Halfway Down the Stairs

The Tate Britain re-opened in its full glory today, following a massive refurbishment. Apparently one of the highlights is the new staircase:

Tate Britain, Millbank, London (Image source)

And don't we, as a species, just love a good staircase?

Wells Cathedral, Somerset (Image source)

Tulip Staircase, Queen's House, Greenwich (Image source)

Nelson Stair, Somerset House, Westminster (Image source: David Holt London)

Tassel House, Brussels (Image source)

De la Warr Pavilion, Bexhill-on-Sea, Sussex (Image source) 

What is it about staircases that we find so appealing? Is it simply the graceful sweeping form of a curved stair, and the pleasing angles and geometry of those that are square on plan? Or is the sense of anticipation in not knowing what lies around the next bend or on the next landing? Or is it the underlying feeling of wonder for the mathematics and physics that appeals to us on some subconscious level, even if we aren't engineers? Or it it that slight sense of exhilaration in being able to move across planes and spaces in ways that would not be possible, were it not for these structures?

Whatever the case, I certainly think there is something more profound than pure aesthetics that gives us a sense of awe and great pleasure on encountering a particularly noteworthy, or even a relatively average staircase.

M.C. Escher's Relativity (Image source)

And that, my dear readers, is what I call a tangent - from a gallery re-opening to waxing philosophical about staircases. Though I did manage to draw it back to art with Escher there.

But do pitch in, what is your favourite staircase? Is it a simple stone medieval spiral staircase? A sweeping marble Baroque palace staircase, with ornate gilded balusters? A clean white, sleekly formed Modernist staircase? Or is it something more humble, like your carpeted, timber staircase at home?

With that last thought, let me leave you with an old favourite poem, which might indeed say a little more about the simple appeal of staircases:

Halfway Down

(A.A. Milne)

Halfway down the stairs

is a stair

where I sit.

There isn't any 

other stair

quite like 

it.

I'm not at the bottom,

I'm not at the top;

so this is the stair

where 

I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs

isn't up

and it isn't down.

It isn't in the nursery,

it isn't in town.

And all sorts of funny thoughts

run round my head.

It isn't really

anywhere!

It's somewhere else

instead!

Come Away, O Human Child!

Me at Glen-Car waterfall, Co. Sligo
Dress: Hand-me-down from my Mama
Cardigan: Gift from my Mama
Belt: Beyond Retro, London
Shoes: Jones Bootmaker

The Stolen Child

(W.B. Yeats)

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats,

Full of berrys

And of the reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Clew Bay, Westport, Co. Mayo

Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim gray sands with light,

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Till the moon has taken flight.

To and fro we leap

And chase the frothy bubbles,

While the world is full of troubles

And anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

My beautiful Mama, a true faery, at Glen-Car

Where the wandering water gushes

From the hills above Glen-Car, 

In pools among the rushes

That scarce could bathe a star, 

We seek for slumbering trout

And whispering in their ears

Give them unquiet dreams; 

Leaning softly out 

From ferns that drop their tears

Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. 

Castlerock beach, Co. Derry

Away with us he's going,

The solemn-eyed:

He'll hear no more the lowing

Of the calves on the warm hillside

Or the kettle on the hob

Sing peace into his breast,

Or see the brown mice bob

Round and round the oatmeal chest.

For he comes, the human child, 

To the waters and the wild 

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

Clew Bay wildflowers

A love letter from Ireland! I spent a few days there with my parents, discovering and falling in love with that wonderful wee island, from whence my father's family harks a few generations back. We stayed in my ancestors' wee town in County Donegal, but also explored parts of Mayo, Derry and Sligo, including a stop at the waterfalls mentioned in the Yeats poem above. It was all rather magical...