Saint Avangeline on Southern Hauntings, Queer Divinity, and the Art of Becoming
Saint Avangeline exists as a spectral figure suspended between worlds, drawing equal breath from pain and transcendence, her voice steeped in the humid mysticism of the South and the eternal ache of rebirth.
A singer, writer, and producer whose work dissolves the boundaries between gothic romanticism, spiritual inquiry, and queer self-reclamation, she builds universes where both devotion and defiance boldly coexist.
Born in Florida and raised amid the lush decay of the American South, Saint Avangeline has made the haunted geography her muse. Her music, steeped in ghostly Southern imagery and emotional catharsis, feels like the sound of an ancient hymn rewritten through queer revelation — a language of survival turned sacred. Songs like “Lilith” and “Carolina Creature” confront trauma, desire, and the reclamation of the divine feminine, transforming personal pain into something almost mythological.
As a queer woman raised within the rigid confines of faith, she writes from the tension between shame and salvation, crafting art that questions what holiness means when you’ve been told that you can never possess it.
Saint Avangeline’s legacy is already forming in the quiet power of her influence: a new generation of devoted listeners finding solace in her darkness and recognizing themselves in her light. Through her music, she is sanctifying the queer experience — not as rebellion, but as resurrection.
KP: To begin with your roots, you grew up queer in the American South. How did that environment, with all its social, religious, and cultural complexities, shape your sense of self and ultimately your voice as an artist?
SA: I think it shaped it greatly. I was born in Tampa, Florida, grew up on beaches and lakes, eventually moved to Georgia, and am now surrounded by mountains. Aesthetically, I draw much from my surroundings, especially the landscapes that I grew up in. I love gothic imagery, and the South is nothing short of it everywhere you go: overgrown cemeteries smothered in ivy, houses over a hundred or so years old with gorgeous Greek pillars, and large trees draped in Spanish moss. Most of the places that I have lived in Georgia have seen war at one point in history. Everything always feels a bit haunted. Though there is much stigma and sadness, rightly so, felt about the South, there is also a pride that we Southerners have for our home, and it's something that I’m beginning to explore more within my work! The South is welcoming and warm and lovely, full of culture and history from all walks of life. There is a whimsy here that I cannot find elsewhere; it is uniquely Southern and ancient — the Appalachians are some of the oldest mountains in the world! I have absolutely drawn from the darker, ghostly elements of the South in my work, just as much as its beauty.
KP: I’ve never been, but I think one of the places that I’d love most in the world is Savannah. Even as a native New Yorker, I’ve always found it incredibly charming.
As someone who also grew up gay and religious — Catholic — I’ve often felt that push-pull of faith — the shame and “sin” of being who I am, countered by the beauty of ritual, kindness, and imagery.
You’ve often referenced your own religious upbringing as a major influence. How do you navigate that same tension in your life and music today? Are there aspects of faith you still carry with you, either symbolically or spiritually?.
SA: I was raised Presbyterian until around age 10, and I remember the faith giving me extreme anxiety and insomnia. It felt like everyone in my life followed God and I was the only person who hadn't seen him yet. I remember staying up late at night, a Bible to my chest and kneeling, staring up at my ceiling, praying for a sign from God for hours, and it never came.
I was fascinated with death and the afterlife as a child and thought about it almost constantly. I believed that I was going to die in my sleep and be taken to hell — I would often have nightmares of descending into it.
I didn't know what being gay was until around the 5th or 6th grade, and by that time, my family was no longer religious, but I think from a very young age I struggled with feeling like there was something different about me. At the time, my religion was a monster under my bed.
It holds no power over me as a weapon of fear anymore, but passages in the Bible continue to move me to this day — most religious text does. I perceive it more so through the lens of how humankind has truly never changed. The stories and fables and symbolism riddled throughout are consistent throughout the ages, even if they present a bit differently each time.
I am not religious, but I am spiritual, and I do believe in agency and energy, mostly the kind that you can culminate within yourself. This is something I'm exploring through a new music project of mine.
KP: Likewise. I think of myself as being deeply spiritual, but not religious. I’m looking very forward to you exploring that — I think that you’d have invaluable insight.
