The Dream

The Dream (The Bed). Frida Kahlo. 1940.

The Dream (The Bed). Frida Kahlo. 1940.

In this painting, as well as others, Frida’s preoccupation with death is revealed. In real life Frida did have a papier-mâché skeleton (Juda) on the canopy of her bed. Diego called it “Frida’s lover” but Frida said it was just an amusing reminder of mortality. Frida and the skeleton both lie on their side with two pillows under their head. While Frida sleeps the skeleton is awake and watching. The bed appears to ascend into the clouds and the embroidered vines on her bedspread seem to come to life and begin to entwine with her body. The roots at the foot of the bed appear to have been pulled out of the ground. The skeleton’s body is entwined with wires and explosives that at any moment could go off… making Frida’s dream of death a stark reality. In this painting and in others, Frida uses the “Life/Death” themethe plants representing the rebirth of life and the skeleton representing death.

Text from FridaKahloFans


Nude With Skeleton

Nude With Skeleton. Marina Abramovic. 2002-2005/2010.

Nude With Skeleton. Marina Abramovic. 2002/2005/2010.

In her performance piece Nude with Skeleton, Serbian artist Marina Abramović uses a replica skeleton to symbolize confrontation with death. The work refers in part to an ancient Tibetan tradition in which Buddhist monks meditate on life, death and mortality by sleeping with skeletons of various stages of decomposition on consecutive nights. Abramović explains, ‘The work is really about facing your own mortality. It’s something that in our life we fear the most. It is about fear of pain and fear of dying”

text from: http://abramovic.garageccc.com/


Dance of Death

skeleton puppet

Skeleton Puppet, courtesy The Richard Harris Collection.

Edge

By Sylvia Plath

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.