“Look,” Lauren exclaimed for everyone to hear, “Emily Tsingou is here!” Indeed, she was sitting in the front row of a small and crowded lecture hall and grinning at us. I had talked to her briefly only once before, at Dani Tinero’s party last summer, and I had seen her fleetingly at the last Turner Prize event at the Tate, but I would not have recognized her. I was about to give one of my lectures on art. The audience was the usual Hereford Salon crowd. Improbably, everyone was sitting in folding chairs arranged into neat rows. When Lauren got up to introduce me, she also said something like that she was so happy to see such an eminent gallerist as Emily in our midst. “As you may know,” she leaned toward Emily, who was still grinning, “Ranko’s lectures are often a bit off the wall, but I hope you will not be offended by anything he might say.” I remember being a bit irked by all this, but I either woke up, or my dream shifted to a new scene, before I started my lecture. All I remember clearly was that I was determined to give Emily something to remember.