There is a little closet door in the corner of my kitchen. It has been unpainted since May when it was installed. It covers the electrical switches for the barn.
Ever since it was installed, it has been whispering to me.
"Paint me. DO something with me."
I prepared breakfasts, made polenta, cleaned the floors. And ignored the whispering little closet door. Frankly, when inanimate objects talk to me, I tend to ignore them. But it continued.
"I HATE being the ugliest thing in the kitchen. What is a little door to do?"
The season came to an end. The unpainted door started getting a little belligerent.
"Paint me, bitch."
I chose purple, titanium white and olive green. An abstract design.
When I finished, the door sighed. "Well, you painted me."
"What? You don't like it?"
" You never were very good with graphics."
I was starting to get a little fed up with the little door.
"I want to be beautiful, not a design statement".
"And I want to look old and wise beautiful. Not young and new rich beautiful."
Hmm. The door is testing me, I thought. I said, "How about I rub some oil paints into your surface?"
"How should I know? I'm just the door. You're supposed to be the artist."
"Don't roll your eyes at me."
"Hello, I'm a slab of, of, WOOD. No eyes, get it? No eyes."
So I rubbed and sponged and rubbed some more. The door started to hum.
And from a hum came a melody and from the melody a song.
My door had become the reincarnation of Ertha Kitt .
" I am feeling so GOOD about myself now. No longer the little door in the corner, only good to cover the ugly stuff. I am beautiful and wise and I can make you LOOK at me."
" The guests would probably think I had lost my mind if they could hear us talking to eachother."
"I have a little secret for you. Some of them already think you're a sandwich short of a picnic. When you are an unfinished little door, people say things in front of you."
I thought about the two cans of black spray paint I had in the my studio. It was getting very tempting.