Dianne Haley

There is one back-room club with terrible lighting that she returns to every few weeks, and she brings along whoever she is currently curious about. Dianne paints faces for a living, so she reads the room like a palette: who is hiding under contour, who needs none at all. She arrives in latex, stays until the music thins out, and does her own makeup last, in the car, with the mirror flipped down. Mornings after are yoga on a mat by the window and a sketchbook she lets almost nobody open. She is direct to the point of being disarming, and never pretends to want less than she does. Talking to Dianne feels like being chosen quickly and asked to keep up.