The Story of a Door
One hundred and eleven years ago, a man built a house. He put a beautiful mahogany door on the front of the house. It was massive, with a large beveled glass window in it. It was handcrafted for the house. A knocker, brass handle and a twist-type doorbell completed the masterpiece.
A door. A doorway. Brides carried over the threshold. Babies born and visited. Children played on porches, uncles smoked and told stories, funeral meals were taken, good news and bad news welcomed through its portal. Lives born, lived out, extinguished. Time, weather, more weather. Someone painted the door green. And then black. It weathered some more. Thankfully, an expansive porch protected it from most of the elements. It stood proud, with a handmade screened door between it and the world. Then an owner came that stayed almost thirty years who rarely, if ever, used the porch or the door. The door was locked, with acres of beautiful antique furniture inside blocking entrance or egress. It sat still, old but perfect, not moving, not aging much. Then one day the door was opened, and all the furniture that had taken up the house like a warehouse was moved out. The people left for the mountains. The house was still again. Empty. Waiting. All those years, the doorbell unused. Another year went by, with many people going through the house, some lookers, some buyers. Offers given, refused, disqualified.
Then we came, new caretakers grateful for the love and protection given the house and the door over these many years. The door gained a lively new life, not so protected anymore. Children passing through, slamming, adults banging on it, youngsters twisting the doorbell and driving everyone to distraction. The old black paint started to chip and fall off, exposing wood to the world. So I stripped the door. The old wood did not want to be naked. It didn't want to be stained or polyurethaned. It cried out and told me that it was meant to be painted. Since it was rare and beautiful, it deserved all the glory I could give it. So I painted it red. Bright red. A siren song red. It was a thing of beauty. Happy, unashamed, just-a-singin'.
Then we painted the rest of the front of the house. The red glared and looked vulgar against the warm historical colors I brought the house back to. Everyone knows that a door holds an important place in the face of a house. It needs to pop, to say "Come on in, ya'll!" So I thought, "Yellow!" I bought little buckets of yellow paint, painted big poster samples and set them up against the door. Looked at them for a week. Yellow, right? That's an autumn color. It should work. People pay me to pick colors for them, so how could I go wrong? I started painting the door with my quart of high-quality oil paint. I do this for a living, remember? I have had only a couple of accidents in 30+ years of painting. But somehow, some way, I tipped the whole quart of bright yellow-gold paint onto my porch. I slopped up as much as I could with my dropcloth and headed out to the yard with it, dripping all the way. Dripped it onto the porch, the concrete, the ancient bricks, the shrubs, the grass and me. My new tennis shoes (don't ask). My clothes and hair were covered in it. I look over at my Australian Shepherd and saw that she had plopped down right in the middle of it. This is oil paint, people. You can't clean that up with the hose. I whip out my gallon of mineral spirits and try to mop the worst of it off the brick and concrete stairs, praying no one decides to use the tiki torches later and incinerate the house. After much consternation and internal swearing, it gets somewhat cleaned up. I start over. Given drying time and two coats later, it's done. I enjoy a few days of opening the door and seeing that happy yellow face every morning. A couple of weeks go by. I still enjoy opening the door to the joy, but when I drive by my house or walk the dog in the front yard, the yellow up against the other colors begins to irritate me. Badly.
What's an artist to do? I can abide a foot-high pile of papers on the kitchen table for months, dog hair on the carpet or that infernal mess that's all over the inside of my car....but don't irritate me with a color hitch. So I prayed. Yes, I finally resorted to that. Shoulda done that before I started. Ya'll think I'm kidding, but I'm not. He never misleads me on these things. Yesterday's exciting job was to buy yet another quart of paint (that makes three so far, in addition to a grocery sack of paint samples). Today's exciting job was to paint over the infernal yellow. But of course it rained and it's supposed to rain all week. With oil paint, you better wait for low humidity or you've got a permanently sticking door. I can't disrespect the door that way. I'll make myself wait.
So what is the new color? Sherwin Williams Roycroft Copper Red. From the historical collection. Red with some brick-ness in it. What was I thinking? Of course the door had to be red. Didn't it tell me that in the first place? I just had to find the right one. I guess if this one doesn't work out, I'll have to resort to stacking furniture in front of the door.
