Kenny Harris’s Moka with Blue and Pink stops me in my tracks not just for its play of color and form, but because it gives a familiar vessel the dignity of a sacred object. A moka pot—small, octagonal, unassuming—stands at the center of a world of color, its body half-pink, half-silver, set against blue. It is both specific and universal, the kind of thing one might pass by in a kitchen without thought, until someone like Harris compels us to look again.
I have always been fascinated by the moka pot. Though I don’t own one, I’ve had coffee from one several times, and each time the experience feels singular. There is a ritualistic magic in the way it brews. Water sits in the lower chamber, coffee grounds in the middle, and as the heat builds, pressure pushes the water upward through the grounds, transforming into dark, rich coffee. The sound is unmistakable: a gurgling crescendo, then a sigh of steam. Unlike the sharp hiss of an espresso machine or the passive drip of a filter, the moka pot feels alive, almost theatrical.
Its history deepens this sense of reverence. Invented in 1933 by Alfonso Bialetti, the moka pot was born in an Italy where espresso was still largely the privilege of cafés. Bialetti’s innovation democratized coffee, shrinking the barista’s machine into a household object. Its name, taken from the Yemeni city of Mocha, nods to the ancient trade routes that carried coffee from Arabia into Europe. The moka pot itself became an icon of modern design: affordable, elegant, and enduring, much like the Vespa or the Olivetti typewriter.
But it is not just design that makes the moka special—it is what it symbolizes. Brewing coffee in one is an act of patience. It requires heat, time, attention. It rewards you with a coffee that is not quite espresso, not quite drip, but something between: bold, concentrated, and full of character. In a world of single-serve pods and quick fixes, the moka remains tactile, sensory, rooted in ritual.
And from the moka, I find myself wandering outward into the broader world of coffee, where every brewing method seems to express a philosophy of life. The Turkish cezve, with its long handle and copper gleam, produces coffee thick as memory itself, unfiltered and laced with cardamom—a drink that invites slow sipping and lingering conversation, often accompanied by fortune-telling in the grounds left behind. The Italian espresso, fast and intense, mirrors the pace of city life: a quick shot at a bar counter before returning to the hum of the day. The Japanese pour-over, precise and measured, becomes almost ceremonial: the slow circling of hot water, the steady drip, an art of attentiveness and restraint.
For myself, I most often return to the French press. It is simple, honest, and forgiving: coarse grounds steeped in hot water, time doing its slow work before the press descends. There is no hurry, no machinery, just immersion and patience. The result is a coffee that feels full-bodied, textured, somehow closer to the bean itself. For me, it is the method that balances ritual and ease, a kind of middle path between ceremony and convenience.
Then there are the beans themselves, carrying the geography of their birthplaces: Ethiopian beans bright with citrus, Colombian smooth and balanced, Sumatran earthy and deep. Each origin is a terroir of culture, soil, and sun, condensed into taste. Coffee is never just a drink; it is a cultural language, shaping mornings, conversations, and communities.
Harris’s painting, then, becomes not just a still life but an emblem. It invites me to see the moka pot as more than metal and handle: as a vessel of memory, ritual, and cultural exchange. When I think of the coffees I’ve had from one, I remember not just flavor but moment—the friend who brewed it, the room where we sat, the light streaming in. That is the power of both art and coffee: to turn the ordinary into something deeply human, deeply alive.