"Kitchen," 2022
For me, the kitchen is a place of love. It's the setting for some of my most distinct memories--
the sound of the burner clicking, of the exhaust fan, of the spatula scraping against the wok.
It's the smell of onions and garlic caramelizing in the pan, or the scent of the dish soap as it soaks into the sponge.
It's the light coming in through the window in the morning, filtering over the dishes drying by the sink,
or coming out from the fridge when you're hungry and looking for a quick snack.
It's where you make food to sustain yourself, to care for others, acts of generosity aimed both outward and inward.
I think life revolves around the kitchen. It may expand outward, to other rooms, to outside the home, but you always
return to the kitchen. It's a space that doesn't end-- sometimes in a literal sense, without doors to be shut, but
business is never quite done there. There's always dishes to be done, to be put away,
perhaps even a mug to be brought back from another room.
There's always a haul of groceries to put away, meals to be made, and food to be eaten.
It's a room of both utility-- a means for survival, a part of the daily routine-- and a room for nourishment--
to experience flavors and feel the warmth radiating from the oven and provide for others.
A room is made not by walls, but by the things with which we fill them.
Objects, dispersed across each surface, tacked onto walls and living on the shelves, some so familiar we don't even think twice about,
but each hold their own place. They're given life through light-- illuminated by lamps,
by sunlight filtering through the window, by the stove's flame. These individual moments culminate in home.
And so, we begin in the kitchen,
