Though the situation seems like a mischievous hall of mirrors, Clark isn’t coy or smirking. As she tells me about the intricacies of her synth-stuffed, kinked-out, and deeply sad new St. Vincent album, Masseduction, she’s direct and thoughtful.
if a bit drowsy. She often lets extended gaps of silence fill the room between words, like a zen master breathing in high mountain air. This is the St. Vincent paradox at work: artful but not artificial, a carefully curated spectacle built to rip apart the carefully curated spectacles that we each take part in every single day.
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