I love doors. They fascinate me. They reveal and conceal. They are a bridge from one state to another. They can be a barrier that forbids,a dead-end which is frustrating and inhospitable. They can be used almost as a weapon, as a form of assault -- to have a door closed in your face is a terrible humiliation.
Oh, but a door ajar....
This is one of my favourites, a proper Frances Hodgson Burnett door, redolent of secret gardens. It offers and withholds; it entices; it makes you want to press your hand against the splintery wood, glancing over your shoulder to see if anybody is looking, and slip inside. It is full of possibilities....
God knows what Freud would say, but I like to think that my fascination is to do with the central question that fiction asks: what next? Where will this take me? Each door is like the start of a fresh scene or situation, a new chapter. I also think that in many ways they tell you something about their owners - in that sense I like my doors smart, or faded and peeling; piss-elegant or vandalised.
This one is in Moret sur Loing in France and belonged to the painter Sisely....
And this one didn't....
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