The diablo cojuelo is not a mask, it is a garment. A full-body satin suit, sewn over a year by hand, carrying hundreds of small mirrors, brass cowbells and ribbon strips, topped by a horned papier-mâché head with coral-like growths. It costs a month's wages and up, and it is built to be seen moving.

This system takes the cloth as its ground. The page is violet satin under February daylight, not paper and not a wall. Colour blocks sit hard against each other, mirrors catch light in small discs, brass edges every panel, and nothing sits quite square — a comparsa moves sideways down the street.