Knock, knock.

People sometimes dream of silly things, without being able to explain why. When I was a little girl I dreamt of having on the front door of my house (when I grew up, of course) a door knocker like a lion’s head. I suppose it sounded romantic, instead of those boring “ding-dong” doorbells that you have in Finland.

Never even in my less romantic dreams did I imagine finding one day a lion’s head knocker with a skull in the handle; even less that I’d one day have probably the largest collection of door knocker photographs in Portugal. They simply mesmerize me. I can’t walk past a rusty or a shiny knocker without taking a photo of it. I just can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. I imagine the people who live(d) in those houses, the people who came knocking, what they wanted, what they got; did they ever have a look at the knocker before grasping it, how did the metal feel in their hands, cool, hot? 

My dream hasn't come true yet, there's no knocker on my door, lion's head or any other. Not yet, anyway.  

Lion's head holding a skull. 

Angeiras, Matosinhos, Portugal, 2010

Been knocked too many times. 

Porto, 2010

If I touch it, will it turn into rusty dust?

Vila do Conde, 2011.