What is the sense of life, according to your life.

Not giving up, not dying even if death drags me by the hand, always returning to life at the last moment. Life is life.

What do you have in mind when you get out of bed before sunrise, walk bare feet on the ground of our house, and sing a melancholic child song while painting for hours?

You know Diego, I’ve always wanted a child. But my body doesn’t allow. At night, before the sun rises, I can hear blank canvases cry, so I get up, like a mother would, and sing to them, paint on them for hours. This is how I calm them. My canvas is my little Dieguito.

I saw you several times crying while painting, and using your tears for mixing pigments, then put them on a canvas. Is this a necessity for you to have a physical part of you in your paintings?

Yes. Diego, my love Diego, we will die, this life will end, these bodies will disappear forever. We will return, I know, at least you will. In your next life, when you look for me, you can come to these paintings and have another salted kiss from me. And maybe finally you will have kissed your Frida’s tears, which in this life you’ve let flow to the ground.

Tell me now: your brushes are made with your hair, no? Or mine?

I have mixed your hair and mine with the clipping of the hair of my childhood pet rabbit.

I sometimes have this recurrent dream of you not in color, as everyday, but in a white dress, like a voodoo priestess (mambo). Is painting and writing a magico-religious ritual for you?

Is it not magico-religious? To give life to a canvas, to make alive a piece of blank paper with (ancient) words and symbols. It’s casting a spell, charging an inanimate object with some form of energy so that it suddenly has the power to kill or save. What I do, my love, is more voodoo than voodoo.

What will be your last painting, if you had the choice?

A self-portrait where I am dressed in nothing but sapphires from Bombay.

Your paintings enter the Prado museum. Between which masters do you want the director to place them?

Between the anonymous mural painting of the Hermitage of the Vera Cruz de Maderuelo and Goya.

What is love for you?

Love, for me, is that which is vast enough to hold in itself both ends of a spectrum: sprit and sex, sense and nonsense, rage and peace, god and devil.

In remembrance of a Sufi patient, please give a definition of life with two words.

Frida-Diego.