What is it about doorways? Is it the liminal that attracts? The threshold, with its doubled promise of access and escape? Or is it the doors themselves, the way they ride on hinges and respond to our touch? We expect that doors lead to something. We expect that by passing through doorways we have accomplished something. We arrive at or depart from a dinner party, a hotel, a restaurant, the home of a beloved friend or family member, the workplace, our own quietly familiar room. Through doors we enter or leave museums, theaters, the supermarket. Cars and buses and taxis have doors, as do airplanes and trains. Refrigerators have doors. We can lock doors or leave them open. We can slam them shut, or holding our breath close them oh so softly. I took this photo years ago in Rhode Island. The building loomed before me and I was attracted by the quirky absurdity of its three doors’ placement relative to one another and the street. Now I’m struck by what’s missing, and by the silence of inaccessibility.
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