In my house

I wondered what to do with this corner construction of two lovely dark green pieces of wood. It was an intriguing green, quite comforting, yet the corner business felt stifling. Cosy, but a dead end. It needed to be attached to something else to give it that doorway aspect(and hang it on the wall), but opening it up to have a window or some such was not right either. How to get the eye to keep going in around the corner without getting bored, or afraid? Painting a figure on the front was helpful in getting some attention. It created a passage on top of the passage. Isn't that how life feels at times? We experience moving or going somewhere as a story, an image or narrative to guide us down the hall, pre-recognizing something familiar yet it often ends up being quite different. Still our idea kept us going and there are connections; the story can help bring us to what is actually there. This feels very important to me, an acceptance and honouring of what we have and its transient nature. Then there is the entrance itself, a symbol confronting rational notions of time. The white wall I had attached to give the corner some substance also directs one towards the deadend. It needed something but I would not consider painting on it. I casually placed one of the cutout remnants I had kicking around onto the off white. Pale green, a leftover, negative bit, that had a very torso and hung meat look to it. One could not help but think Francis Bacon. Lorraine stopped by and she moved it a little, as if it had just sidled onto the white board, saying "oh that is perfect". It was. It had movement, it was impersonal but universal. The figure(me) on the front had a dead companion to accompany her. The corner is dark and grisly, comforting and familiar. It is all that I am. The house and the door.