My grandfather was a chief accountant. On sunny mornings, he would put on a straw hat, an embroidered linen shirt and brown leather sandals. It was clear that he loved his job. He would polish his briefcase and sandals with a cloth.
Without complaint, he would get up, eat sweet rice porridge washed down with tea and milk, and leave for work. Everything in his accounting world went as it should.

But at weekends, German paints in shades of azure, scarlet, saffron and pink awaited him in the garage under the workbench. He lovingly opened the jars, mixed the paints until they shone and painted his house. First, though, he cut out giant rhombuses and triangles, narrow and wide slats — future decorations for the walls and gates, hinting at a ‘Dibenkornian’ harmony of geometric planes.

'Here we will live in eternal summer,' he thought, 'and this is how we will be remembered on photographic paper.'