Frida´s zoological atelier

A Mischievous monkey inspired Salvador Dali.
Even in the vibrant chaos of Casa Azul, some mischief went too far—at least in Diego’s eyes. He could tolerate the monkeys swinging from the rafters, the parrots stealing fruit from his plate, and even the deer nosing through Frida’s brushes. But when mischievous Fulang Chang turned his beloved car into a swirling masterpiece of colour, Diego’s patience reached its limit. Yet, as fate would have it, what began as a monkey’s prank would later inspire none other than Salvador Dalí—proving that true artistic genius often comes from the most unexpected hands.

Read on to explore Frida's and her pets’ adventures.

‘‘A Day in Frida’s Studio

Sunlight spills through Casa Azul’s panes,
a golden glow where colour reigns.
Canvas is waiting, and brushes set,
in Frida’s world of chaos and pets.

A green parrot perches on her sleeve
Mimicking words, she hardly breathes.
"Bonito, hush," she gently pleads,
but he preens and scolds with feathered ease.

A monkey swings from the beams above.
His nimble hands pick a painter’s glove.
Dipping fingers, bold and free,
Smearing strokes of anarchy.

Granizo, curious and shy,
His velvet nose tilts toward the sky.
Too close—his muzzle meets the red,
A paint streak upon his head.

The Xolos lie in pools of light,
Silent sages, black as night.
They guard her, watch her paint,
As if their mate would faint.

A world of paws, claws and wings,
Of braying laughs and tail-tipped things.
A moving studio, breathing art,
Each beast a muse, each beast a part.

Through noise and touch, through fur and flight,
Frida paints with fearless might.
For who could dream, or love, or see,
without a studio with a wild menagerie?

Diego sighed but knew too well
In Frida’s world, he’d bend, not quell.
The monkey ruled the house, and he obeyed,
Though paint-streaked cars left tempers frayed.

But fate’s a trickster, and time’s a jest,
What’s mocked today may stand the test.
For Fulang’s strokes, so wild, so free,
Became Salvador Dalí’s legacy.”
Malmö, January 2025

Frida´s zoological atelier
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the air in the cosy restaurant inside Nöjesteatern. It was the intermission of an upcoming play's rehearsal, and Frida Kahlo sat by the window, gazing at the rainy Malmo streets beyond. She stirred her coffee absentmindedly, dressed impeccably as always in a deep red embroidered shawl draped over her shoulders, a traditional blouse with intricate floral patterns, and a full, flowing skirt. Her hair was adorned with fresh marigolds, their bright yellow contrasting against her dark braids.

"Diego never understood my love for animals," she mused, breaking the silence as she traced a finger along the rim of her cup. "He appreciated their symbolism, of course—he saw my paintings, he knew what they meant to me. But truly living with them? That was another matter entirely."

I leaned in, intrigued. "He didn't like them?"

Frida gave a knowing smirk. "Not in the way I did. He tolerated them. He even gifted me my first monkey, Fulang Chang, perhaps thinking it would amuse me, but he never had the patience to coexist with them truly. My home, Casa Azul, was a living, breathing entity filled with creatures—monkeys, parrots, dogs, and even deer. To Diego, it was chaotic. He called it 'Zoo Azul,' but for me, it was a sanctuary."

She sipped her coffee before continuing, "After our second marriage, we lived separately most of the time. He had his house, and I had mine. It was better that way. He was too restless, and I needed my own space. My animals understood me more than he ever did."

I chuckled. "A zoo, indeed. But did he ever try to befriend any of them?"

Frida laughed, shaking her head. "Befriend? No. He was too large, too loud. My spider monkeys would scatter when he approached, and my deer, Granizo, would freeze in place, uncertain whether he was friend or foe. Only my Xoloitzcuintli dogs tolerated him, but even they preferred to stay by my side."

Her eyes softened as she recalled memories. "Señor Xolotl, my great, noble Xolo, would always stretch out on the cool ceramic tiles of my studio while I painted. He had the wisdom of an ancient soul. And Bonito, my parrot, always caused trouble—mimicking voices, stealing fruit from my plate. Diego was indifferent to them. He had his obsessions—his murals, his politics, his women. But me? I needed my creatures."

