Plutonic Rainbows

A French rail passenger in the 1980s could buy a ticket by typing 3615 SNCF into a small terminal the phone company had handed out for nothing. Codes like that were printed in magazines and shown in TV adverts, and according to IEEE Spectrum they were plastered on the sides of buses, which is where web addresses ended up too. Minitel is the first thing I picture when I try to imagine a world without the Internet, because I don't think that world would have been offline at all. It would have had screens and modems and online shopping. What it wouldn't have had is one open network joining everything to everything else.

Eric Raymond sketched the likeliest version in a 2011 essay, World Without Web, and it's grim reading. Without internetworking, he argued, you'd get walled gardens run by CompuServe, AOL and Genie, each with its own software and its own addressing. Email would only reach people on the same provider. Heavy users would juggle half a dozen accounts, and there'd be no hyperlinks between services and certainly no search engines. He allows for gateways between providers, but pictures them buggy, often one-way, and shut off whenever a big provider decided a smaller one was leeching. I think he's right about the shape. Computers would still have got faster and cheaper, since that was happening regardless, and people were already paying to go online long before most of them had heard of the Internet: CompuServe launched its consumer service in September 1979. The machines were never the missing piece. What was missing was a common language between them, and a world that never agreed on one wouldn't feel like the past so much as a present where every door takes a different key.

The people cutting those keys would matter enormously. Newspapers, broadcasters, publishers and a handful of large companies already decided most of what reached the public, and a network of walled gardens would have kept them in charge instead of letting anyone route around them. The Atlantic's history of Minitel has the clearest picture I've found of how that works. It describes 101 Online, an American videotex venture where anyone who wanted to publish had to take a floppy disk to the company's office in downtown San Francisco and hand it to an operator, who converted it to the house format and uploaded it. Its own head of marketing later admitted, "we did not create an ecosystem enabling anyone but us to make money." Minitel itself was the exception, and it's a real problem for my argument. Service providers there ran their own machines while France Télécom oversaw only the network, which is much closer to how the Internet works, and a world full of Minitels would be far less bleak than Raymond's. Getting one took a government willing to give terminals away, though, which UnHerd credits with clearing the cost hurdle that kept Britain's Prestel from ever catching on. Even Minitel never really travelled beyond France, partly because most of what was on it was in French. The likelier result is one network per country and a scattering of companies, none of them properly joined up.

This blog wouldn't exist in that world. There'd be no WordPress, as Raymond points out, and whatever public-diary format a provider offered would sit under its acceptable-use policy, readable only by its own customers. He goes further: post something the provider considers offensive and it shuts you down to protect its reputation. I'd be writing letters to magazine editors and waiting to see whether they ran them, or photocopying a fanzine and posting it to forty people. Publishing without asking permission is the thing I'd miss most, more than streaming or maps, and it's also the thing the people in charge would have been happiest never to hand over. People would still find each other, the way the French piled into Minitel's chat services, but mostly inside one provider at a time. A support group for a rare illness needs every patient it can reach, and a campaign needs the strangers on the rival network as well, so both would stay smaller than they deserve.

Those gatekeepers were perfectly capable of spreading nonsense themselves. The famous panic over Orson Welles's War of the Worlds broadcast in 1938 was far smaller than the newspapers claimed. As a BBC piece on the myth puts it, they made sweeping claims about panic-stricken Americans and offered little to back them up, and National Geographic notes that the print press regarded radio as an upstart rival at the time. Nearly ninety years later the myth still needs debunking. So I don't think a world without the Internet would be free of misinformation. The grassroots kind would slow right down, because a pile-on needs thousands of strangers to arrive in the same place within the hour and nobody has built the road they'd arrive on, and a rumour moving by photocopier or phone tree mostly runs out of energy on the way. The lies with a printing press or a transmitter behind them would move as fast as ever, and far fewer people would be in a position to answer back.

