Dear Allina,
I think I know your secret, but don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, not even you. We (the all-anons) have an idea about where you come from, and it’s not what everyone else is saying, but what we want to know is where you’re going. Or where you are! The paparazzi parked outside your seaside mansion must be following a scent, but then again, that whole villa must smell like you.
I’ve been to 17 of your performances (and counting—when will you tour again? I refuse to believe you won’t give us, at least, a farewell, and, as is your style, an encore) and at each, have succumbed to a full swoon. You are gorgeous in a way that only someone who gives her all can be, in a word: everything. Your stylist—a genius, yes—does he appreciate this about you? Your clothing is how we can know you, and you can take total credit for what comes through. Whenever you sing “make me look more famous,” I get a thrill, imagining you at a time when you weren’t as known, and then, every time it’s followed by “more like you, I love your shoes,” I feel a tiny stab of pain. I hope—well, it’s none of my business, I’m sorry, I digress.
I’m picturing you pinning my other letters to your dressing room mirrors around the world, forwarded by your assistant as soon as they arrive, but I’m not that delusional, and you’ve probably not seen a single one (or have you?). Still, it comforts me to write to you, a precious person with “skin as thin as plums in the summer” and a talent for “turning potion into poetry, then setting poetry to motion.” What is your favorite drink, by the way? Your songs only mention “cocktails, concoctions, cordials,” but never a particular recipe or grape. Were I to guess, it would be a classic—something sippable and slightly creamy. Or maybe always a glass of red wine at dinner, nothing less or more? And what about dessert? All we know is “taffy,” “hard candy,” “cookies in tins,” and “flavor ice.” But which flavors? What makers? Can I send you something? Wow, I just had a thought. Can you send me something? Anything you’ve touched, anything at all.
I’ve been thinking lately that without you, I can’t go on. Isn’t that something? Someone you never met, never knew existed, might expire due to your absence. Will you hear about it, I wonder? Is that a way to get you to come back? If so, it might have all been worth it.
I understand, by the way, being “inside of a rage, looking out, through the flames,” the way anger is something you can see but not control. You don’t have to feel alone, much less lonely. We, all of us, are still here, still watching your “star signal blinking from the tower,” your “beam from the lighthouse at the darkest hour.” Please, come out, come home, to the stage. We need you. We love you, forever.
I love you, Allina.
Yours truly, A true fan
BENJAMIN BARRON BROR AUGUST VESTBØ Stylist Lotta Volkova at Art Partner Press David Siwicki
