Artwork by Shuang Li
In 2015 I received an email from you, a journalist asking if I would be interested in talking to you in relation to an article about my practice that you were thinking about writing for the New York Times. That’s how I met you, Kim Wall, a freelance journalist writing “about hackers, hustlers, Vodou, vampires, Chinatowns, atomic bombs, feminism, etc” according to your Twitter bio. You went on to become a dear friend. At the time we had a pleasant talk, but the article was never published. I had no clue what happened to it, neither did I read a draft— in any case, the idea of reading, seeing or hearing myself in any mediated way always tenses me up.
