In late July, I flew to China not knowing what to expect, with one exception: I was sure, regrettably sure, that I wouldn’t be able to speak with the person I needed to speak with, a man named Ai Weiwei. Who he is—and there’s no shame in your not knowing; I was among the unenlightened until recently, too—it was my ambition to comprehend. And if I failed to meet the man himself, I hoped, at least, to see enough of the world he called his own to make sense of a matter of no small interest: why it is that not a few people of discernment now consider him to be one of the most significant artists working today; and why it is that the People’s Republic of China considers Ai Weiwei to be, without question, a very dangerous man.