There is nothing remarkable about the entrance to the Basilica of Saint Margaret at Osterhofen Abbey. On a two-lane street with no sidewalk, up a short flight of stairs, and through a gate in the perimeter wall, across the lawn of a small cemetery, behind an oak door, there is the grossest imaginable dilation of the building envelope. On the surface of the shallow handkerchief vault is painted: a giant hole in the ceiling, nearly one-third of the entire nave, above which—stacked along the rim of a gold frame—is the busy courtyard of some municipal building. A bit further into the nave, above the crossing, are rays of light bearing an angel who is either flying up into or falling down out of a second, slightly smaller hole in the ceiling through which another scene is visible from below: a gathering underneath a monumental dome. Stacked above the interior of Osterhofen are entire worlds of interiors. The model is a slice down the middle of the Osterhofen nave, depicting the zone that separates baroque heaven and earth—or, in this case, rococo heaven and earth.