The Red Brick Art Museum is a place I visit every time I return to Beijing—a quiet ritual of sorts.

I first visited nine years ago, shortly after it opened, having stumbled upon another of architect Dong Yugan’s works nearby. Back then, Red Brick was virtually unknown, with sparse trees and empty paths. Its garden had a raw, solitary beauty, a stark contrast to the lively crowds it draws today.

Through the years, I returned to see the garden mature—trees thickening, ducks and geese growing plump. It was as if I’d become a witness to its slow, organic transformation.

A turning point came in 2018, when Olafur Eliasson’s exhibition marked Red Brick’s rise in popularity, drawing an influx of visitors that altered its quietude. Since then, the museum has felt less like a retreat, and my visits grew rarer.

In late 2019, on the day before I left for London, I returned once more, feeling an urge to say farewell. The garden was bathed in autumnal light, casting a golden calm that softened the sense of departure.

Returning in July, under steady rain, the garden felt even more alive—lush and dense, with moss filling the brick crevices and vibrant trumpet vines draping over walls, a testament to the quiet resilience of time.