This is the place where the artist will tell you who she is. Or who she was. Or who someone, somewhere, thinks she ought to be. She’ll use the third person because the first is too close to the bone. (And should the reader have any indication that the artist had written in this personal space on her own and about herself, it would result in the artist’s certain and immediate demoralization). She’ll tell you about her life in the way people do when they’ve already made up their minds about what matters: where she’s been, what she’s done, how it all stacks up.

The language will be deliberate; self consciously bombastic. You’ll hear words and phrases like “deeply connected” and “clever originality” not because they mean anything concrete, but because they suggest a kind of myth making that reads well in brief. The irony is that these descriptions negate themselves so entirely that they begin to collapse into a kind of truth. She is singular and familiar. Relatable but opaque. A paradox you’re meant to believe makes perfect sense.

And you will believe it. Because we want our narratives neat, even when they’re contradictory. Especially when they are.

“She contains multitudes”, she’ll conclude of herself. And you’ll nod in acceptance of this bold deficient explanation of Vada Keening.