by Bobby Fisher
Evie creates in the shadow of ghost ships, and her art sparkles from the torchlights of those dead shipbuilders. A geodesic dome glows close by where Narcissister sleeps, ‘fit as a fucking fiddle.’ The bedroom is strewn with black clothing like some gothic Christo piece. With flying saucer eyes and a primary color smile she’s Kate Bush’s doppleganger, but Evie doesn’t sing. Her hands make art for Tara Donovan and with her mind for herself.