We stumbled on this wonderful gate
on a walk in Inner Sunset the other day. It was all the more remarkable for its setting: the doorway of a completely nondescript row house.
Iron gates are an ugly, forbidding necessity, so we always feel grateful when someone's bothered to temper their 'keep out' message with a little love. This ironwork is so playful and gestural (like scribbles in the air) it feels welcoming. We found ourselves wondering who lives in the house. The smith him- or herself?