretends to accept Jason’s choices. She sends Glauce a gift—a coronet and a dress, ostensibly a peace offering. But both are poisoned. The moment Glauce wears them, she is consumed by flames, burning to death in unspeakable agony. Creon, unable to bear watching his daughter suffer, embraces her in grief and perishes as well.

A messenger describes the gruesome deaths, and Medea listens with eerie calm. Her earlier uncertainty vanishes—her purpose is now clear. Despite the chorus’ protests, she murders her children and escapes in a chariot pulled by dragons, a gift from her grandfather, the Sun-God.

Jason is left utterly ruined. His attempt to secure a higher status by abandoning Medea has backfired in the worst possible way. Everything he valued—his ambitions, love, and family—is annihilated in a single night of vengeance.

A tragedy sealed in blood.

And in Frida’s case? No dragons, no fire, no blood. Only paint, the stroke of a brush, and the quiet vengeance of art—an eternal testament to pain, betrayal, and the power of transformation.