Her studio, the same. Hand me down chest of drawers, guardian of paper and paint. Hundred year old jars, purple with age, holding her brushes. Cleverly arranged still life of chambered nautilus shell and vase of fragrant, sagging lilacs, nestled among the folds of rich old brocade. Yet the overriding atmosphere of disharmony, as she lingers in the doorway surveying the room, cannot be blamed on the afternoon sun which casts her studio in deeply shadowed contrast and texture, but rather in how her circumstantial perception seems to have changed. She tentatively fingers the intricate twisted-link silver chain that rides the curves of her neck, not quite able to decide what to do with herself. Slipping quietly into the room, no longer fitting comfortably among paper and brushes and paints, she sits, leaning over an unfinished watercolor, and tears, wrung from some unfamiliar place, mix and blend new colors.