In her letters to friends and lovers, Frida Kahlo often returns to the idea of “lo que se siente,” what one feels. The phrase, or slight variations of it, appears again and again across her drafts, revisions, and final letters. One letter from 1938 begins with a crossed-out line, then continues: “No sé cómo explicar lo que siento…” She does not know how to explain what she feels. Another version replaces “explicar” with “expresar,” shifting the emphasis from explanation to expression. The phrase returns again in a 1945 letter as “lo que se siente dentro de mi,” what one feels inside me. Each instance is surrounded by different words, different contexts, yet the core idea remains intact. Kahlo circles feeling without settling it.
In her letters to Diego Rivera, Kahlo often returns to the concept of “mirada,” a word that translates loosely as gaze or look. One draft from 1935 reads, “Tu mirada es mi espejo.” Later versions compress the idea: “Mi espejo en tu mirada,” then “En tus ojos, me veo reflejada.” The words draw closer together, as if seeking fusion. The phrase appears elsewhere without a clear subject. In a 1940 letter to her doctor, she writes, “Mi mirada es el único reflejo verdadero.” Another version replaces “reflejo” with “luz.” In a 1950 letter to her sister Cristina, it appears again as “Tu mirada es mi luz.” The metaphor shifts, but never resolves.
Across her correspondence, Kahlo returns repeatedly to “vida.” A draft from 1938 reads, “la vida es maravillosa y dura.” The phrase reappears in altered forms. In a 1940 letter to Rivera, she writes, “La vida es un cerillo que se enciende y se consume con rapidez.” In another draft written around the same time, the line is crossed out entirely, left without replacement. Years later, in a letter to Alejandro Gómez Arias, life becomes “una flor que se marchita y renace cada día.” The image changes. The question remains.
She also returns to “mi vida.” In one letter to Rivera, it appears as a term of address: “mi querido amor, mi vida.” Elsewhere, it closes letters to friends and doctors alike. The phrase travels freely between intimacy and formality. Its repetition suggests importance without clarity.
In a letter dated 1940, Kahlo writes, “Pies para qué los quiero si tengo alas pa’ volar,” then crosses out “pa’” and replaces it with “para.” The revision echoes across her writing. Another phrase appears years later: “No hay viento que no pueda ser alado,” later revised to “deba.” In her final letters, flight returns once more. The wording changes. The image persists.
She writes “viva la vida” again and again. Sometimes it appears as celebration. Other times it becomes “viva mi vida.” The shift is small but telling. Life oscillates between the universal and the singular, never fully choosing one.
The question of duality surfaces repeatedly. “Somos dos,” she writes, then crosses it out. Another version softens it: “¿Quizás somos dos?” In a later draft, she reframes it entirely: “Nuestra existencia es un juego de dualidades.” The sentence is underlined twice. In the margin, a note appears: “¿Es esto demasiado simplista?” The uncertainty remains intact.
Love appears in many forms. In one draft, it is a rose. In another, fire. Then an ocean. Each metaphor is tried, revised, abandoned. One version leaves the sentence unfinished, as if unwilling to commit.
In the margins of her letters, a phrase recurs: “sin miedo.” Sometimes it follows declarations of independence. Sometimes it appears beside expressions of love. Sometimes it is crossed out. Sometimes it is left untouched. The words assert something without resolving it.
Across Kahlo’s letters, drafts, and revisions, language behaves less like a destination and more like a process. Phrases return. Words shift. Images circle back. Nothing settles completely. Feeling remains in motion.