After rain, a city briefly reorganises itself.
People adjust their pace. Light shifts register. Puddles gather what the pavement has shed and hold it still for a moment — lanterns, windows, passing figures — before everything resumes.
What looks like disruption is often a temporary redistribution.
The overlooked detail carries the structure.
A museum corridor does the same. So does a café table. So does a bowl of broth left long enough for the sediment to settle. What appears cloudy clarifies if undisturbed. Weight finds its level. Heavier elements sink. Lighter ones rise.
Preference reveals temperament. Some want their broth clear — resolved, disciplined. Others prefer it clouded — stirred, textured, unsettled.
The pattern repeats.
I have come to understand that this is the way I work — not by adding meaning, but by tracing the structure already present.
The kitchen was one place this became visible. Flavour distributes weight. Bitterness sits differently to sweetness. Salt interrupts. Citrus cuts through density. A combination only works when its elements settle into proportion.
But the kitchen was never the only room.
A painting organises attention in the same way. A piece of music distributes tension and release. A performance balances stillness and movement. Different mediums. The same underlying work.
Translation.
At first, flavour was my most immediate tool. If something could be tasted, it felt understood. Over time, the interest shifted from novelty to rhythm — the rhythm of seasons, repetition, small domestic acts that quietly structure ordinary days.
Some ideas are best tasted. Others prefer to be read.
Language allows weight to distribute slowly. It holds a pause long enough for its shape to become visible.
The Chronicles began in the kitchen. They remain there, in part. But they also extend outward — into streets after rain, into museum corridors, into rituals that reveal their pattern only when observed closely.
The medium may shift.
The work remains the same.