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 inside the hood.

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. What emerges is a raw sonic field.

While building the mechanism and listening to it, I kept thinking of Beethoven's Pastoral. Perhaps because Beethoven was also working at the threshold between nature and emotion, trying to sonify the life of the world. The 6th moves from nature toward feeling. My Mona 2 moves against the current: from intuition, toward a biological field that can exist without me.

The head is also a self-portrait — a nocturnal forest-planet floating inside the hood — no ears, no eyes. The branch tips of this planetary forest do not interweave — they grow toward each other along the curvature of the sphere, and on the other side become the branches of other trees, on the other side of the planet.

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.