Frida Kahlo in Paris

André Breton lured Frida to be in a Surrealist show, but she found herself misled, miserable and mad as hell — until Mary Reynolds stepped in.

An exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago covers Frida’s turbulent time in Paris in 1939.

Paris was supposed to be her big moment. But when Frida Kahlo landed in the so-called City of Light in 1939, all she found was a hospital bed, missing paintings, and a bunch of filthy Surrealists who couldn’t get their act together.

Thanks to an interesting  lecture by Alivé Piliado Santana, curatorial associate at the National Museum of Mexican Art (where we check out the Day of the Dead ofrendas every year) and Tamar Kharatishvili, research fellow in modern art at the Art Institute of Chicago, I’ve come away with a far deeper — and far juicier — understanding of this chapter of Frida’s life I didn’t previously know about.

“They are so damn ‘intellectual’ and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore .... I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those ‘artistic’ bitches of Paris.”

— Frida Kahlo, writing about the Surrealists in a letter to her lover, Nikolas Muray

Wild child Frida in 1938

Here’s what I learned about the messy, maddening and frankly fascinating story of Frida’s Parisian misadventure, the forgotten women of Surrealism, and how a kindred spirit named Mary Reynolds helped turn Frida’s time in Paris into something meaningful. 

André Breton, leader of the Surrealists and organizer of the 1939 Mexique exhibition — though “organizer” might be generous, considering Frida arrived to find no gallery, no show, and her paintings stuck in customs.

Frida’s Disastrous Arrival in Paris

It all began with an invitation that felt like a breakthrough. André Breton — the self-appointed “pope of Surrealism” — had reached across the Atlantic with a tantalizing offer. Frida Kahlo’s paintings, he declared, belonged on the world stage. He wanted her to come to Paris for a major exhibition he was organizing called Mexique.

Frida was excited for a chance to showcase her work in the artistic capital of the world, among the greats. It felt like a turning point — a chance to step out from her hubby Diego Rivera’s shadow and claim her place in the international art scene.

But somewhere along the way, wires got crossed. Frida thought Mexique would be a solo show. 

It wasn’t.

Self-Portrait With Monkey, painted by Frida Kahlo, posing with one of her pets, in 1938 right before she left for Paris.

Frida prepared for the journey with cautious excitement. Before she left, photographer Nikolas Muray, with whom she was having a passionate affair, captured her in a series of now-iconic portraits: defiant, radiant and ready for her European closeup. 

She could never have predicted how quickly things would unravel.

The troubles began before she even set foot in Paris. Her paintings, packed carefully for the voyage, were held up in customs. Instead of gliding smoothly into galleries, they sat in bureaucratic limbo, tangled in red tape. But there was still hope. Surely, Breton — the grand architect of the Surrealist movement — would have everything else ready.

He didn’t.

Frida arrived in Paris only to find chaos. There wasn’t even a gallery chosen for her show. No opening date on the calendar. No buzz of anticipation. Breton had made grand promises — but had done nothing to deliver on them.

A portrait of Frida taken by Nikolas Muray before she left for Paris

A Hospital Stay

On top of the professional humiliation, Frida’s health collapsed. She hadn’t arrived in perfect shape to begin with — just before leaving Mexico, she had undergone spinal surgery to try to ease the constant pain from an earlier accident. The long journey, the cold Paris winter, the stress of a botched exhibition, and the miserable conditions she found herself in were a brutal combination.

Part of her fury stemmed from Breton’s own visit to Mexico, where she and Diego had opened their home (now the Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo House-Studio Museum) to him and his wife — only to find that in Paris, Breton offered no such hospitality in return.

Almost as soon as she arrived, Frida developed a raging kidney infection, with a spiking fever that landed her in the hospital. She was exhausted, furious and rapidly losing faith in the promises that had brought her to Paris in the first place. 

She pinned her illness squarely on the Surrealists’ squalor, convinced that their slovenly habits had done her in.

When she was discharged, still weak and recovering, she faced the grim reality of her accommodations: a dingy hotel, damp and depressing, in a city that felt far from the glamorous art capital she had imagined.

The final page of one of Frida’s letters to Muray. She didn’t exactly fall for Paris: “to hell with everything concerning Breton and all this lousy place,” she wrote, sick of the Surrealists and ready to go home.

