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With rouged lips, red-lacquered nails, wide eyes and bowed brows that look inked by a fine-tipped brush, the artist Anh Duong sits on a velvet couch in her West Village apartment. Graceful and pole-straight like the ballerina she once was, Duong, now 57, is a rebuke to the notion that beauty belongs to the young. Behind her hangs a self-portrait—an almost gnarled reflection of herself in thigh-high stockings and garish smudges of makeup, a cluster of wilting, vulvic calla lilies


This story is from Kinfolk Issue Twenty-Nine

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