Everything sacred gets covered. The chalice before the offering. The icon behind the curtain. The relic in its reliquary. The Virgin under her manto. The warm bread. The sleeper.

Mona 2 sleeps under a manto of hand-loomed Turkish cloth, embroidered by me in Mulberry silk with unborn fetal goats and bulls, Paleolithic figures, living ovules, nervous sperm, human fetuses and abstract figures. Under the manto, the plastic sleeping bag, and underneath, mechanical voices bellow in the dark, producing a rural chorus — little bulls? sheep? lost little goats? — all the creatures with cowbells, because they are Lost Souls. The mechanism itself is mute — like a concert grand's action: the machine disappears so the representation can sound.

The head is also a self-portrait — a nocturnal forest-planet floating inside the hood — no ears, no eyes. In Tent Visions 4, the drawing that accompanies Mona 2, two foxes fly around a nocturnal tree — invisible souls that my dog perceived at dusk.