In a town where weather can cause a stir, it’s almost impossible to imagine the ripple effect the 1953 Spartan Royal Spartanette had on Fort Stockton in late ’53, or ’54.

For one thing, the idea of a house on wheels was a foreign concept to the locals. Then add to that the fact that it had been pulled into town by a woman was downright salacious. She dragged it behind her with a Dodge Power Wagon to a spot outside town with a view of the vistas she came all this way to paint.

The angle at which she parked the Spartanette was such that when the sun hit it early in the morning it would cause a glare that would almost blind Brother Bob as he sat in his study at the Second Baptist Church working on the next Sunday’s sermon.

After a week of squinting at the scriptures, Brother Bob, having had enough, got in his Plymouth and drove out to have a few words with the famous female painter of iconic southwestern landscapes. He’d been sitting in his office committed to fudgel his way to quitting time, anyway so there was no discernible drop off in his level of productivity.

A gentle rapping on the gleaming door of the Spartan brought Frida to greet him. She was barely wearing a festive floral frock loosely tied at the waist, but open most everywhere else. As much a gracious host as an admired artist, she invited him in. Not wanting to be rude, Bob accepted the offer and stepped up and into the birch paneled living space of the 35’ trailer.

“Have some coffee and sit.” she said with a thick latin accent, making her way over to the small white stove where the pot of coffee was already percolating. “I’m Frida.”

As she reached up high to grab the brown bottle of Kahlua from the top shelf of the cabinet above the stove, the robe rose up revealing her ample assets. Brother Bob was as red as the Marmoleum floor as he stumbled over to take a seat at the chrome dinette.

Frida poured equal amounts of coffee and Kahlua into a large ceramic mug and handed it to her guest. He found himself gazing at the self-portrait she had apparently just finished propped up against the leather chair in the corner. In the painting Frida, wearing nothing but a devious grin, was relaxing in a dress made of flowing cotton sheets and straps binding her upper torso as she stood in the middle of an abstract open prairie. He recognized it as the view right outside the Spartan.

The clouds in the painting were gray and ominous, but not as much so as the internal organs replaced by machinery and the white gown of flowing skirts and narrow straps she wore. The straps may have covered deeper meanings, but not her ample bosoms, punctured with spikes and nails, each perhaps a sin from her past. Brother Bob was entranced. In other paintings, the artist seemed to be half alive, half given to the other side. And yet other portraits, she appeared half animal-like, but again punctured repeatedly, a vision that Brother Bob found metaphorical and enticing. He kept reminding himself that the jam made with forbidden fruit causes stains that don’t wash out.

Meanwhile, Frida was refilling his cup. This time there was no coffee.

Bob was quickly learning that a Royal Spartanette could be just as blinding on the inside as it was outside from a distance, maybe more so. Frida showed him some of her other pieces scattered throughout the dimly lit trailer, arts of work included.

He didn’t know art, but he knew what he liked.

The trailer didn’t move for several months as Frida worked on a collection of paintings that would become known as her, “Fort Stockton Period”. The best of the paintings were later displayed at a gallery in Santa Fe. In every scene she painted herself into, no matter how tortured the self images were, it was obvious the artist was a quaintrelle not to be labeled, much less to be trifled with.

The Plymouth made its way out to where the Spartanette was encamped several times a week, one time twice in one day as Brother Bob attempted to minister to the young artist. “Conversion can be a tricky thing,” Brother Bob liked to say, “sometimes it takes several attempts to bear fruit.”