Advertising is where I can't tell which way things would go. Minitel anonymised connections at the gateway and asked for no usernames, so chat services never knew who their customers were. Billing went through the phone bill, with the phone company passing a share to service providers, and IEEE Spectrum credits that arrangement with keeping Minitel relatively free of advertising. Nobody needed to harvest your attention when you were already paying for your time. Prestel put a price on individual pages and, UnHerd says, never got past 90,000 subscribers. Micronet's multiplayer game Shades ran over it at 1.6p a minute, off-peak, a detail from The Escapist's history that goes a long way to explaining that number. Raymond imagines the opposite of all this, provider software shoving whatever it likes at you with no other browser to switch to and no blocker to hide behind. Both seem plausible. Tracking would probably still happen, since a provider knows exactly who you are, but nobody could follow you from one provider to the next, and an online celebrity would be famous on AOL and unknown on CompuServe. The influencer economy needs everyone watching the same few feeds, and that audience would never exist here.

AI would arrive later and look different. A big provider could train something on its own members' messages, and one probably would, but the large models of the last few years learned from text gathered across the whole open web, far more than any single provider holds, and they run in data centres paid for by companies that grew rich on the Internet. In Raymond's version the boom and the big fibre build-out never happen, so the text stays split between rivals and the money arrives much more slowly. Minitel did have a faint version of the dream. IEEE Spectrum mentions services called Claire and Sophie that gave out personalised information through natural-language interfaces, decades before anyone asked Siri anything.

Everything physical would carry more weight: record shops, libraries, the local paper, the catalogue on the kitchen table. Mail-order books like the La Redoute catalogue from 1994, with a model's thanks set in tiny type beside the product codes, would just keep getting thicker. Regional culture would stay stronger too. A band could build a following in its own city for years before anyone in London noticed, and a scene in one place wouldn't become a look on the other side of the world within a week. A country you'd never visited would be whatever the evening news chose to show you, and a friend abroad would be a letter every few weeks unless you both happened to pay the same provider. Local also means stuck with whatever your town happens to have.

Discovery would run through people rather than feeds. Whoever decided what you heard next would be a record-shop clerk, a fanzine editor or a DJ like John Peel on Radio 1, somebody with a name and opinions, instead of a recommendation engine working out what keeps you listening. Something obscure would reach you as a mention, then a mail-order form, then a few weeks of waiting, and by the time it arrived you'd have imagined it so thoroughly that it could hardly disappoint. Scarce culture is also culture that gets thrown away, though. The BBC wiped a huge share of its own programmes because videotape was expensive and nobody expected to want them again, and in a world where anything copied online lived on one company's servers and closed when it did, far more would go the same way without anyone knowing what was missing.

The past would close over faster, too. It's already hard to prove anything about an ordinary afternoon in 1991, and Prestel shows how that happens. UnHerd describes it as all but lost to history, surviving as a few pages, out of tens of thousands, that users happened to save to floppy disk. Without the Internet that would be the normal fate of everything online. People would still scan old magazines and share off-air tapes, but they'd do it on a provider's servers, and when the provider folded or merged the lot would go. The years around 1990 would survive mainly in attics and in what people remember, which would make them more mysterious and probably more moving. The strange part is that 2005 and 2015 would be just as far out of reach.

Neon's poster for Ben Wheatley's In the Earth shows a woman with blank white eyes and a vine in her nostril, its stem trailing over her lips and down her throat. Someone tampered with the lettering as well. There's a backwards R in "horror" and another in the tagline, "Take the trip," and the A in the title is turned upside down, so the type looks wrong a second before you work out why. Above all of it runs a line from Gizmodo calling the film "the first great horror movie of 2021."

Most of the film was shaped by what 2020 allowed. Wheatley told Sight & Sound that he started writing it in the second week of the UK lockdown, "trying to process what I was feeling about what was going on," and by August he was shooting it, in fifteen days. Indoor Covid protocols were "too onerous and expensive," he explained to The Hollywood Reporter, so the forest was as much a practical choice as an artistic one, and even out there, protective equipment became the thing they spent the most money on. Part of the inspiration was Halloween. He'd found its production paperwork online, and John Carpenter's schedule had run only two or three days longer than his.

The story stays small. A scientist, Martin (Joel Fry), and a park scout, Alma (Ellora Torchia), hike into a restricted forest to find a colleague, Dr Olivia Wendle (Hayley Squires), who has gone quiet after months of research out there. On the way they meet Zach (Reece Shearsmith), a helpful-seeming stranger with stories about a woodland spirit called Parnag Fegg. Going by Rolling Stone's review, the second half turns into strobes and a droning, feedback-heavy soundtrack, under lighting "heavy on rotting greens and Bava-worthy reds," with Clint Mansell writing the score.

