Your Door

This weekend I explored a site just off Sheikh Zayed Road in Dubai. It is a small residential area behind the Burj Khalifa, but no high rise buildings grace its streets of desert sand. A reminder of another era, it will probably disappear with time, but until then its architecture and in particular its doors, have stories to tell. 

What  struck me in this area was the use of color.  The desert sand was offset by shades of yellow, pink, blue, green and purple, making bold statements to all who cared to notice. Children, with big red ice lollies in hand, ran barefoot as they played in the heat of the late afternoon sun, making sure they got out of the way of approaching cars when necessary.

One scene in particular captured my attention as well as my imagination. 

What lay behind the pink doors with the green arches? The mats outside them did not appear to be there to wipe one’s feet on, but seemed to me to be ideal for sitting on and sliding down the heap of sand against the wall. Was the old cushion at the top of the heap there for the king/queen of the castle, and if children had been playing there, where were they now? Had they run inside to watch a favorite TV program? The many satellite dishes on the rooftop looked promising. If one knocked, who would open the door?

Despite the barrenness all around, I suspected that someone lived nearby who enjoyed gardening. The tiny little flowers in the clearly demarcated area around the bush spoke of tenderness and care.

This was someone’s “here”. It was very different to mine, but in the taking of the photograph our worlds met for a brief moment. 

Wherever I go, I enjoy photographing doors. This time was no exception. Doors speak of history and culture and allude to the inhabitants behind them. They are the point of transition from one space to another. Many people use thresholds of doors to remind them to be mindful. The pause between each breath is a threshold too, an exit and an entrance. 

The portal here2here is not only a call to acknowledge and invite the other in, but also a call to acknowledge the self.  The doors that shut the other out also keep us enclosed and prevent us from discovering who we truly are.  

Derek Walcott, in his poem, “Love After Love”, speaks of meeting yourself at your own door: 

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you have ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life. 

(I have put up a reading of the first part of this blog on Blurb Mobile )