The forces collided in colors and prose. They flipped through the scrapbook of time and concocted, from brushstrokes and birdsong and sunsets and airplanes, an artist. An artist who will someday have a museum named after her. And the basement of the museum will be a speakeasy, where, if you murmur the right password, a pisco-based menu will materialize in your hands and you will be transported to Antiquity or the 1920's. You are in Paris, Santiago de Chile, New York. Here you are.