Your mother was born in Japan, and you also have Syrian lineage, which is such a fascinating cultural duality. How has that heritage shaped your worldview and identity, and do you see it surfacing in the textures or storytelling of your music?
SA: It definitely has! My mother is not of Japanese descent, nor does she speak Japanese; however, her first baby books were all written in the language. She kept them, and they were some of the first books that I “read” as a child. I adored them and fell in love with the Japanese language because of how beautiful it looked written out. I eventually ended up taking lessons in Japanese and was able to write in two of the alphabets, but unfortunately I ended up stopping my lessons. Japanese was the first language that I felt comfortable singing in, and for about a decade, it was the only language that I would sing in at all. The biggest influence on my work is the Japanese artist Hitomi Kuroishi and much of the way that I learned to sing is from her style and other similar Japanese artists.
I have only recently begun to explore more of my Syrian/Lebanese side. For a long time I was worried about being accused of cultural appropriation or something adjacent because I don't necessarily look Middle Eastern, and, unfortunately, none of my family can speak Arabic anymore, but after connecting with others of Arab descent, I have discovered just how much love and acceptance and excitement comes from these communities when they discover each other! I've been exploring more of this in my current work as well, tapping into past lives and learning more about my family’s history.
KP: It’s so interesting that you say that, because I just found out yesterday that some of my Italian heritage actually traces back to Egypt! It was centuries and centuries ago, of course, and I am very New York Italian culturally, but it really opened up a whole new portal for me to explore. I definitely think that you should embrace all of who you are.
My first introduction to your work was your cover of “Every Girl Gets Her Wish,” which my girlfriend and I still play all the time.
That reinterpretation — and your earlier covers of “Million Dollar Man” and “Brooklyn Baby” — have all resonated deeply, especially within queer spaces.
You’ve said before that this sound isn’t necessarily the lane you want to stay in, but it undeniably suits you.
What first drew you to Lana Del Rey’s world, and how has it felt to see those covers connect so powerfully with listeners?
SA: Thank you! My best friend was actually the one who introduced me to her back in 2019 when I was 16. My parents were getting a divorce, and it was a very traumatic time for me. The first song of hers that I ever listened to was “Get Free,” and I remember resonating deeply with the lyrics — it felt like they perfectly described what was going on in my life at the time.
I ended up listening to more of her discography and really loved how she wrote about love, desire, and pain in the context of a relationship. I adored how dramatic and intense and theatrical the songs felt, but I never could fully connect to it as a lesbian woman. I just remember wishing that there was someone or something that could fill that gap and take me all the way there emotionally. That’s when I started to make gay covers, just to see how it felt.
When it was just the lesbian community engaging with my covers, it was amazing! Queer women who never felt fully represented could enjoy something that was about them, but I knew I didn't want to just make covers with swapped pronouns. The voices begging for more fueled me to make my own music.
“Time is fleeting and sacred, and it’s something that you never get back. Remember that, in the truest sense, you both own and are in control of your time and your life, whether it feels that way or not.”
KP: To speak more on your original music, “Lilith,” your first original song, was written in the aftermath of an assault. It went on to receive millions upon millions of streams, and I think that it’s incredible that you could alchemize such terrible pain and survival into a positive good.
How have those experiences continued to shape your creative process and perspective? In what ways has your method of transforming pain into expression evolved since then?
SA: These experiences continue to fuel my work, and I try to challenge myself to think and write from different perspectives within the trauma to fully pull out the pain. I find that digging deep and narrating from different angles allows me to really feel and experience the emotion that I’m exploring in a song. In the past, I've written in first and third person, as a creature under the bed, a cryptid thing, and recently I've been trying to write from the perspective of a third party, witnessing what's happening. That's something that I would really like to continue to challenge myself to do as an artist — to explore all sides and angles of my experiences.
KP: You’ve lived and written through a range of experiences that many people would struggle to even speak about. Looking back, what do you consider your biggest moment of self-acceptance or transformation, both as an artist and as a woman?
