I've been asked more than once to put my work under glass, something the Victorian in me actually likes. But the small pieces I've made have survived cat attacks-that's part of the point to them, that they aren't real, and they aren't delicate. I clean them up with rolled up masking tape. But there is something tender about the zone of silence, and melancholy in their distancing and limitations. Something ceremonial about raising up the dome of the bell jar, letting people see up close.