LIFE, for me, is lived on the move, bouncing from country to country, friendship to friendship, a kaleidoscope of cross-cultural images – home was Seoul, then Hong Kong, New York City, then Paris. The urge to keep moving remains strong: I am, I think, a nomad, and only other nomads can truly understand me. There are few traditional nomads left and I thrilled to see one, gliding across the vastness on a black horse, his yellow robe whipped by the wind, aged fedora snapping at his ears. He is fearless and glorious; his livelihood horses and lambs, his nemesis the human destruction of the fragile lands of Inner Mongolia. His son rides with him; his five-year-old grandson sometimes, too. I am struck by the depth of their fidelity to the nomadic life. It is something I recognised in them and I think they recognised in me.