The stage is set for this polyester cloaking, wrinkled and plucking at the corners trying to grab onto itself on each side. Our purple friend peeks beyond the black drapes into an ellipse for a larger recital of choreographed movements. Jutting in front of this oval’s edge is a magazine. It’s falling apart and coated by gritty fragments of crystallization, tied together by strings of pearls you’e probably seen on your grandmother’s artificial Christmas tree. Beyond the particles of these science fair experimentation borax-chemical crystals, there’s traces of the original print’s image and text: a teenager’s wet dream-read-all-about-it-obsessive periodical of pop-musician Harry Styles. Something poignant of age and womanhood, teetering between a young contemporary garishness and melancholy stylings poses for our standing ovation before

Final Curtain.