I found the reference in a library book, of all places. I was reading through Paul Clark's watercolour book, and there it was, an image of a painting of a blue wooden door, arched, tucked beneath a spill of red flowers and green leaves branching over the top. Stone steps led up to it. Part of the door caught the sun, not white exactly, just lit.
I don't know exactly why it stopped me. I've painted florals for years, loose and abstract, roses mostly. This was different. The door was the actual subject. The flowers were just there to support it, framing something else for once instead of being the whole point.
So I painted it.
Nothing about the techniques was new to me, wet-on-wet, layering, letting water do what it wants. What was different was how closely I paid attention while using them. I slowed down. I was more intentional with every decision than I usually let myself be.
The door's reflected sunlight was the hardest part. I wanted that patch of light to feel bright without going pristine white, still watercolour, still soft, just lit differently from the rest of the door. It meant holding back. Leaving it alone. Trusting that the white of the paper, mostly untouched, would do more work than another layer of pigment ever could.
I didn't know if it was working until the very end. Not halfway through, not during the flowers, not even once the steps were laid in. Just at the end, stepping back, looking at the whole thing together for the first time.
It wasn't perfect. The red flowers overlap the green leaves in a way I'm still not fully happy with, if I'm honest. For a while, that bothered me more than it probably should have. But I've come around to it. That's the strange gift of something hand-painted, it holds the moment you made it in, including the parts you'd do differently now. A print doesn't do that. A photograph doesn't do that. Only this does.
I think that's part of why I keep coming back to watercolour, even after all these years. Not because I've mastered it. I haven't, not even close. But because it keeps handing me small, honest reminders that I'm still learning, still paying attention, still capable of being surprised by my own hands.
I don't know if I'll paint another door. Maybe. For now, this one's just sitting with me, arch, light, flowers and all, exactly as imperfect as it actually is.