Wider antlers in iron, spreading almost the width of a door, the tines turning up at intervals to take whatever you give them.
The casting keeps the grain of the mould, so the surface reads closer to bark than to paint and changes as the light moves round the room. Garden tools, hats, a coil of twine, the coats that never make it past the threshold: all of it hangs here and the piece looks better for being used.
Fit it where the house meets the garden, in a porch, a potting room, a rough walled passage with flagstones underfoot. Against old timber it might have grown there.