She didn’t hold back. In a letter to Muray, she unloaded: “They are so damn ‘intellectual’ and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore .... I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those ‘artistic’ bitches of Paris.” She thought the Surrealists were puffed up with self-importance yet utterly useless when it came to helping her. Only Marcel Duchamp, she noted acidly, “has his feet on the earth.” The rest, in her eyes, were pompous windbags throwing parties while her paintings languished in customs and her health deteriorated. And at the center of this mess, of course, was Breton himself, whose grand promises had led her straight into disaster.

What was meant to be her grand European debut had turned into a perfect storm of illness, neglect and bitter disappointment. She was stranded in Paris, her art trapped in customs, her patience wearing thin — and the Surrealists, led by Breton, had left her to flounder.

A photo booth pic of Mary Reynolds

Enter Mary Reynolds: An Unexpected Friendship

Just when Frida might have written off Paris entirely, in stepped Mary Reynolds — artist, bookmaker and all-around lifeline.

Unlike the aloof Surrealist men swanning around Paris, Reynolds opened her doors and, more importantly, her heart. Frida, still recovering from illness and spiraling frustration, moved out of her bleak hotel and into Reynolds’ home at 14 rue Hallé.

It wasn’t just a change of address — it was a change of atmosphere. Where Breton had offered chaos, Reynolds offered comfort. Her house in the southern part of Paris was a hub of creativity, conversation and, during the darkening shadow of World War II, quiet resistance.

Mary Reynolds with her partner, Marcel Duchamp

Mary Reynolds: The Unsung Hero of Surrealism

Reynolds deserves far more credit than she usually gets. A fiercely independent artist herself, Reynolds was a master of bookbinding — her works were collected by her partner, Marcel Duchamp (the guy who turned a urinal into modern art’s most notorious statement and further shocked audiences with Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2), along with other avant-garde heavyweights of the time.

Reynolds took bookbinding to a whole new, surreal level: She used objects on the covers like kid gloves for Free Hands (Les Mains Libres), a thermometer in A Harsh Winter (Un Rude Hiver), and a teacup handle in Saint Glinglin — a nod to a scene where a character smashes plates with a golf club.

Reynolds was a genius when it came to bookbinding. Here’s the striking cover of Les mains libres (Free Hands) by Paul Éluard, with glove-like cutouts.

Her house was a living, breathing collage of Surrealist art and ideas. Duchamp, Alexander Calder and countless others had left their fingerprints — and actual works — all over her walls. 

For Frida, Reynolds’ home was proof some Surrealists weren’t all talk and no action. Here was a woman making her own art, supporting her peers, and backing it all up with real-world bravery.

A delightful drawing of Mary Reynolds and her cats by Alexander Calder, the American modern sculptor best known for his mobiles

Kahlo and Reynolds: Finding Solidarity

The connection between Frida and Reynolds was electric. Both women were navigating the male-dominated art world on their own terms, refusing to be footnotes in movements led by men.

Their bond also feels emblematic of something bigger: a reminder that amid all the philosophical posturing of Surrealism, real solidarity happened where women supported each other, shared ideas, and, frankly, kept the whole thing afloat.

In Frida’s letters, you can almost feel the tone shift once she moves into Reynolds’ home. It’s not quite relief — her Parisian experience remained fraught — but there’s a spark of light. Reynolds gave Frida what Breton could not: genuine human connection in a city that had otherwise let her down. She stayed at Reynolds from February 22 to March 25, 1939.

The Wounded Deer from 1946, painted after yet another failed surgery, this haunting self-portrait shows Frida as a deer riddled with arrows, calm-eyed in the face of relentless pain.

Frida and Surrealism: A Love-Hate Relationship

Here’s the irony: While the Surrealists were practically falling over themselves to claim Frida Kahlo as one of their own, Frida herself wanted nothing to do with the label.

Breton had famously declared her work “a ribbon around a bomb” — which, to be fair, is a great line. But Frida saw things differently. She didn’t consider herself a Surrealist at all. “I never painted dreams,” she once said. “I painted my own reality.”

Frida’s work, raw and visceral, didn’t need the Surrealist manifesto to explain it. Where the Surrealists dabbled in subconscious symbolism and found objects, Frida’s paintings were autobiographical to their core — her pain, her identity, her relationships all laid bare.

Self-Portrait With Cropped Hair from 1940. Freshly divorced, Frida depicts herself as wearing one of Diego’s suits, scissors in hand, her hair in clumps on the floor.

The Surrealists saw her as exotic, a muse from afar who fit their aesthetic fantasies. But Frida wasn’t interested in playing that role. She wasn’t a curiosity or a symbol — she was an artist, plain and simple. Her use of indigenous Mexican motifs, her explorations of physical and emotional suffering — these weren’t Surrealist exercises; they were her lived truth.

