“Last spring I met it for the first time in the mountains: the branches had not grown leaves but were blooming with light yellow stamens, while the vines were knotted and twisted. An old man from the nearby village, squinting, said to me: this is the Meng flower. I looked confused, and he continued: Meng, the Meng in dreaming. It was a cloudy afternoon with a cold wind. I stopped at the edge of the forest and was struck by the plant in front of me, its vines wrapped and knotted, its name meaning dream. How similar it is to the hidden living form of someone who makes art.”