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In the basement bar of a theater in SoHo, Manhattan, on the third Saturday this September, sits an audience of Or just about that many. In the dim purple glow of kitschy wall sconces and dying track lights, they sip vodka tonics and beer. 

On stage, there is a woman.

The stage is small but slightly elevated, so the woman is just about a foot from the first row of tables. She sits on a stool with a guitar in her lap.

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She is barefooted and slight beneath the long navy folds of her dress. 

She is tuning and taking her time doing so. The audience waits, quiet and patient, lulled to murmurs by her presence alone. The woman looks down at her guitar and laughs softly to herself.

It’s a distant act, as if suspended between two worlds.

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She is conscious of the audience before her and yet her smile hints of something else, like she knows something the audience does not. Something private. A universe that transcends the room around her, one