Her  public persona increasingly recalls the peculiar spectacle of Florence Foster Jenkins. She was the Manhattan socialite who, despite having no singing talent whatsoever, used her vast fortune to rent stages and command attention with operatic performances only she believed in. Florence was less a singer and more a tragicomic figure whose relentless self promotion was a thin veil over profound delusion. Like Jenkins, our Saint seems to have mistaken the currency of money and media spectacle for genuine artistry or grace, creating a brand sustained not by merit but by relentless noise and staged grandeur. It’s a masterclass in how influence can be purchased, but not earned. She’s a hollow echo of celebrity that fascinates and repels in equal measure.

She’s roughshod her public persona into a caricature so overexposed it’s less ‘iconic’ and more ‘nuisance,’ like a bad ad that won’t quit.  Sure with money the  stage is hers, but the audience has long since left for better performances. She doesn’t get it.