You slow down without meaning to — something about that porch, the kind that makes a person want to sit a minute before knocking.
The front door carries the piece: warm wood against cool gray stone, a gabled roof above and a wide blue sky behind, wide enough to hold a whole day.
This one began as a commission — someone's actual home in Denver, painted so they could carry it with them wherever they landed next.
Imagine it hung somewhere you pass on your way out the door each morning — small enough to almost miss, present enough that some mornings it stops you anyway.
A home, the moment before someone opens the door and calls you in.
You slow down without meaning to — something about that porch, the kind that makes a person want to sit a minute before knocking.
The front door carries the piece: warm wood against cool gray stone, a gabled roof above and a wide blue sky behind, wide enough to hold a whole day.
This one began as a commission — someone's actual home in Denver, painted so they could carry it with them wherever they landed next.
Imagine it hung somewhere you pass on your way out the door each morning — small enough to almost miss, present enough that some mornings it stops you anyway.
A home, the moment before someone opens the door and calls you in.