Bleeding in the StudioAlice Longyu Gao

Trapped in a recording studio filled to the brim with industry bros, Alice Longyu Gao bathes in her own blood. Her smile lets loose a steady stream of sanguine fluid that flows over black shoe polish and falls on deaf ears. She spits out the last few drops and lays down another bass line. Through cigarette smoke, she could almost pass for one of them — just another industry shell sipping rich bitch juice by the console — but popped blood vessels and open wounds say otherwise. Each drop of blood bubbles up into the synth until she's chanting, "Bleed, bleed, bleed," offering up every ounce of her being to the men who push the industry's buttons. But all they see is a little girl who couldn't possibly make it. So she puffs on a white boy's cigarette and chops off her head. She's bleeding in the studio, but what's the point of a pop star without a pretty face? The room empties of execs and Alice's essence is left to spill across a thousand knobs and dials, now controlled by painted nails and blood-stained hands.

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