Myself (The Fishmonger's Dream)

In this slyly surreal domestic tableau, a faceless cook stands at the threshold between nourishment and unease, their identity dissolved into a tide of drifting clouds and watchful eyes—conscience, appetite, and surveillance braided into one atmospheric crown. The cool, aqueous blues of the room lend the scene a clinical calm, while the patterned shirt and neatly arranged kitchen implements impose a fragile order over the visceral clarity of fish and flesh. Animal presences—half guardian, half accomplice—turn the act of preparation into a quiet fable about consumption, complicity, and the strange intimacy of what we choose to transform into food. The composition holds its tension in the stillness: a ritual made ordinary, yet haunted by the feeling that the meal is also looking back.