If Doors Could Tell Stories

When I travel, I’m often drawn to doors. I photograph them obsessively, not just for their design, but for their clues. I later paint them, not just as facades, but as layered narratives. A door is never just a functional object, it’s a symbol, a signal, a transition.

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Architecturally, doors are often where the story begins. They orient the body, guide movement, and reveal intention. We instinctively understand their hierarchy: grand double doors framed by archways at institutions and cathedrals, humble, weather-worn thresholds at homes, brightly colored entries tucked into narrow alleys. The size, material, and detailing of a door tell you who is welcome, and how.

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In architecture, we often create hierarchy around the entry to guide people toward the threshold; sometimes with scale, sometimes with shadow or light. At times, this emphasis grows so strong that it stretches upward, lifting the eye toward the roofline. These formal gestures, pediments, towers, and spires all work to announce something important: this is where your story begins.

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To cross a threshold is to move from one chapter to the next, from public to private, from stranger to guest, from observer to participant. Whether it’s the squeaky screen door at a grandmother’s cottage or the solemn, heavy portal of a historic courthouse, a door always marks the beginning of something.

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So yes, I believe doors can tell stories. But even more, I believe they invite us to write our own.