Director of Education, Kellie Marz Mele

Frida Kahlo made space, for pain, for joy, for contradiction. She didn’t wait for permission to be seen. She turned her reality into something vivid and unflinching. Her work was about truth. That spirit, the rawness, the courage, and the invitation to feel, was the heartbeat of our Frida Kahlo: Picturing an Icon Garden Night on July 11.

This wasn’t just another summer event. From the beginning, it was about creating a space where people could gather, breathe, linger, and maybe even loosen their grip on the heaviness they’d been carrying.

In the weeks leading up to the event, I shared the glossy parts on my personal social media. The sketches. The vision boards. The picnic blankets and cacti and bursts of color I hoped would come together just right. I always try to give people a peek at what I’m building, but I admit, I only ever show a fraction of the work. The fraction that looks beautiful.

The real work? It doesn’t photograph well.

Like any event, what you didn’t see was me, barefoot in the grass (because it is just faster than sinking in my stilettos) hair somehow both falling down and frizzing up, sprinting from one end of the lawn to the other trying to patch things together when a vendor canceled last minute (and thanking my lucky stars we didn’t promote them publicly). The band had to be moved for the second time. I had to make sure the band had some food after their long trip and time it out at the end of a set. You didn’t see the sweat, the stress, the quiet panic of trying to keep it all on track and keep everyone happy without letting the people who came feel that anything was off. You didn’t see the texts to my team begging them to run out for more water in case our visitors needed it because of the heat. You didn’t see the scramble.

And then you showed up. 250 of you.

Picnic baskets, kids, first dates, old friends. You filled the lawn with picnic blankets and energy, the air with rhythm and movement. You danced. You had some wine. You wandered through the Frida galleries. You rested. You connected. You made the space feel full, not just with bodies, but with presence.

And all the barefoot running, the last-minute ideas and changes, the quiet chaos behind the scenes, it was worth it. Every bit of the hustle was worth seeing what we made together.

And no event is ever perfect. But, it was real. 

And that realness is what stuck. The next morning, a friend commented on my post about the event:

“Honestly, it gave me hope for humanity. Things have been so awful lately. Last night was what I needed.”

That message hit me in the chest. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was true.

We don’t often get the chance to feel something real in public. Not without apology. Not without a filter. So many spaces are built to move us along, not to let us land. But this night, this gathering was about making room. For music, for memory, for joy, for whatever people were carrying.

That was always the point: to make space for people to come as they are, and stay awhile.

That’s also why I asked that we include the “Dear Frida” reflection station in the exhibition. I didn’t want to just tell people about Frida, I wanted them to write to her. Or to themselves. Or to someone they lost. Someone who hurt them. Someone they never got to say the thing to.

The prompt was to write the beginning of a letter and to start with either:

“This is what I never said…”    or
“If you had really seen me, you would have known…”

There is no wrong way to do it. Just paper, a pencil, and honesty.

I periodically check in at the reflection board, which hangs at the conclusion of the Frida Kahlo exhibition. The first time I did, I thought I could just skim and move on.

But I couldn’t.

“If you had really seen me, you would have known that I was just a child and didn’t deserve that.”
“This is what I never said: I miss you. And I’m upset that you passed away without saying goodbye.”
“If you had really seen me, you would’ve known that I’ve always tried to see the good in you, despite you proving to me why I shouldn’t.”

I stood in silence and cried. Because that, right there, that’s the work. That’s what this night, the exhibition, and Frida herself created. Not just a lovely event. Not just a summer gathering. But a clearing. A place where people could lay something down they’ve been carrying.

And all of it. All of it, felt like Frida. The color, the dancing, the laughter, the community, the hard edges and emotional weight, the ease of laying on a blanket with loved ones, or the deep ache just below the surface. Her legacy isn’t just in what she painted, it’s in the space she made for truth. That’s what we wanted to reflect. That’s what I think we all felt. And, that’s what we did.

To everyone who came to hear the band, to dance, to see Frida, or to sit in the grass and feel something, thank you. You made this real.

And to Frida: thank you for showing us that grit is beauty.