She hadn’t made the scene in decades, and that night her attire was subdued—she wore a simple black shirtdress, with a yellow paisley turban hugging her scalp instead of one of the old, wild wigs. Still, I knew instantly who she was. I know her the same ways that you do, as Nev Charles’s onetime partner-in-strange: the ebony-skinned provocateur, the fashion rebel, the singer/screecher/Afro-Punk ancestor, the unapologetically Black feminist resurrected via GIFs and Instagram quotes for these intense political times. Of course, through my lens, so many other identities were superimposed: Here
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