I've always felt that the kitchen is the most sonorous and ritualistic place in the house. The gurgling of water, the hissing of frying pans—it's a symphony in itself.
One day, as I was preparing to wash dishes, the stainless steel sink filled with water. The grease stains on the surface were shimmering in a colorful, fragmented halo under the impact of the water. Staring at the small, turbulent surface, I suddenly felt like a small stage. Inspiration struck me at that moment.
I seemed to see a person, not the giant, oppressive fat man I'd previously painted, but someone entirely different. He wasn't swimming in the water, but clinging to the edge of the sink, as if it were an opera box. He tilted his head back, his throat stretched, and sang with all his heart.
The kitchen sink—how hard, cold, and functional! It's where I wash stains, the most tedious part of household chores. Opera, however, and singing—the ultimate, most romantic expression of the human spirit.