SA: When I finally decided to take care of the child within myself. I hated myself for a very long time, and for a while, the only way that I could stop myself from taking my life was by writing and pretending that my inner child was a real-life human child that I was taking care of at that moment. I then pretended to be a very old version of myself taking care of my present body, and one night, while taking a bath, I had an epiphany. I was sitting, naked and fully immersed in the water, holding myself and crying. I felt fully connected to my past, present, and future in that moment, and any time that I lose sight of that, I hold myself and feel my inner child and my little old lady self holding me back just as tight. I wouldn't let anything happen to a precious child and an old woman, so why should I feel any differently toward the present me?
KP: That is incredibly beautiful. It must have been the greatest gift to find all of that within yourself.
You’ve mentioned “Limerence” emerged during a dark chapter — that you thought you were writing a love song, only to later realize that it came from an abusive relationship.
When you revisit it now, how do you interpret that subconscious act of creation? Do you hear the song differently, knowing what it was really revealing to you?
SA: Totally. It was a cry for help, as were all of the songs that I wrote during that period of my life. I have definitely discovered that many of my songs are omens and prophecies for my future, but not in a weird, narcissistic way, I promise! [Laughs]
I can’t and refuse to write in a way that isn't true to my heart, but my subconscious streams of thought — though typically confusing for me to interpret at the time of writing them — almost always predict something to come, whether negative or positive, big or small. I have had a lot of epiphanies and realizations even years after writing my songs, or just strange manifestations that I hadn't thought of before.
I experienced one recently when I sang my lyric, “I rest my head in metal, voices screaming what I can’t yet say to you, I cry out loud and everyone hears words I say are only meant for you.” I wrote that four years ago and now make metal music. I recently performed that song in front of the very person that it's about. It was a strange feeling, and in that moment, it felt like I was a character playing out a story.
KP: I love your latest release, “Carolina Creature” — the production is incredible. Can you walk us through its conception? How did the song take shape, and what did you want to capture emotionally or sonically?
SA: Thank you so much! So I actually wrote this song last February, and it was written from a dual perspective about my previous abusive relationship. I wanted to write simultaneously from when I was deep in the abuse with rose-colored lenses on and when I got out and the spell broke. I suffered from brain fog and memory loss and can really only remember bits and pieces of my life from that time. The song is intentionally dreamy and hazy both sonically and lyrically to portray fragments of a good memory shadowed by the darkness to follow. Abuse — specifically emotional abuse — often creeps in slowly, and often you don't realize what’s happening until you’re in too deep. I find that much of the way that I visualize and experience trauma is through the sensation of drowning, an all-encompassing and consuming feeling of hopelessness and stolen agency. I wanted this to read and feel very much like my song “Lilith,” as its contents are very similar in theme.
KP: I often hesitate to ask this because it can feel so trite, but I’m genuinely curious — who are your sonic influences? As an artist yourself, what music do you listen to, and who inspires you across any creative discipline?
SA: I honestly have so many places and people that I draw inspiration from, as every artist does!
Sonically, I still feel like I’m not quite where I want to be with my sound. I adore fantasy video game soundtracks like in Skyrim, NieR Gestalt and Replicant, and Bravely Default. I am very drawn to classical music as well, like Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff. I adore the marriage of ethereal, otherworldly sounds with pure chaos, erupting and contrasting the soft beauty. I think that these genres have mastered that sound, and it’s something that I aspire to within my own work.
I find that I listen to different genres and create different styles of music depending on the season! Sometimes I will go for long stretches of time without really listening to any music at all to cleanse my palate. I listen to more goth, screamo, and metal in the winter months; maybe it’s because I need to light a fire in my soul to keep warm — sorry, I’m corny! [Laughs] So my winter go-to’s are Selofan, Type O Negative, Twin Tribes, Depeche Mode, The Cure, Loathe, Deftones, Acid Bath, Pierce the Veil, Moodring, GACKT, The GazettE, etc.
I listen to lighter, more ethereal artists in the warmer months: Hitomi Kuroishi, Cocteau Twins, Purity Ring, Autumn’s Grey Solace, and Lush. Summer and fall are typically filled with The Cranberries, Fleet Foxes, The Postal Service, Paul Simon, and lots of the music that I listened to growing up.
