Impatient to receive D. O'ROURKE's next installment Nana checks, but there is nothing in her box. She bites her lip. Hers is a pensive pose—non-critical; he is not yet tardy. There are fifteen hours between their respective time zones. Her clock reads 1:10 so almost two full hours remain for news to arrive. Lunch already eaten (diverse fruit and a bar of chocolate), Nana disconnects and hastens back to her studio. She has worked throughout the night, inspired by tidbits from the first report—enhanced by a weird sixth sense. What once was a lifelike sculpture has transformed, grown twice its size, the single head and pair of shoulders having spawned a second set, as if expressing how a zygote might divide. Separately defined yet still conjoined, the busts are similar. Nondescript (regarding facial features), general shapes comprise a sort of 3-D double image—back to back with links between—their tandem skulls and scapulae pulled like globs of pliant saltwater taffy, the composition, as a whole, taking on a carnival-side-show aspect, its seminal grotesqueness compelling as are all things judged bizarre.

            Why she has pursued this tangent, Nana does not analyze. Her approach to making art is to elevate the real, the known, the rational to a level more profound, a realm wherein the Truth, to its bastard brother Reason, is often inaccessible.