Plath and Hughes are one example.
Kahlo and Rivera another.
ironically, for both, the woman's memory, her symbolism, somewhat overshadows the man's. (aside: we have been made to believe there are two genders in humans; we are wrong; there are at least three and maybe a spectrum).
ironically also, Plath and Kahlo are somewhat opposites of each other. Plath alive in body but tragically seeking and feeling death in her mind; Kahlo so tragically half-dead and propped up in body but so ambitious and craving to fly in her dreams.
tragic. both symbols of feminism.
Kahlo's story made me want to cry. her stoicism, her detailed efforts at hiding her disabilities alongwith her frankness about her nude body, her exasperated fretting and hopeless despair on her inability to procreate. Frida and Rivera's story hits you with a harsh reminder of the smallness of us all, our vulnerabilities, our being at the mercy of nature and of our mistakes (which is nature again), of our wholesome imperfections, of erring and forgiving, of the hopelessness of fidelity, of the desire and the passion to live and to create, and of course of the beauty of curiosity and acceptance and of a continuous chiseling away at ourselves; because we each leave at least one sculpture in this world - that of ourselves and the symbols we will be used for, if ever remembered.
notes: Kahlo painted from a wheelchair, and sometimes lying down on bed with an easel that propped up above her.
Rivera had an affair with her sister, friend, and mentor.
They divorced for a year, only to remarry again.
My mood right now also influenced by the raw grief in this:
http://www.npr.org/2017/03/16/520013269/first-listen-mount-eerie-a-crow-looked-at-me