Wheatley pushed back on the label "pandemic film." "It wasn't a subplot; it's just set in the now," he told io9. In lockdown he'd watched new releases arrive on streaming and found they "all looked like period pieces now," full of crowds. For a while any packed bar on screen looked like archive footage to me too, and a script that ignored the previous year would have been its own kind of fantasy.

Fantasy is the other thing the film is about. Wheatley told Sight & Sound it isn't straight folk horror but "a conversation with the genre," and that Zach has invented the whole mythology: "Parnag Fegg is not real, none of it is real." The idea grew out of watching British and American politics and thinking about "the erosion of fact, and this weaponising of narrative," people using stories to push their own version of reality. Zach's stories are fabricated, but Wheatley doesn't pretend that leaves the woods empty. "The thing in the woods makes its own decision," he said, and it chooses "someone who isn't a narrative maker," someone practical who is more likely to understand what it wants. The folklore is fake and the forest isn't, which I find far stranger than any spirit Zach could have dreamed up.

The ceremony at the World Trade Center site has kept the same six times for twenty-four years. American Airlines Flight 11 hit the North Tower at 8:46, New York time, and United Airlines Flight 175 went into the South Tower at 9:03. American 77 struck the Pentagon at 9:37. The South Tower collapsed at 9:59, United 93 came down in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, four minutes after that, and the North Tower fell at 10:28. Everything from the first impact to the last collapse took an hour and forty-two minutes. This year a seventh moment of silence joins them, observed after the names have been read, for people who lost their lives in the years since to illness and injury tied to that day. It isn't pinned to any minute on the clock.

The death toll that morning was 2,977, among them 343 firefighters. Family members reading on the memorial plaza today will get through 2,983 names, because the list also carries the six people killed in the February 1993 bombing of the same towers. The remains of more than a thousand of the dead have never been identified. On Flight 93, the forty passengers and crew fought back against the hijackers and tried to retake the plane.

The historian David Blight, who spent several years on an informal group advising the museum's curators, calls it the "most filmed and visualized event in history," and thinks it may still be awaiting its modern Euripides. I suspect those two things are connected, though I can't prove it. When most of the world meets an event as footage, art arrives second, trying to add something to pictures everyone has already seen. The museum's exhibition this year on comic books and 9/11 starts from a version of the same problem: the attack sites saw "no fictional superheroes come to the rescue, only real people helping however they could." Even the name reached Britain from somewhere else. Here the date is written 11/9, day before month, and almost nobody calls it that. The American order crossed the Atlantic and stayed.

The first cultural reflex was to take the towers out. Radio stations dropped songs from their playlists, and a Simpsons episode set largely at and inside the World Trade Center was removed from syndication. Sidewalks of New York, People I Know and Spider-Man had their releases delayed so producers could cut scenes that showed the buildings, and Kissing Jessica Stein was modified before release for the same reason. Meanwhile, as the city cleared the wreckage, an engineer walked through the rubble spray-painting SAVE on objects that ought to be kept. Part of that was practical, since investigators needed to understand why the towers came down, but Alice Greenwald, who became the museum's founding director, told Gothamist there was also "a sense of history" behind it. Both reflexes still look decent to me. Cutting spared people a picture of what they'd lost, and the spray can made sure the physical evidence of it survived.

"Never Forget" began on paper. Nazia Kazi, who teaches the history of the war on terror at Stockton University, traces it to the missing-person posters that went up on lampposts and scaffolding across the city, which memorial posters gradually replaced. Her description of what it became afterwards is "a slogan, a brand name," and I think brand is exactly the right word. The posters changed slowly, but as Gothamist puts it, the phrase's meaning was "almost immediately complicated" by what followed: the wars, mass surveillance, the arrests and deportations, and a new chapter of Islamophobia. A brand can be attached to almost anything, and over twenty-five years this one has been attached to a great deal.

George W. Bush declared a global war on terror on September 20, 2001, and no president since has declared it over, a point Jill Lepore makes in her New Yorker essay this month. The US went to war in Afghanistan that October and stayed for twenty years, and the Iraq War began in 2003. Some of the families pressed for a fuller account of 9/11, and their efforts led to the 9/11 Commission Report, published in 2004, which held no one in the US government responsible for the intelligence lapses that failed to stop the hijackings. Brown University's Costs of War project counts at least 940,000 people killed by direct violence in the post-9/11 wars, among them civilians, armed forces on all sides, contractors, journalists and aid workers.