A door. A doorway. Brides carried over the threshold. Babies born and visited. Children played on porches, uncles smoked and told stories, funeral meals were taken, good news and bad news welcomed through its portal. Lives born, lived out, extinguished. Time, weather, more weather. Someone painted the door green. And then black. It weathered some more. Thankfully, an expansive porch protected it from most of the elements. It stood proud, with a handmade screened door between it and the world. Then an owner came that stayed almost thirty years who rarely, if ever, used the porch or the door. The door was locked, with acres of beautiful antique furniture inside blocking entrance or egress. It sat still, old but perfect, not moving, not aging much. Then one day the door was opened, and all the furniture that had taken up the house like a warehouse was moved out. The people left for the mountains. The house was still again. Empty. Waiting. All those years, the doorbell unused. Another year went by, with many people going through the house, some lookers, some buyers. Offers given, refused, disqualified.
Then we came, new caretakers grateful for the love and protection given the house and the door over these many years. The door gained a lively new life, not so protected anymore. Children passing through, slamming, adults banging on it, youngsters twisting the doorbell and driving everyone to distraction. The old black paint started to chip and fall off, exposing wood to the world. So I stripped the door. The old wood did not want to be naked. It didn't want to be stained or polyurethaned. It cried out and told me that it was meant to be painted. Since it was rare and beautiful, it deserved all the glory I could give it. So I painted it red. Bright red. A siren song red. It was a thing of beauty. Happy, unashamed, just-a-singin'.
Then we painted the rest of the front of the house. The red glared and looked vulgar against the warm historical colors I brought the house back to. Everyone knows that a door holds an important place in the face of a house. It needs to pop, to say "Come on in, ya'll!" So I thought, "Yellow!" I bought little buckets of yellow paint, painted big poster samples and set them up against the door. Looked at them for a week. Yellow, right? That's an autumn color. It should work. People pay me to pick colors for them, so how could I go wrong? I started painting the door with my quart of high-quality oil paint. I do this for a living, remember? I have had only a couple of accidents in 30+ years of painting. But somehow, some way, I tipped the whole quart of bright yellow-gold paint onto my porch. I slopped up as much as I could with my dropcloth and headed out to the yard with it, dripping all the way. Dripped it onto the porch, the concrete, the ancient bricks, the shrubs, the grass and me. My new tennis shoes (don't ask). My clothes and hair were covered in it. I look over at my Australian Shepherd and saw that she had plopped down right in the middle of it. This is oil paint, people. You can't clean that up with the hose. I whip out my gallon of mineral spirits and try to mop the worst of it off the brick and concrete stairs, praying no one decides to use the tiki torches later and incinerate the house. After much consternation and internal swearing, it gets somewhat cleaned up. I start over. Given drying time and two coats later, it's done. I enjoy a few days of opening the door and seeing that happy yellow face every morning. A couple of weeks go by. I still enjoy opening the door to the joy, but when I drive by my house or walk the dog in the front yard, the yellow up against the other colors begins to irritate me. Badly.
What's an artist to do? I can abide a foot-high pile of papers on the kitchen table for months, dog hair on the carpet or that infernal mess that's all over the inside of my car....but don't irritate me with a color hitch. So I prayed. Yes, I finally resorted to that. Shoulda done that before I started. Ya'll think I'm kidding, but I'm not. He never misleads me on these things. Yesterday's exciting job was to buy yet another quart of paint (that makes three so far, in addition to a grocery sack of paint samples). Today's exciting job was to paint over the infernal yellow. But of course it rained and it's supposed to rain all week. With oil paint, you better wait for low humidity or you've got a permanently sticking door. I can't disrespect the door that way. I'll make myself wait.
So what is the new color? Sherwin Williams Roycroft Copper Red. From the historical collection. Red with some brick-ness in it. What was I thinking? Of course the door had to be red. Didn't it tell me that in the first place? I just had to find the right one. I guess if this one doesn't work out, I'll have to resort to stacking furniture in front of the door.
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