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TRunna [2014-10-01 16:44:01 +0000 UTC]

Lovely!

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phantomessangel13 [2014-09-30 19:27:42 +0000 UTC]

First, I'm sorry I haven't been able to comment recently. My days have been overly filled with a myriad of things that have taken my attention away from commenting on your work. Though, that's not to say I haven't seen your work or had a chance to look, mind you. Indeed I have. And today, for a moment, at least, I have the opportunity to take a stab at remarking on your work.

And THIS picture was the first one my eyes honed in on. At first I was struck by the notion that the green pain was moss. I don't right know WHY I thought this, but I did. It certainly lent to my imagination conjuring up thoughts of "The Secret Garden' and then I was giddy with delight. 

Even after I realized that the green was peeling paint, it only heightened this notion of a secret hideaway. The pain contrasts nicely with the wood beneath the surface, giving it a neglected, yet memorable feeling to it. The color of the paint itself suggests, at least to my imagination, that there was something significant about this place, something special. 

And then the knob.

Broken, painted, and yet still shining in some strange way that draws your attention towards it. The glistening surface of the broken knob seemed to highlight this idea that this place, whatever it was, held a special meaning. The doorway to a forgotten memory, if you will.

Yes, I realize I'm waxing overly descriptive, but I cannot be helped. 

My favorite part, however, was the keyhole. It's so unique, so intricate and individual. It's the perfect notion for a secret. There's only one key that could fit in there, only one person who would know what was behind that door. 

It really is beautiful and interesting and engaging and I'm always fascinated by pictures like this. So, thank you for sharing it with me. 

Gah, anyway, before my imagination gets away with me again, I'll leave this quote with you from the book. It really reminded me of this: 

It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. She put the key in and turned it. It took two hands to do it, but it did turn.

And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming. No one was coming. No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly–slowly.

Then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight.

She was standing inside the secret garden.

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