Before me is a portrait of a young woman. She is strikingly beautiful, her face lightly bronzed and her cheekbones shaded with just a kiss of rose. Her eyes are large and pretty, but dark and a little wounded-looking. She's not really smiling. Behind her is a background of burgundy and violet. Within this background, and over the girl's face, are crossing lines, like the squares on a sheet of graph paper. It's as if little parts of her have been painted on hundreds of tiles, and the tiles have assembled themselves to make this image. Except in the upper left-hand corner, the pattern breaks down. The tiles are scattered, the lines no longer forming perfect angles. The pieces seem to be falling, cascading into place. The girl is in the process of becoming a complete picture...And then I understand. I see it. The girl with the wounded eyes, the girl who doesn't quite smile, the girl made of a thousand pieces that are falling; at last, into their proper places...She's me