The room hummed with quiet conversation, the soft clatter of cups and saucers filling the space. Frida’s fingers danced lightly over the tablecloth as she continued. "Do you know what he said once?" Her voice took on a dramatic tone. "He told me: 'Frida, if you loved me half as much as you love that damned monkey, maybe we wouldn’t fight so much.'"

I burst into laughter. "And what did you say?"

Frida grinned. "I told him, 'If you were as loyal as my monkey, Diego, perhaps we wouldn’t fight at all.'"

She leaned back in her chair, eyes twinkling with mischief. "He never brought it up again."

I swirled my coffee, watching her. "You always seemed to find companionship in everything around you—art, people, animals. Did you ever feel truly alone?"

She exhaled, looking out at the rain. "Of course. Even surrounded by friends, there were moments of unbearable solitude. The pain, the surgeries, the betrayals... nothing could fully erase that. But my animals gave me comfort when nothing else could. When Diego betrayed me with Cristina—" she paused, her fingers tightening around the cup, "—I cut my hair, I distanced myself, I tried to kill my love for him. And through it all, my animals were the only ones who never disappointed me."

She took a deep breath, shaking off the memory. "And yet, I always forgave him. Just like I always returned to my paints, my colours. Even after everything, we were bound together, like an elephant and his little dove."

The phrase hung between us, and I understood. Diego had been the elephant, large and dominant, stomping through life, while Frida, fragile in body but fierce in spirit, was the dove—small, yet unbreakable.

"Do you think Diego envied that bond you had with your animals?" I asked.

Frida considered this, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Maybe. He had his murals, his politics, his lovers. But my animals, my paintings—they were mine alone. He could not touch them, could not claim them. Perhaps that was my quiet revenge."

The intermission bell rang softly, signalling the end of our coffee break. Frida drained the last of her latte and stretched her arms above her head. "Enough about Diego. Let’s talk about something more joyful. Have you ever seen a monkey get drunk on a Frida Colada?"

I nearly choked on my coffee. "You’re joking."

Frida shook her head, her laughter rich and full of life. "Oh no. Fulang Chang once stole my drink at a garden party. He danced like a madman before passing out in my lap. We had to carry him to bed like an honoured guest."

Fulang Chang, Frida Kahlo’s mischievous spider monkey, was always up to trouble. He had a knack for creating chaos by stealing drinks, mimicking guests, or even engaging in accidental artistry. One infamous tale involved his unexpected foray into fine art forgery.

During one of Frida’s long painting sessions at Casa Azul, Fulang Chang, always curious, managed to dip his nimble fingers into an open paint palette. Before anyone could stop him, he smeared bold strokes onto an abandoned canvas, layering vibrant reds, blues, and yellows in a chaotic but strangely compelling composition. The mess was quickly forgotten, but as fate would have it, the piece was later mistaken for an experimental work by a young, rebellious artist. A crafty art dealer eventually “discovered” the abstract splashes and sold it under a forged signature, fetching a small fortune. Fulang Chang’s masterpiece remains an unsung triumph of accidental modernism somewhere on a collector's wall.

But that wasn’t the only time he turned to artistic vandalism.

“Please tell me,” I said, having fallen in love with that mischievous monkey.

I swirled the last remnants of coffee in my cup, watching Frida as she absentmindedly traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her fingertips. She had that glint in her eyes—signalling a particularly outrageous story was about to unfold.

“You know,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “Diego always saw himself as a man of grandeur, a figure of importance. Everything about him had to be larger than life—including his car.”

I chuckled. “Let me guess. A massive, serious-looking automobile? Something that made a statement?”

Frida nodded, smirking. “Oh, absolutely. A grand, black beast of a machine. It was his prized possession, always polished, always looming outside Casa Azul like a damn monument to his ego.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “And let me guess… Fulang Chang had other ideas?”

