#75, Boerum Hill, Brooklyn
Doors like these are the architectural equivalent of that "when I am an old woman I shall wear purple" poem, your neighborhood's own equivalent of the old dear tottering around in a "red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me". On the one hand, you want to applaud the old broad for not giving a toss what the world thinks of her gobbling up samples in the shops and pressing the alarm bells at inappropriate times. On the other, you want to scream in her ear: "Stop pressing the alarm bells! Terrible shirts are not life's answer to sticking it to the youth-obsessed establishment! Sit down! You are making my eyes hurt!" So you may think similar thoughts as you pass your own neighborhood's "unique" door, sign, lawn ornament, or window decoration.
Lovable eyesores. Every neighborhood has them. I can think of dozens of these from my daily walk: the giant plush German shepherd dog in a window on Clinton Street, the bloated inflatable seasonal displays that decorate the apartment on Sackett Street, this duo of hue-screamers on Bond Street. Then you get, a few paces down, this more sedate, subdued, inexplicably dull chocolate-dipped 75C. It is as if the building had been firmly instructed to tone it down and the owner painted the remaining door the blandest shade imaginable:
Interestingly, it is often the eyesores that I remember most from my youth: that giant 50 near my doctor's office, my next door neighbor's 2-car garage decorated with "HIS" and "HERS" (the clincher was that - the store must have run out of "I"s - the "HIS" half of the garage was actually labeled "H1S". There was also a bright pink barn that was Klemm's nursery.
I'm curious to know: When you think about your own neighborhoods, past and present, what are the lovable eyesores you see? And do you mostly love them or despise them for daring to be, er, unique?