Building the museum meant deciding where the story starts. Blight remembers the curators facing the question of whether to represent only the twenty-four hours of September 11 or tell "a much longer story of the causes and consequences." It opened in 2014, beneath where the towers stood, with some of what had been saved inside. Steve Kandell, whose sister Shari was among the unidentified, was an early visitor. He wrote about artifacts ranging from "the husk of an ambulance" to "handwritten pleas for help" and "dusty, ownerless Topsiders encased in glass," and put the whole experience into one sentence: "Everyone should have a museum dedicated to the worst day of their life and be forced to attend it with a bunch of tourists from Denmark." It's bitter, and funny in the way only someone with the right to say it can be funny.

About half of American adults remember September 11 as the most historic event of their lifetime, according to a poll the Associated Press reported this week, but the museum reckons 100 million Americans are too young to remember it at all. Every graduating FDNY and NYPD class now spends part of its final week there. Dedie Plasencia, a firefighter at Engine 240 in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, who is retiring in February, runs his own version of the lesson. Every so often he sits the newer crew down in front of footage shot downtown that morning by filmmakers who happened to be following a probationary firefighter. He has moved it from videocassette to disc, and soon he'll have to move it again, onto a thumb drive. For many people, Gothamist notes, "Never Forget" can't mean what it means for Plasencia. "The only way for them to really feel it like I do," he said, "is to be detailed."

Hauntology is a word for the way lost futures linger in culture, and it gets precious fast when the ghosts had names, so these are only notes. In the late summer of 2001, William Basinski was digitising old tape loops, and the tape was coming apart as it played, shedding a little of itself on every pass so the music thinned and dropped away while he recorded it. He finished on the morning of September 11. That evening, from a friend's rooftop, he filmed the smoke still moving over the city, and stills from that footage became the covers of The Disintegration Loops, which he dedicated to the victims. A version now plays in the museum's historical exhibition alongside the film, a pairing that Lindsay Balfour, in an essay on the loops, says has an almost architectural effect, "giving structure back to the towers." If the day is still waiting for its Euripides, this is the nearest thing I know, and I think that's because it never tried to get out from under the footage.

The films trimmed in 2001 were exceptions, and plenty of others shot in New York before that September still have the towers in them, in establishing shots and behind conversations that had nothing to do with them. The frames nobody cut are the stranger ones now, because they couldn't have known what they were recording, and we can't stop knowing. Angus K. Gillespie's history of the buildings is strange in a different way. Rutgers University Press published it in 1999 as Twin Towers: The Life of New York City's World Trade Center, a biography of two buildings finished while its subjects were still standing.

The memorial holds both of those first reflexes at once. On the plaza, two pools sit in the footprints of the towers, so the site is organised around an absence, while the museum beneath it keeps what was saved. Tribute in Light, first switched on six months after the attacks and back every September 11 since, sends two beams up over Lower Manhattan to stand in for the buildings, about as close as public art gets to presence without substance. They go up again tonight.

Greenwald remembers one of her advisers putting it starkly: ground zero is where the 21st century began. Mark Fisher argued that the future had been cancelled well before that, somewhere in the 1980s. If they're both right, the new century began with a subtraction, in a culture already living off its past, and it has spent twenty-five years arranged around the outline of what was taken away.

Tasha De Vasconcelos models a shirt full of racehorses for Etro in the early 1990s, numbered jockeys in yellow, purple and red silks galloping across ivory. The styling is coordinated down to the wrists: a striped scarf that picks up the racing colours, gold buttons on a dark skirt, gold and enamel at the ears and cuffs. Shown this page without a name, I'd have said Escada. Her own biography, as it happens, lists Escada among the houses De Vasconcelos worked for and never mentions Etro at all.

Etro's history runs the other way round from the picture. Gimmo Etro started the company in Milan in 1968 to supply textiles to Italian ready-to-wear, and its fabrics grew out of the 300 or so antique shawls he collected with his wife Roberta, an antiques dealer. Clothes came late, and they came out of accessories. When Kean Etro moved into ready-to-wear in 1990, it grew from ties and haberdashery into a wardrobe, menswear first and womenswear a year later, and the house didn't stage a show in Milan until 1996. It was never only paisley, either. The family's taste in prints ran as far as silk scarves decorated with fusilli, so jockeys on silk sit comfortably within character.