Still, despite her reluctance, Frida’s art undeniably aligned with many Surrealist themes. Dreams and reality intertwining, the use of found materials, the exploration of identity — it was all there, just coming from a much grittier, more personal place. 

And she did, after all, agree to be a part of a Surrealist show in Paris. Which, by the way, finally came together. It ran at the Galerie Renou et Colle from March 10 to 25, 1939. Frida’s take on her fellow Mexican artists that Breton chose to showcase with her work? In one of her letters to Muray, she described them as “all of this junk.”

Photographer Nikolas Muray and Frida Kahlo had a passionate affair, and he was her confidante during her bad experience in Paris.

Nikolas Muray: The Confidant Behind the Letters

Long before Paris turned into a disaster, Frida had another anchor: Nikolas Muray. Photographer, Olympic fencer (yes, really) and one of her many lovers, Muray was one of the few people Frida trusted enough to confide in during her Paris ordeal.

Her letters to him are the sharpest, funniest and most brutally honest accounts we have of her time in France. She wrote to Muray not just to update him, but to release steam — to unload her frustrations about the Surrealists, the filth of the city, her failing health, and her utter disappointment in Breton’s empty promises.

The Tree of Hope, Remain Strong, painted in 1946 after spinal surgery. This double self-portrait splits her in two: One body lies wounded on a hospital gurney, while the other sits upright, dressed and defiant, clutching a back brace.

What Happened After: A Brief, Blazing Connection

For all the depth and warmth of their connection in Paris, Frida and Reynolds’ friendship seems to have been brief. After that whirlwind winter of 1939, there’s no evidence they kept up correspondence. Aside from one endearing letter where Reynolds talks about how empty the house felt without Frida, there aren’t any further exchanges that we know of.

Life pulled the two women in different directions. Frida returned to Mexico, her health still fragile but her art beginning to gain traction. 

Reynolds, meanwhile, risked her life in the French Resistance. Her Paris home, once a haven for artists and thinkers, became a literal refuge for those fleeing Nazi persecution. She didn’t leave Paris until 1942, escaping across the Pyrenées on foot and finding a flight to New York. But she never stopped fighting for what mattered.

Their paths never formally crossed again, at least not that we can prove. But their legacies continued to intertwine, quietly and profoundly, through the art they made and the communities they helped build. 

The Frame, an oil painting on tin with a vibrant folk art border, from 1938. Frida’s Paris show wasn’t a total disaster — the Louvre bought this piece for their colletion.

A Happy Ending to Frida’s Time in Paris

In spite of it all, Frida’s Paris disaster managed to end on a high note. Against the odds, her work finally made it onto the walls of a gallery — and not just any gallery. By the end of the show, the Louvre itself (yes, the Louvre) purchased one of her paintings, The Frame, making Frida the first 20th century Mexican artist in the museum’s holdings. Today (when not loaned out to travel), this emblematic self-portrait is part of the Musée National d’Art Moderne’s collection at the Centre Pompidou in Paris. 

DID YOU KNOW? The Pompidou has a branch in Málaga, Spain?

Even more surprising, amid the wreckage of her Surrealist experience, Frida forged real friendships with a few kindred spirits. Man Ray, Duchamp and some others proved to be exceptions to the pompous crowd she had loathed. Some Surrealists were pas mal, after all. –Wally

Licking Legends: The UK’s Myths and Legends Stamps

The stories behind the UK’s magical new stamps are sure to enchant you: the Loch Ness Monster, Beowulf and Grendel, Cornish piskies, selkies and more.

Eight stamps. Eight legends. A whole world of magic compressed into miniature artwork — and honestly? I’ve never wanted to send more mail in my life.

Each one of these beautifully illustrated postage stamps from the Royal Mail is a tiny portal into the legends that have haunted the British Isles for centuries. They’re wild and eerie. I was hooked.

This 2025 Myths and Legends series was brought to life by British illustrator Adam Simpson, whose crisp, almost woodcut-like style feels like it could adorn a high-end gallery wall — or illustrate a children’s book. 

It’s perfect for a set of stamps that spans the heroic, the heartbreaking and the downright horrid. The collection draws from English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish folklore, and features not just the obvious icons (yes, Nessie makes an appearance) but some deeper, darker cuts too. Why hello, Grindylow.

