What an invention, the one with the door!
I would put doors on everything, including the field, not because of the practical nature of knowing when you leave and when you enter, but because of its symbolic nature.
You know: the doors that open to you in life, those that close, those that hit you in the face... We could write down our existence counting those of the doors of the houses in which we have lived: the one in the room childhood bathroom, for example, with frosted glass, also mistakenly known as opaque, because through them the blurred silhouette of naked bodies could be seen.
The body as a shadow, as a lump of darkness, as a blur that we would dedicate ourselves to cleaning for the rest of our lives.
The door of the parents' bedroom, behind which the mysteries of flesh and origins took place.
The one with the three-body cabinets in which all the horror in the world could fit.
Those of the cinemas of adolescence, those of suburban buses, those of the subway, the doors of luxury restaurants, of expensive hotels, of cheap brothels, the revolving doors of banks, those of elevators, the of Atocha, the gates of heaven and hell and the always ajar doors of Stephen King's novels.
It is normal that the doors in the image have been sold at a good price on Wallapop, not so much because they were attributed to Gaudí as because of the illusion that behind each of them something began to happen at the very moment that we placed them in a frame and start looking through the keyhole.
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