NEVER RARELY SOMETIMES ALWAYS

ne May evening, I dipped into a Twitch stream in search of a fresh current. Within the weird undertow of quarantine, there is a new lustre to these live events, which mark unfixed days with a fixed hour—a dupe for the transient communion gone from cinemas that now lie empty. Some 200 of us “gathered” for a program, co-presented by Screen Slate and Electronic Arts Intermix, of short works from Cecelia Condit, a singular scrambler of feminine tropes and fairy tales since the ’80s. New to me among them was last year’s , an oneiric memoir. From my laptop came Condit’s molasses-slow singsong: “In 1969, we were told that if you could afford it, you flew to London. Otherwise there was a third floor in Mexico and a basement in Brooklyn.” Right away it’s clear she is