Explaining Death Through Art.

To cope with the death of my grandfather, I turned to art in order to make sense of it all.

World-renowned artist Frida Kahlo, who was famous for her dark self-portraits. Photographed by Guillermo Kahlo (1871-1941), from the website "My Modern Met."

The first stage

Artwork: Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird, 1940

Dear Frida Kahlo,

I saw you for the first time today. I had never seen art so honest and raw. The hummingbird, black with death, rests on your throat, hung on the thorns piercing your neck. Your face does not reflect the anguish I know you must feel. I wanted to touch the computer screen where you are sat, as if the connection of my palm to your face would give me some of your strength.

Her eyes are stoic. Calmly, she looks forward as if the thorns are not drawing blood, but are instead merely a small annoyance on the necklace. So patient in her pain, so strong in her hardship. Blood almost drips from the painting where she sits still. I have found someone to guide me through the pain. Pain I am in right now.

Jakarta, Indonesia

My grandfather is unmoving. Time stops as I realize that he is unmoving, because he is dead. I can’t see his brown eyes that once were filled with so much love, I can’t hold and squeeze his hand anymore out of fear that he won’t squeeze back. His chest is so still. I remember when it used to move with his laughter.

Time reanimates and suddenly I hear pandemonium and raised voices and loud sobs. The stench of death is everywhere. I glance outside of the large window installed beside the now-cold hospital bed. The colour of grief cloaks the sun, no light prevailing to brighten the grey skies. It feels as though the gloom will remain forever.

The second stage

Artwork: Thinking About Death, 1943

Dear Mrs. Kahlo-Rivera,

I don’t know if that is the right title for you. Is a dead woman still married? I think that by your art, you mean that death is another life. But how about those who are still living? How are we supposed to continue on as if nothing has changed?

The skull and bone replacing smooth skin is the only sign of death visiting her mind. She sits in the middle of the painting yet again. Lush, lively green leaves behind her filling every inch of the portrait. Death has no dominion. She is reborn. I argue with her in my mind, “Death isn’t a new life, it’s the opposite! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes stay frozen.

Jakarta, Indonesia

For the first time in my life, my grandmother appears confused. As the confusion lifts, she sees that her husband is deceased, never to come back. She holds her curly-haired head in her hands and sobs. She cries enough tears to create a stream that goes on for years and years and years.

“What will I do?” She asks repeatedly, “My husband is gone. What will I do?”

At least now she has acknowledged that her husband is deceased, never to come back. It is slow but sure progress and better than her denial. Denial that the space beside her in bed is not occupied anymore, denial that his face will not be the first thing she sees each morning.

My cousin has moved into the room beside our grandmother’s to keep her company at night and in the morning and anytime she needs someone. Our family meets more times a week, and we travel all over the world together. Our grandfather, even in his death, has pulled us together.

His passing was the start of a new life, not for him as I had initially thought, but for my family, who he had left behind. The artist was right after all.

As morning dawns, the healing sun peeks through the lilac staining the sky and clouds. The world glows with an orange tinge. I hope the sun will come out from behind the clouds soon. Hope. I feel it again.

The third stage

Artwork: The Frame, 1938

Dear Ms. Kahlo,

I saw your work in real life for the first time today. Yours was the most vibrant painting in the whole museum. It was an unusual one, the frame filled with colourful birds and flowers. It’s almost… joyful.

You know, I’m happy too.

Her rosy cheeks are most visible here. It’s a piece of mixed media: glass and canvas. She never looks happy, but in this portrait her lips are not quite pouting and her eyes are brimming with love. A multitude of colours bloom with the flowers. She paints with passion. I feel it, the lively colours and love and passion. Finally.

Wherever I go

Even now, so many years later, the ache hasn’t disappeared. I still think about that moment, where everything was still and silent and so was my grandfather. But more often than not, I reminisce about the happiness he had given me. The stories he shared, the jokes about air conditioners, English phrases he didn’t know. My memories of him have found new life as I have.

There is no vaccination or medication that will make you immune to the hopelessness that is heartbreak. No cure exists that will instantly dissolve your hurt into nothing. There is only one way to find contentment again after such anguish, and that is to walk through it until the end, no cheating. It’s the natural order of things. People live and die and love and lose. Deal with it. Come out a stronger person, one who has not let the tragedy of loss destroy them entirely. He taught me that.

The fourth stage

Dear Frida,

Today I took a walk outside with my cousin. The skies were a shade of blue I thought only existed in crayons, and the sun was so bright I could feel it burning my face. It looked like the kind of day someone would paint, the kind filled with hummingbirds in flight, and beautiful flowers and greenery framing the sidewalks. If this scene ever was painted, I bet the artist would use every colour paint in the box.

Anyway, I want to express my gratitude for this… therapy. I think I’m starting to understand it now. Death. It was you who explained it to me, and for that, thank you.

P.S. Tell my grandpa I say hi!