Sara Baume met Mollie Douthit’s paintings before she met the woman. At a small group show in a friend’s house, Baume encountered a small canvas portraying a bedroom scene, something off about the proportions; ordinary but simultaneously strange. Baume sought the friendship of its painter, from which emerged monthly swims, sleepovers, and soup. Somewhere along the way, it was agreed that Baume, a novelist, writer and artist by training, would writehellip;

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