Escada, founded in Munich in the late 1970s, had more than a decade of womenswear behind it by then, and what it sold was a system. "Certain colors repeat every season so that you can go back to your older wardrobe and mix it with new things for a new feeling," Margaretha Ley, its designer, told the Chicago Tribune in 1989, and the house dressed its pages accordingly, with gloves cut to the exact shade of the appliqué and a belt in the same acid yellow. Ley had even named the house after a racehorse that impressed her, which makes the jockeys here a happy accident.

This picture takes an Etro print and dresses it the Escada way, every accent answering the shirt, when a house that began with cloth might have let the print stand on its own. Over the following decades the motif that became Etro's signature was paisley, in its textiles since 1981, and not a jockey in yellow silks.

Mary Jane Leach came up in New York in the 1970s alongside Julius Eastman and Ellen Fullman, and in 1989 she recorded Pipe Dreams on the organ at St Peter's in Cologne, a piece that waited until 2017 for a release on the Italian label Blume. The follow-up came out today on Modern Love as two side-long pieces, and I haven't been able to confirm where or when it was recorded.

So far the only opinion I can find comes from the record shop Boomkat, whose announcement hears "vortex-like resonances that fill us with total awe." The sleeve puts a tall white organ case beside an arched window, all in grey, and the record is just as grey and unhurried. It's haunting and sombre, with long tones that sound like they belong at a funeral, so I expected to come away from it low.

I didn't, because the tones never settle. As they keep circling and swelling, the heaviness starts to feel less like mourning and more like something alive, breathing in the room with you.

Patty Sylvia looks dead level into the cover of French Elle for 31 October 1988: blue eyes, red mouth, a silver zip cutting diagonally across a black top. Issue 2234 was a beauty special, twenty-five pages on skin, and the cover itself was split in two. In a dealer's photographs of a copy, one half folds back to show her winking underneath, with an Orlane skincare advert on the inside of the flap. The dealer credits the picture to Oliviero Toscani, who photographed Monica Bellucci for an Elle cover that year, though I haven't found a second source for this one.

She had stumbled into modelling after three years of not knowing what to do after high school. The photographer on her first job, in Boston, took her picture back to an agency in London, and at 21 she flew there on her first international flight. The London agent passed her on to the Clip agency in Paris, and she arrived with no French, a map and a list of addresses. "I didn't know the language, I didn't know the money, I was totally culture shocked," she told an interviewer in 2020. She hated the city and felt unsafe in it, but that's where her career took off, and Paris became her base whatever she thought of it.

By her account, covers like this one were for recognition rather than money. Recognition brought advertising, Joseph and Guess among it, and once things picked up she was taking home $1,250 a day on the days she worked. She dates her first cover to 1986 and her last, for Elle, to 1990, and in 1989 she turned up in New Order's video for "Round & Round." America never came through, she said: "I was never successful in America because my look was too ethnic at the time. I had curly hair and full lips and back then the American ideal of beauty was Cindy Crawford." Arthur Elgort did shoot her in Ralph Lauren for Vogue in August 1988, and American Elle put her on its cover that November, so America booked her; it just never made her its ideal.

As she got older she tired of having no say: "It got really hard to not have a voice in an industry where you're an object." At her final shoot she couldn't get dressed or put on the makeup: "I was just done." At 30 she moved home to Rhode Island, took degrees in psychology and social work, and by 2020 was working on a hospice team in Bristol. She says modelling prepared her for one part of that job, walking into a room of strangers and feeling comfortable. "With hospice my focus is how to live until you die," she said. "There's no baloney."

Blue sky fills the space around Estelle Lefébure on this Grazia cover. Her black top slips below one shoulder, a large hoop earring catches the light, and windblown hair crosses her face without interrupting the smile. The date beside the masthead reads 9/8/1987: 9 August, following the Italian day/month convention. A detachable holiday beauty supplement supplies the cover's biggest promise. Its white lettering runs diagonally across the black fabric, leaving most of the face and sky clear.

