Hi folks! I hope that you are well…
I just wanted to share a photo with you of a small door that I painted some time ago. Now that the oil paints have dried thoroughly, I am going to varnish it with shellac. The door is from an old wooden dresser of hip-height, and is a style typical of Spain (I live in Córdoba). Unfortunately, apart from having been weather-beaten and sorely neglected, it was definitely rough around the edges, a testament to its antiquity. I hadn’t mistreated it, but found it in this state lying on top of a load of rubble in a skip. I love to hunt out these small treasures and then breathe a little life into them.
So here it is:
The wood is solid beech, and it weighs about 2 kilos. (I am selling it though, if anyone’s interested…)
I couldn’t end this post without including a poem by the Indian poet, Rabindranath Tagore, who mentions a door in his lovely poem, The Gardener.
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.
Rabindranath Tagore (7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941) a Bengali from Calcutta, was poet, writer, playwright, composer, philosopher, social reformer and painter. In 1913 he became the first non-European and the first lyricist to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. His poetic songs were viewed as spiritual and mercurial; however, his «elegant prose and magical poetry» remain largely unknown outside Bengal.
For a brief biography and summary of works, see this link.
Well, that’s all for now.
Thank you for visiting. As usual, your comments are always welcome — I love to interact with my ‘visitors’.
Take care xxx