Once in a quartermoon, Art Moura comes steaming down the western seaboard in his monstrous art car, packing all sorts of material transmissions from his empty commune in Northern California. By firelight, often chewing on a singed lizard, Art invents artifacts from a religion in his mind.
A tapestry to the fallen earth mother, her cubs by her side. Voodoo effigies of California bros gone to seed (and then beheaded for good measure). Primitive idolatry of young girls long since reformed and moved back to San Jose. Apocalyptic totems to those that had dared to defy the dear cult leader.
On a side note, I had just read The Girls when I went to see the show.