Fee’s handwriting is tucked in the corner: You Don’t Need Bones to Be Dead. The entire room looks haunted. “It’s all native to Aleppo,” Fee explains. “All the flowers and plants. Some men I know have been smuggling them in through Tripoli. Some animals too. It’s for the painting series—for each live woman, a dead creature. We’re so desensitized to images of bodies. Let them look at the carcasses of flowers. Let them feel something, anything, even if it’s because of an insect.” The hairs on Naj’s arms stand up. “You’re a genius,” she says slowly. “A morbid little genius. People are used to
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