I’m sitting in my lounge right now, on the sofa enjoying a coffee and the bliss of school holidays, and I can see the picture I bought the very first time I went to Beijing. I was by myself, and I went to the Panjiayuan market on Saturday morning. There were students there selling their artworks, laid out in neat lines on clean cotton on the dirty concrete.
The one I finally chose is not much different from the dozens that were on display that day. Someone must have set an assignment on old doorways that year, or maybe there was some fashion that I was missing. It shows a doorway, old and battered, with red paint peeling off in strips. The door is closed, shut tight against the noise and bustle of the alleyway it probably faces.
I saw dozens of these doors when I was in Beijing, navigating the hutongs and soaking up the atmosphere. I love the possibilities of them, the way they keep their secrets, so different to the brash white tiles of modern building.