Each stamp is a love letter to the past, a celebration of story, and a reminder that folklore isn’t dead — it’s just waiting for the right delivery system. Consider this your guided tour through the tales behind the stamps, complete with monsters, magic, betrayal … and brine.

Beowulf and Grendel

Hero vs. horror in the original monster story

Long before superheroes wore capes, they wore chainmail and boasted a mead hall’s worth of swagger. Beowulf is the OG epic hero — the kind of guy who crosses the sea just to fight your monsters for you. His most famous foe? A grotesque creature named Grendel, who spent his nights tearing warriors limb from limb at the hall of Heorot. The king, Hrothgar, was helpless. Enter Beowulf.

This story comes from the Old English poem Beowulf, thought to have been composed between the 8th and 11th centuries, set in Scandinavia but recorded in a single surviving manuscript from Anglo-Saxon England (now safely stored at the British Library). It’s the oldest known epic in English literature — and it doesn’t pull punches. Beowulf doesn’t just defeat Grendel; he rips his arm clean off and hangs it like a trophy. Brutal. Poetic. Metal.

Grendel himself is one of literature’s great monsters — described as a descendant of Cain, that fratricidal son of Adam and Eve, shunned by God, and tormented by the joy he hears in Hrothgar’s hall. He’s more than beast; he’s a symbol of alienation and rage, a product of exile and pain. Some later interpretations even paint him as a tragic figure. Not that Beowulf cared.

Simpson’s stamp captures the legendary fight with clean lines and mythic energy: Beowulf wrestles the monstrous figure of Grendel in a composition that feels part medieval tapestry, part comic book panel. It’s dynamic, dramatic — and faithful to the grit of the tale.

This is the legend that launched a thousand English Lit classes, inspired everything from The Lord of the Rings to The Witcher, and proved that even a millennium ago, people loved a good monster fight.

Blodeuwedd

The flower bride who became an owl

Once upon a time in the mythic heart of Wales, a woman was conjured — not born, but created. The magicians Math and Gwydion, meddling in mortal matters (as wizards are wont to do), wove her from the blossoms of oak, broom and meadowsweet. Her name was Blodeuwedd, meaning Flower Face, and she was made for one purpose: to be the wife of a man cursed never to marry a woman of earthly origin.

You can probably guess how well that turned out.

This tale comes from the Mabinogion, a collection of Welsh medieval stories first written down in the 12th and 13th centuries but based on oral traditions that are far older. It’s one of the most bewitching episodes in the Fourth Branch, a saga steeped in magic, betrayal and transformation.

Though crafted to be the perfect bride, Blodeuwedd had her own ideas. She fell in love with another man, Gronw Pebr, and together they plotted to kill her husband, Lleu Llaw Gyffes. The murder attempt failed, and the consequences were swift and strange (this is myth, after all): Gronw was killed with a spear through a standing stone, and Blodeuwedd was transformed into an owl — a creature of the night, cursed to never show her face in daylight again.

Her story is tragic and richly symbolic. Depending on your lens, Blodeuwedd is either a femme fatale born of male hubris or a wild spirit trapped by expectation who seized a sliver of freedom. Either way, she’s unforgettable.

Simpson’s stamp channels the tale’s eerie beauty with a stylized woman caught mid-transformation — petals swirling into feathers as she takes her owl form. It’s the kind of image that lingers, much like the legend itself.

The Loch Ness Monster (Nessie)

The queen of cryptids surfaces again

You can’t talk about UK folklore without invoking Nessie, the shadowy shape that launched a thousand blurry photos and conspiracy theories. She’s the most famous resident of Loch Ness, a deep, cold freshwater lake tucked into the Scottish Highlands — and she’s been allegedly living there since at least the 6th century.

The earliest written mention comes from The Life of St. Columba, penned in the 7th century by Adomnán. According to the account, the saint encountered a “water beast” in the River Ness and performed a miracle to save a man from its jaws. And just like that, Nessie swam her way into the margins of history.

But her modern fame really took off in the 1930s, after a couple driving near the loch claimed to see a massive creature cross the road and slip into the water. Headlines dubbed it a “monster,” and the tabloids never looked back. Since then, Nessie’s been spotted, debunked, photographed, hoaxed and even hunted with sonar. (Spoiler: She remains elusive.)

While scientists say the sightings are likely otters, logs or wishful thinking, the legend endures. Nessie is more than just a maybe-dinosaur. She’s a symbol of mystery, of nature keeping secrets, of something just out of reach. And let’s face it: Everyone wants her to be real.

