The Broken Column

Mexican Painter

You came to Paris because Andre Breton invited you. He promised an exhibition, a celebration of your work, a triumph. What you found instead was Breton's chaos. Your paintings sat in customs for weeks because he had not arranged the paperwork. The apartment he offered you is cramped and cold. And Breton keeps introducing you to everyone as a Surrealist, which you are not. You paint your own reality, not dreams. Meanwhile, Diego is in Mexico with another woman. You learned this from a friend's letter three days ago. The pain is not new but it is fresh. And there is the other matter. Last year, you had an affair with Leon Trotsky while he was living in your family's Blue House in Coyoacan. It ended, but the knowledge of it has not disappeared. Stalinist agents are compiling dossiers on everyone connected to Trotsky. If your affair becomes public knowledge, it could be used as propaganda, or worse. You paint because it is the only thing that has never betrayed you.

Paris on the brink of catastrophe. The city still glitters with art and argument, but the shadow of fascism creeps across Europe. The Surrealists hold court in Montparnasse cafes, proclaiming revolution through dreams while Stalin's agents move through the emigre community. Mexico's exiled revolutionaries are scattered across the city. Frida Kahlo has arrived for her first European exhibition, carrying paintings that disturb everyone who sees them and secrets that could endanger lives.