About 25 minutes north of the Florida border, near the mouth of a U.S. Army post and not much else, sits a simple brick home with wood paneling, open windows and a silver pickup truck out front.
Isolated and unassuming from the outside, the place is filled with the paraphernalia of a creative life that is carefully constructed and expertly art-directed: stacks of VHS tapes (“Gummo,” “Carrie,” “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas”), old TVs to play them on, creepy dolls with drawn-on face tattoos, dusty books about religion and sexuality, yellowing vintage photographs, animal bones, human teeth and thrift store clothes scattered everywhere. Only the closet full of flowing Victorian nightgowns and Gunne Sax-style dresses in white and cream seems organized.
In the bathroom, an eyelash curler rests atop a Stephen King novel. The posters on the bedroom walls are for Slayer, “Born in the U.S.A.” and Dale Earnhardt Jr. The Wi-Fi password is godlovesyou.
Two young sisters live inside. One works at the gas station down the road. The other, who performs as Ethel Cain, might soon be a pop star — or at least the modern version of one increasingly common these days that might more accurately be called a cult star…. read more >
