Peering as ever, captivated, up through the thin filigreed iron barrier between monochrome and color, underground and over, death and life, making the current uncanny, unhomely—dreams haunted by missing digits and their turgid, sluggish, anxious replacements—and Felipe's well-founded compassionate laugh at the unsolicitous inheritors of "Old Masters," which over lunch conversation about crumbling walls of Pompeii, and in the face of so many posters advertising new shows of art half a millenium old or more, the vulgar half-New World girl with a terrible penchant toward revision begins to have out-&-out mercy for, or to tender: perturb them over again!