A toy horn crosses a rattle where weapons usually cross — nothing in this frame was built to hurt anyone, which is exactly the horror of it. A small mobile hangs overhead, strung with carved numerals, counting upward the way a nursery counts a child to sleep. He stands behind crib-rail bars in a turquoise smiley mask, a small dog at his feet, in a domestic room rather than any landscape — the first interior this roster has needed. At the base, a hand mirror lies shattered, its cracked glass holding two faces that refuse to settle into one: an infant's, and a mother's, mid-scream. That refusal is the only corruption the frame allows. After the emblem tradition of 1624.