This place cannot be called a shore, a hill, or a cliff—nothing can be seen more than ten meters away. If Oum did not know this land, she would be afraid of what was down there. It could be a meadow, a plowed field, or even a stormy ocean. However, neither sounds nor contours gave any clues. All she could see around her and above her was the sky and clouds. In fact, that was what she was following. She wanted to paint these clean, cotton-like, soft, and fluffy clouds that seemed to have deliberately floated onto the blue background: “Look at us!”

Oum felt like a fish in an aquarium, looking at the world through transparent glass in all directions and above. The clouds floated slowly and were as soft as whipped cream made by a French pastry chef. It even seemed as if they had a scent. Oum sensed notes of pear, white flowers, and fresh first snow. Her brush glided across the paper without pressure, as if the wind itself were guiding her wrist, striving to convey the curves and iridescence of this heavenly wonder.