Knocking on doors.

I wasn’t bold enough to knock on this door, though I badly wanted to.
I wanted to meet the inspiration behind the magic.

If this is your front door, please forgive me—I’m not stalking you. I fell in love and couldn’t tear myself away, and the only remedy was to take this photo to remind me that the magic was not in my imagination.

The house is in London, somewhere in SW—. I walked past it on my way to a writing seminar and was arrested by the power of the colors and the boldness of their placement. I mean, who on earth would dare to paint a front door and steps these colors in the middle of SW—?

Well, someone would. And thank goodness and hurrah, because it snapped me wide awake with a big smile on a cloudy, blustery Sunday morning. And when I arrived home a week later I started to play with the color palette—just tentatively, mind you. My historically correct, shiny black front door suddenly looked—well, correct, and frankly just black. I’m not sure that Newport, Rhode Island is ready for marigold and cobalt and pillarbox red. But I’m ready. Ready to splash out and reclaim my front door. Who knows what color it will end up—it will be a work in progress until I decide.

And when I’m done I hope I’ll catch someone lurking in the street taking a photo of my less than correct and no longer black front door. They may even be bold enough to walk up my front steps and knock on it.