In Florence there are endless things to photograph. Incredible churches, statues, views. We took pictures of these things too. But the best part for me was turning onto the first street.
I saw a door. And so it went:
Was it hard not to knock on these doors? Incredibly. And also, doors remind me of stories, brief moments, possibility. Here's one.
When I was 21 maybe, or 22, I was fixated on liminal spaces, thresholds and what's behind every door. I loved that period of time: my mind overflowing with every paralyzing possibility. It was age appropriate and appropriately exhausting. Smack in the middle of those years, I had an ex-boyfriend say to me: seeing you again is like a thousand doors opening and then there's light and then there's you.
Before you get all worked up, let me clarify: I'm fairly certain he was drunk and speaking literally (ie: I walked into a dark room). It wasn't mean to woo me and I don't even think it was a compliment. At the time he was not, to put it mildly, my biggest fan. Regardless, the line stuck with me.
I took my third trip to Italy during those years and after living in Florence for a semester in high school, I distinctly remember it feeling flat and underwhelming. That dull memory is what made this trip thrilling. I've probably passed by these exact doors tens of times (many were on my daily walk to school circa 1995) though I have no memory of them.
Yet here they are waiting, not willing me to knock or walk through them. Just being. Absolutely beautiful and brilliant. I get to scoop them up with the camera and dream, all age-appropriately, of how I can incorporate them into our next home.
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