Another drawing finished—another homage, or perhaps more of a eulogy.

Seventeen years ago, in a large open space between two newly built Flemish government buildings in Antwerp’s De Kievit neighborhood, a monumental artwork was installed. It was created by three artists—Rolf Mulder, Dirk Lenaerts, and Joris Michielsen. I know Rolf personally.

The work consisted of five towering metal structures, their forms reminiscent of African baobabs. They had to be made of metal because underneath the concrete square was an extensive underground parking garage. The original concept included planting wisterias in the tops of the trees, allowing them to grow and entwine through the branches. The trees even had built-in water supply systems to nourish the plants. But after a few years, the government shut off the water. The wisterias withered and died.

And now, just a few weeks ago, the trees themselves were taken down—removed to make way for a covered walkway, so that government employees can move between buildings without getting wet when it rains.

I pass that square almost every day, and now it always brings a quiet ache. The trees are gone.

In my drawing, they no longer stand in a concrete square between office buildings. Instead, I’ve placed them in an imaginary landscape, wide and wild—as if in a dream.