A line that lasts until somebody walks in
An overhead plan of a threshold with the poured line already scuffed open, drawn in the register of a builder's drawing and containing its own undoing.
A doorway seen from directly above. Hatched wall blocks at both ends, a double-ruled sill across the full width, the door leaf standing open at the left under its quarter-circle swing arc.
Inside the sill lies a band of sand-coloured grains, poured to an even thickness end to end.
Right of centre the band stops. A fan of loose grains sprays up into the room, and a dashed line carries the pour across the gap.
Why is a doorway drawn from directly above?
Because that is the drawing a builder makes of an opening, and the print borrows it wholesale.
The hatched blocks at either end are wall in section, the doubled line is a sill, the quarter-circle is the arc the leaf sweeps as it opens. Each is a convention with a fixed meaning, used here at its ordinary weight. What sits inside them is not a fitting, not a dimension, not anything a builder would draw — it's a handful of grains someone tipped out along a board.
The friction is entirely in that mismatch. A gesture that takes a moment has been recorded in the notation reserved for things that get built, and the notation doesn't flinch.
Why is the line already broken?
Because the design contains what happens to it, and the answer is the first person through the door.
Right of centre the even band gives out. Grains have been dragged forward and thrown up in a fan into the room — the shape a shoe leaves, spraying in the direction of travel. Nothing else on the print moves.
Everything else fixed at the places a house is open is hardware: iron, wood, glass, brick, driven or sealed or nailed and then left. This is loose material on a board. It was finished the moment it was laid and it was going to be walked through, and the drawing includes the walking through rather than picturing the line intact.
What is the dashed line across the gap doing?
It is carrying the band across the break — and it is notation, not something on the floor.
A dashed line in a plan means continuation, hidden or intended: the part you can't see, the part that belongs there. Nobody drew dashes on the boards. Somebody reading the floor decided the pour still counts as continuous across the place where it was scuffed away, and wrote that decision into the drawing — a small act of interpretation inside an otherwise mechanical plan, and the one mark here that isn't reporting a physical fact.
Why does it matter that this one is made of grains?
Because it is the version with an expiry, and everything around it was made to stay.
A shoe walled into brickwork or a stoppered jar counted out and buried under a hearth is a single afternoon's work that outlasts the person who did it — the whole point of sealing something in is that it never gets touched again. A poured line is the opposite arrangement. It sits on the surface, uncovered, in the one place in the house that gets crossed most.
So it belongs to a different kind of labour: not one job finished and hidden, but one that comes back. The drawing catches it partway through its short life, which is the condition it spends most of that life in.
Who owns a plan of a threshold?
Nobody. A hatched wall block, a sill and a swing arc are drawing conventions, and grains are grains.
There's no house here — the width, the door position, the pour were all invented for the print. What does carry an owner is a record of a specific real one: a surveyed floor plan from a published study, a photograph of a real doorway, somebody's field notes. Licensing that is ordinary when a particular building is the point, and none of this needed it.
Style has no owner. A work does. Anyone can draw in plan; a specific published plan is somebody's.
Why is the panel empty above and below the sill?
Because the subject is one opening wide, and the empty ground keeps it that way.
There's no room beyond the sill, no hallway, no furniture, no exterior. The frame holds a threshold and the width of a threshold, which is what stops the print becoming a picture of a house with a detail in it. Two horseshoes drawn with nothing at the left and right edges hold their subject the same way.
The same plan takes a back door, a gate, a hatch, a stair foot — anywhere with a sill and a leaf that swings. What changes is the width of the band and where the break falls.
Does it print well?
Yes, with one thing to keep an eye on: the grains.
The linework is ideal for fabric — flat black, hard edges, the 45-degree hatching evenly spaced and nothing softened. Two inks does the whole print: black for the plan, a sand tone for the pour. The band is where the weave can eat the design, because a scatter of tiny separate circles at the resolution a pen would draw them turns into a smear of pale tan. Drawn coarser and fewer, at a size the cloth can hold, the fan reads as individual particles thrown forward. White and bone garments give the sand tone somewhere to sit.
How do I get one made?
Describe the doorway at JustOG — how wide the sill runs, which way the leaf swings, and where the line gives out. Pick a direction, drag the crop frame, see it composited on the real garment, and it's made to order and shipped.
Designs other people have published are in the shop.
The band is even along its whole length, right up to the point where a shoe went through it.