In Simpson’s stamp, Nessie arches out of stylized waters, distant and dreamlike, framed by curling waves and Highland mist. There’s no need to explain her. She just is.

She’s proof that sometimes, the most powerful legends are the ones we can’t quite catch.

Cornish Piskies

Mischief, mayhem and magic in miniature

If you ever find yourself turned around on a familiar path in the southwest of England, don’t blame your GPS — blame the piskies. These pint-sized pranksters from Cornish folklore are legendary for leading travelers astray, stealing shiny things, and generally causing low-level chaos with high-level charm.

Piskies (sometimes spelled pixies) have been part of Cornish oral tradition for centuries, possibly even tied to pre-Christian beliefs in nature spirits or ancestral ghosts. They’re native to the moors, tors and coastal cliffs of Cornwall, often dressed in ragged green and red, with pointy ears and a love of laughter at your expense.

But unlike fairies who might hex you or goblins who’ll rob you blind, piskies are mostly harmless. Annoying? Yes. Dangerous? Rarely. They’ve been known to braid horses’ manes, move your keys, and lure people into marshes with giggles and flickering lights. The only remedy if you’ve been “piskie-led”? Turn your coat inside out. That supposedly confuses them (and maybe earns you their grudging respect).

In Victorian times, Cornish tourism latched onto piskies as whimsical local mascots — think of them as the original chaotic neutral brand ambassadors. But in older tellings, they’re wild, weird, and deeply tied to the landscape.

Simpson’s stamp captures that dual nature perfectly. The piskies glide through a moonlit glade, wide-eyed and impish, carrying the evidence of their mischief-making: a lost key, a frayed rope. There’s joy here, but also a touch of the uncanny.

In a world that often takes itself far too seriously, the piskies remind us that a little chaos can be good for the soul.

Fionn mac Cumhaill

The Irish giant whose legend spans countries

Fionn mac Cumhaill (pronounced roughly like  “Finn mac Cool”) is Ireland’s answer to Hercules, with a bit of that trickster Hermes thrown in. A warrior, leader, poet and occasional giant, depending on who’s telling it, Fionn is the towering figure at the heart of the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology, a body of tales passed down orally for centuries before being written in Middle Irish texts around the 12th century.

He’s best known as the leader of the Fianna, a band of noble warrior-hunters who roamed Ireland getting into gloriously poetic trouble. But the story that often gets the spotlight — especially on tourist brochures — is the one where Fionn creates the Giant’s Causeway, that eerie, hexagonal rock formation on the northern coast of Ireland. According to legend, Fionn built it as a bridge to Scotland so he could fight a rival giant, Benandonner.

The punchline? When he saw how massive Benandonner really was, Fionn panicked. His wife, Oonagh, disguised him as a baby in a cradle. When Benandonner saw the size of the baby, he assumed the father must be terrifying and fled back to Scotland, tearing up the bridge behind him. One of those mythic traditions where wit — and a good partner — wins the day.

Fionn also gained prophetic wisdom by burning his thumb on the Salmon of Knowledge, which, yes, is exactly what it sounds like. (It has a role in the tradition of Mabon, the Wiccan holiday celebrating the Autumnal Equinox.) From that day on, sucking his thumb gave Fionn bursts of insight — a sort of mythic precursor to Google, if Google required seafood and pain.

Simpson’s stamp goes bold: Fionn stands enormous against the rising Causeway, cloak billowing, face stoic. The stones stretch beneath him in their perfect geometric strangeness, while his gigantic foe stands silhouetted across the way.

Fionn mac Cumhaill is the kind of figure who straddles legend and landscape — literally — and he still looms large today.

Black Shuck

The devil dog that stalks the coast

If you ever find yourself walking alone through the misty lanes of East Anglia — especially near a windswept churchyard — and feel the prickle of something behind you … it might be Black Shuck. Described as a massive, ghostly black dog with glowing red (or sometimes green) eyes, Shuck is one of the U.K.’s most enduring pieces of spectral folklore. He’s part omen, part legend, and all menace.

The name “Shuck” is believed to come from the Old English scucca, meaning “demon” or “fiend.” Reports of this supernatural hound go back centuries, but his most infamous appearance took place on August 4, 1577, during a thunderstorm that ripped through the churches of Bungay and Blythburgh in Suffolk. According to terrified witnesses, the beast burst into the churches during the storm, killing or injuring several people before vanishing in a flash of fire. To this day, scorch marks on the church doors in Blythburgh are said to be Shuck’s claw marks.

