one is vain, unreflective, insolently superficial, almost mute. It may have no inner life at all. As it morphs from small-town to worldly metropol, and surrenders to the forces of progress, it desires perfection: to show a facade, serene and smooth.
one has a tormented history. Several times it decayed, then rose again, always keeping the first facades as a desire of splendor. Everything that could be taken from where it came, was put in another place and produced for a different use. It was all there, merely arranged in a different order.
Only this is known for sure for the two: a given number of facades are shifted within a given space, at times submerged by a quantity of new products, at times worn out and not replaced; the rule is to shuffle then try to assemble them.
Stories of transformation and production, of what it means to see and to be seen.