Frida threw back her head and laughed. “That little devil never could resist a blank canvas. While Diego was inside one afternoon, lost in endless political discussion, Fulang Chang got into my paints. Red, blue, yellow—oh, he went for the boldest ones, of course. Then, with all the confidence of a true artist, he got to work.”

I gasped. “On the car?”

“Oh, yes,” she grinned. “Handprints, streaks, splashes—he transformed Diego’s magnificent automobile into a riot of colour. The hood, the doors, and even the tyres had traces of his artistic genius. By the time he was finished, it looked like a surrealist fever dream.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly. “Oh no. Diego must have been furious.”

Frida sighed dramatically. “Furious doesn’t even begin to describe it. He stormed out, took one look at his beloved car, and bellowed like a wounded bull. I swear, the windows rattled. He cursed, threatened exile for Fulang Chang, and swore the monkey would never set foot in Casa Azul again.”

“And what did you do?” I asked, already knowing she must have had the perfect response.

Frida leaned back, a satisfied smirk on her lips. “I placed a hand on his arm, looked him straight in the eye, and said, ‘Mi amor, you always say art belongs to the people. Now the people will see your car for the masterpiece it has become.’”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” she confirmed, her laughter rich and full of mischief. “He huffed and puffed, but what could he do? Fulang Chang was my beloved, and besides, deep down, I think even Diego had to admire its audacity.”

I shook my head in amazement. “So what happened to the car?”

“He had it scrubbed, of course,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “But not before he took a photograph.”

I arched an eyebrow. “A photograph?”

Frida’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. And years later, he showed it to Salvador Dalí.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, drawing out the words with relish. “And Dalí loved it. He called it genius. And wouldn’t you know, not long after, he started making car installations—dressing Cadillacs in fabric, posing mannequins inside vehicles, even his famous ‘Rainy Taxi.’”

I let out a breath of disbelief. “So you’re telling me… Dalí stole the idea from Fulang Chang?”

Frida shrugged, her expression full of playful mischief. “Who knows? Inspiration is a tricky thing. But those of us who were there that day, watching that cheeky little monkey reinvent Diego’s car… well, we know who the real pioneer of surrealist car art was.”

I stared at her, then down at my empty cup. “I need another coffee. And maybe a drink. And I want to hear more about Dali.”

Frida laughed and lifted her cup in mock solemnity. “To Fulang Chang—artist, trickster, and ahead of his time.” She rose from her seat, adjusting her shawl. "But that’s a story for another time. I have a rehearsal to get back to."

I smiled as she turned to leave, her presence as vivid as the paintings she left behind. "Frida, thank you for sharing all of this."

She paused, looking back with a wink. "Thank you for listening, mi amiga. It’s always good to remind people that even legends had their pets, laughter, and little acts of rebellion."

And with that, she disappeared into the theatre, leaving behind the lingering scent of marigolds and mischief.

Zoo Azul, also known as the Blue House (La Casa Azul), is an art museum dedicated to Frida Kahlo's life and work. It is in the Colonia del Carmen neighbourhood of Coyoacán in Mexico City. The building was Kahlo’s birthplace, where she grew up and lived with her husband, Diego Rivera, for several years. She later died in a room on the upper floor. In 1957, Rivera donated the home and its contents to turn it into a museum in Kahlo’s honour.

All the animals are gone except for those captured in paintings and photographs. The once lively house, filled with fluttering wings, snuffling, rooting, barking dogs, and chattering monkeys—a cacophony of life and commotion—lay silent and empty until the doors opened to the day's throngs of tourists, bringing a different kind of soundscape: shuffling footsteps, murmurs, and aimless chatter.

The museum contains a collection of artwork by Frida and her husband Diego and other artists, along with the couple’s Mexican folk art, pre-Hispanic artefacts, photographs, memorabilia, and personal items. The collection is displayed in the house's rooms, which remain much as they were in the 1950s when Frida departed for her star. Initially, the house was Frida Kahlo's family home.

Casa Azul is located in the Colonia del Carmen area of the Coyoacán borough of Mexico City. This area has had an intellectual and vanguard reputation since the 1920s. The house stands out for its cobalt-blue walls, which give it the name La Casa Azul (The Blue House).