Kitchenette; Blurb 4
Monday, December 10th, 2007My mother is an artist. She cannot paint, take photographs or dance. Neither can she sing, write poetry or churn out novels. For my mother, the wok is her canvas, the spatula is her paintbrush and her palette lies behind the cold doors of the refridgerator. My mother treats dinner like a chore, something that must be done whether it be pleasurable or not. Since I was younger, helping out was a chore as well since my mother both wanted my help and hated it when I got in the way. However, it seems cooking as well as many things, is art. The selection of materials to create a masterpiece is like the choosing of colors to paint the sky or a mountain in a landscape. The emotions she puts in while cooking: the frowns when something is too salty, the nod of satisfaction when something’s just right – it is the age of Expressionism acted out in our kitchen. While my mother probably doesn’t see dinner this way, her cooking is art in the making. Even the way I have learned to work around her, dodging her hands while I continuously chop garlic and stepping back while I’m washing the dishes and she needs the stove; it’s all a well choreographed dance. So while I may be perusing galleries for silent unmoving art on the walls of New York City’s elite institutions, I can find art just as well in my little suburban kitchen in Queens.