But like many creatures of folklore, Shuck’s meaning has shifted over time. In some tales, he’s a harbinger of death, like the Grim Reaper with paws. In others, he’s a protective spirit, quietly walking beside lone travelers to keep them safe. 

Simpson’s stamp leans into the fearsome version: a shaggy, howling beast with glowing eyes, set against a backdrop of a castle in a thunderstorm. It’s the kind of image that makes you instinctively glance over your shoulder. 

Whether he’s a ghost, a guardian or something in between, Black Shuck reminds us that the line between safety and terror can be as thin as a shadow in the mist.

Grindylow

The creature in the water who waits for misbehaving children

The Grindylow isn’t interested in riddles or redemption. This creature — slimy, long-fingered and lurking just beneath the surface — is the reason your grandmother told you not to go too close to the pond. Native to the folklore of Yorkshire and Lancashire, the Grindylow is a water-dwelling bogeyman whose sole hobby appears to be grabbing children by the ankle and dragging them to a watery doom.

Pleasant, right?

The tale likely began as a cautionary myth, passed through generations in England’s misty north as a way to keep kids away from dangerous pools, marshes and millponds. But the Grindylow isn’t just a PSA in monster form; it’s a creature of genuine nightmare fuel. Often described as having green skin, long, spindly arms and razor teeth, the Grindylow hides in shallow waters, waiting for a ripple, a footstep or a foolish dare.

While it rarely ventures beyond regional lore, the Grindylow got a boost in popular imagination thanks to fantasy literature and modern media — most notably showing up as a minor monster in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, where it menaces underwater champions during the Triwizard Tournament. But the original version? Far less CGI-friendly, and far more chilling.

Simpson’s stamp leans into the fearsome. You see the Grindylow emerging from the water — alarmingly sharp claws and teeth just waiting to tear into its next victim. There’s no question what will happen next if you take one more step closer to the edge.

More obscure than Nessie and more vicious than the piskies, the Grindylow doesn’t want your attention. It wants your ankles.

Selkie

The seal who loved and left

The selkie’s story is one of yearning: for freedom, for the sea and for a life that can never fully belong to land. These shape-shifting beings come from Orkney and Shetland folklore, where the wind howls and the sea sings. Selkies are seals in the water — but when they come ashore, they shed their sleek skins and become beautiful humans, often just long enough to fall in love, or be taken.

And that’s where the heartbreak begins.

The most common version of the tale? A fisherman (or crofter, or lonely islander) spies a selkie woman dancing on the shore in her human form. He steals her seal skin so she can’t return to the sea, and convinces her — sometimes gently, sometimes not — to become his wife. They live together, raise children, and for a time, there’s a strange sort of peace. But the selkie always gazes longingly at the waves. And when she finds her hidden seal skin at last, she returns to the ocean without a backward glance.

Other versions flip the roles — selkie men seduce mortal women, especially those with “the yearning,” and disappear when the tide calls. Regardless of who leaves, the ending is rarely happy. Selkie stories are salt-soaked with longing, freedom and loss. They’re metaphors for desire, captivity and returning to one’s true self — even if it hurts.

These tales date back centuries, passed down orally in Scotland’s far northern islands and coastal fishing communities. And while they’ve inspired everything from poetry to films (The Secret of Roan Inish and Song of the Sea, for instance), the root myth remains as fluid and mysterious as the tide itself.

Simpson’s stamp is pure melancholy magic: a selkie woman caught mid-transformation, cloak of seal skin slipping from her shoulders, hair trailing like seaweed. The horizon behind her is misted, the waves beckoning. You can almost hear them whispering her name.

The selkie doesn’t roar or bite. She simply leaves — and that’s what makes her legend linger.

Stamped, Sealed, Enchanted

The Royal Mail’s Myths and Legends series doesn’t just celebrate folklore; it resurrects it. These aren’t dusty old tales tucked away in textbooks — they’re living, breathing stories full of monsters, mischief, heartbreak and heroism. And thanks to artist Adam Simpson’s stunning illustrations, they feel both timeless and vividly alive.

From the brute strength of Beowulf to the quiet sorrow of the selkie, each stamp invites you to pause and dive deeper. To trace the origins. To hear the whispers of ancient moors, haunted coastlines and flower-strewn spells. They remind us that storytelling is a kind of magic.

So yes, I’ll be collecting these. But more importantly, I’ll be sharing their stories — because folklore, like a good letter, was meant to be passed on. –Wally