I have chromesthesia, which, in simple terms, means that I can hear color and see sound. I am a very visual artist, even in my music, so visual art deeply inspires my work as well. I draw from impressionism often, and I think I follow more visual artists on Instagram than anything else.
I also love poetry: Stephen Crane, Victor Hugo, and Charles Baudelaire are my favorites — I named my cat after him!
KP: Did you?! I love that! [Laughs]
For women — and especially queer women — struggling with identity and self-acceptance can feel like a lifelong process. What helped you reach that deeper level of understanding and peace with yourself? What would you tell women who are avoiding their truest selves?
SA: Speaking strictly from my experience as a more femme-presenting lesbian, something that I really struggled with in terms of self-acceptance was internalized lesbophobia. It presented itself in the form of me never truly feeling that I was “feminine” enough. For a long time, no matter how feminine I presented or acted, I felt so masculine and out of touch with my femininity whenever a straight woman was present. I could’ve been the most feminine woman in a room full of masculine straight women, but because I had some sort of internalization about the role and identity of lesbians, I really struggled, even though I took pride in my identity. I really had to do some soul-searching. What I ended up doing was challenging myself to dress more like who I was attracted to but afraid to wear myself: leather jackets, big steel-toed work boots, wife beaters, no makeup, and wild hair. I realized some things.
One: I suddenly had the opposite complex. I didn’t feel “masculine” enough. My arms looked small in my tanks, my face suddenly felt so much more feminine, and my hair was too long and “girly” for what I was going for. I felt as if I needed to take on a deeper voice and carry myself differently.
Two: It would never be enough. If I kept thinking that way, it wouldn’t matter how I tried to present; I would forever feel like I didn’t belong. The problem was deep within myself.
Three: Something that brought me peace was realizing that on some level, being a lesbian is inherently gender-nonconforming. The way that we love, the way that our dynamics and roles are — or aren’t — our culture is so unique in that way. There are no rules or expectations. Gender and presentation are a performance, and I really, really liked wearing those things that I had challenged myself to wear. For me, dressing up — whether more femme or more masc — it’s all a performance. It’s all dress-up!
My presentation from one day to the next does not reflect all that I am and who I will become. I challenge more women — queer or not — to try expressing themselves in ways that they’ve been too nervous or insecure to try before.
KP: I relate to that all very deeply. Gender is a truly archaic concept to me, so I simply identify as my assigned sex, which is female. I don’t know what a “woman” feels like, and the descriptors that we typically use to describe women are often inherently misogynist. If a woman is strong, she’s masculine. If she’s successful, she’s masculine. If she’s brave, she’s masculine, and so on.
Style-wise, I have always felt comfortable existing only in the middle ground between masculine and feminine. I only really wear wife beaters, but I need to have my eyeliner on to wear them! I like low-slung jeans, but a lace thong needs to be popping out. Without either extreme, I feel far too feminine or far too masculine — and it’s been that way since I was a very young girl — so I understand you completely.
More broadly, what advice would you lend women about life, work, or love?
SA: In the words of a former employer when I tearfully resigned from my job: work will always be there. That is both a relief and also a daunting thing to hear — it’s what you take from it that matters. Personally, I took that phrase to mean to pursue your dreams and true passions now and not to sit around and wait until your intuition tells you that it’s time to take the leap — you may never get that chance again. Time is fleeting and sacred, and it’s something that you never get back. Remember that, in the truest sense, you both own and are in control of your time and your life, whether it feels that way or not.
KP: What do you feel makes a provocative woman?
SA: Oooh. Wisdom: life experience and knowing how to use it and when to share it. Personally, nothing is sexier to me than a woman who knows something that I don’t and has a willingness to share and delve deep.
In the most shallow of femme lesbian feelings: strong arms, tattoos all over, leather jackets that smell of cologne and cigarette smoke, androgyny, edgy haircuts, being unapologetically yourself, pride in your identity, independence, and passion.
Photography: Griffin Sendek
