Kahlo vs Rivera: should a painting bleed or preach?

I paint my own blood, Diego — my spine, my miscarriage, my face in the mirror, because the wound is the truest thing I own.

And I paint walls the size of history, Frida — workers, harvests, revolution — so that a whole people, not one aching heart, can look up and see themselves.

You paint the crowd and lose the person; I never painted dreams, I painted my own reality — and that reality shook the world without a single scaffold.

But a fresco outlives the frame, mi amor — while you turned your pain into a mirror, I turned Mexico's into a monument.