Lefébure was only about two years into modelling. ELLE's interview with her that year describes how quickly she had found success in Paris and America, dividing her time between Paris and New York. She recalled hesitating for a long time before accepting an agent's offer to model. The magazine's own archive records another cover with Hispard on 6 July 1987, just over a month before this issue.

Hispard brought a much longer working history. Born in 1938, he entered a photographic laboratory at fifteen and worked professionally for Le Jardin des Modes at eighteen. That puts roughly thirty years of fashion photography behind him here. His work would continue well into the following decade, including photographs of Kate Moss in 1995.

Inside, Bellissime in vacanza brings the camera closer. The smile gives way to parted lips and a sideways gaze; loose strands run across her forehead and eyes. I prefer it to the cover for the warm brown background and the way the hair breaks up the portrait. The crop takes away the cover's expanse of blue and almost all the clothing, concentrating the colour in her skin and hair.

The blue returns later in the feature, darkened almost to navy, on the hair page headed I capelli. She is in profile with her head tipped back and her eyes closed, and the smile from the cover has opened into a laugh. Wet hair swept back off her face falls in long strands down her back, and a pale blue towel is draped below one bare shoulder.

Count the yellow. On one Escada page from 1989 it lands four times on a single body: leather leaves with their veins pressed in, laid across the shoulder seam; a fat cable panel running down the sleeve in the same acid tone; a butter belt threaded through a cluster of gold rings; suede gloves cut to the exact shade of the leaves, Gail Elliott's hand pushed into a trouser pocket. The sweater underneath is grey flecked with gold, and the trousers are a pale check with a rust overcheck so fine you only catch it close up.

Read now, that much matching looks like a styling tic, one decade's idea of thorough. Escada's chief designer and co-owner, Margaretha Ley, described it as policy. "Certain colors repeat every season so that you can go back to your older wardrobe and mix it with new things for a new feeling," she told the Chicago Tribune in November 1989. The gloves match the leaves because the house expected you to own both in three years, and to buy something the following autumn that would still go with them. The gold runs the same system more quietly, flecked through the grey knit and turning up again as the rings on the belt, where nobody was meant to notice it working.

That expectation is the part that has gone. The ornament went too, and its absence is what you see first, but ornament was the visible half. Underneath sat a commercial promise: hold the palette steady, and the customer adds to a wardrobe instead of replacing one. The house kept at it, still selling two greens that deliberately didn't match as a pair in 1993. What survives of it now arrives one piece at a time. An eighties Margaretha Ley sweater with leaf appliqué goes for $224 on a resale site, out of the wardrobe of a former Escada vice-president who had $10,000 a year to spend filling it, whatever it was bought to be worn with scattered across other people's houses.

The page comes from a Japanese collections magazine and gives the designer three lines: MILAN in spaced capitals, KATHARINE HAMNETT under it in a fat serif, then the name once more in katakana. The city is the surprising one. Hamnett belongs, in most people's memory, to London, and specifically to March 1984, when she shook Margaret Thatcher's hand at a Downing Street reception celebrating the launch of the first London Fashion Week, wearing a t-shirt that read 58% DON'T WANT PERSHING in her own block capitals.

The clothes eleven years later go somewhere the slogan tees don't prepare you for. Ingrid Seynhaeve walks it in pale blue fur to the ankle, an iridescent white waistcoat buttoned over a satin bodice, hot pink vinyl trousers piped in white. Glossy, commercial, faintly Alpine, and about as far from cotton jersey and a political statistic as a wardrobe can travel.

She gave the reason for the address herself, in Milan, in July 1993, while showing menswear: Paris had become overcrowded with shows, and she was thinking of bringing the women's presentations over as well. Paris, note, not London. Her own company timeline puts the first Milan womenswear catwalk at spring/summer 1994, making the collection on this page her fourth Italian season, and landing her in the same city and season Tom Ford used to rescue Gucci.

It was also her last. That same timeline records her making front page news in 1995 heralding a return to London, where she showed spring/summer 1996. The whole Milan run came to four seasons, entered on a scheduling complaint and left in a blaze of coverage. Leaving Paris was housekeeping; going home was an announcement.

Whether that coat is fake fur or dyed shearling I can't tell from a scan. Hamnett blew the whistle on textile industry malpractice in 1989, but what she lobbied on was cotton, pesticides and the people growing it, so fur was never the fight she picked. The question is mine, imported, and the page doesn't answer it either way.