Pressed into the grain of a wooden door is the memory of every hand that has pushed against it, every person that has stepped beneath it’s lintel, every couple that has leant against it for a lingering kiss.
The pressures of time are not the same for a timber portal. For first it was a tree, and saw the forest grow up around it and with it. Seeing seasons come and go. Till one day a man with an axe came and saw it could be something else. Once felled, it sat on a workbench, waiting to be carved into something new. Shaped, cut and nailed together. Maybe painted? Maybe sanded and varnished? Designed to be the perfect size to fill a void in a house, church, library, school, museum or castle. To stand as a witness to all that happens within and without, of what its protecting.
To watch babies being born and the passing of souls. Observing meals around big tables, with laughter and companionship. Looking upon arguments and reconciliation. Providing warmth and guardianship.
And every person that touches it leaves a little part of themselves behind. Engrained into the wood. Turning a door into a temporal container of memories.
Above is a door that sits in the town of Pubol in Spain. In this town lived Salvador Dali and just maybe he touched that door. But the door has been there much longer than his life, so what other wonders has it seen? What secrets of history does it keep buried within it’s heart?
We can touch the doors of history and know that they have witnessed the passing of things we might like to see. We can touch them and imagine we are in that moment. That we are connecting with the past by laying our hands on doors that have many laid hands upon before.
To turn the handle on a wooden door, lay your hands on it’s planks, and walk beneath it’s beams, is to add yourself to history and connect to the future.