Decorator's Handbook: Project Steps

Never ignore your stairs. Many will tell you that a staircase is a staircase is a staircase, but I say your steps can be a wonderful window to your personality.

(I totally think the same goes for hallways, but I don’t have one of those just yet)

My loft is many things, including tiny and badly laid out, but it’s got some great stairs. Imagine this, if you will: open the front door to a small landing, with six steps up directly ahead of you, and eight steps down to your left. The steps going up lead to the bedroom, and the steps down, to the living room.

For starters, I’m a huge fan of the floor on my landing. It was one of the few things I splurged on, with my limited budget, when it was time to pick the finishes for my place. That was long before I moved in and very fortunately, the result was a happy one. My landing is covered in the most marvelous chocolate brown stone tile, happy happy joy joy.

A little more unfortunately, my steps are covered in light beige carpet. Boo. I’m not a fan of carpet, but the alternative, all wood flooring, cost megabucks that I didn’t have. But to make things all better again, the railing alongside the steps is some very charming painted white wood.

When you’re standing on the landing and look upstairs, you don’t see much. That’s because it’s a very enclosed space, it is; if it was open, right next to the stairs, on the second floor, would be my bedroom. But since that half-wall that gives the initial loft concept its name starts on the outside, and not in, that’s what’s on the side. I painted the outside of that chocolate brown.

When I said my loft is badly laid out, I wasn’t kidding. At the top of my stairs is a space that’s too big to leave empty, yet too small to fit anything substantial. What’s that all about? So, after much deliberation and tearing out of hair, I thought it a great cranny to fit my tallboy.

Oh, my tallboy. How I love it, bought at an outlet, all shiny sleek black with silver vintage-y handles on the drawers. It’s a fantastic piece rendered almost useless by its too-shallow drawers, a throwback to contemporary furniture. I forgive all its shortcomings by the sheer beauty of just being able to look at it. Gorgeous piece. I commend myself highly on its purchase.

On top of my tallboy is a white doily. I call it that because that’s what one calls a piece of fabric placed on top of furniture or a plate; just understand that I hate frilly shit, and my doilies are never frilly. I got my square, white, sheer doily at a vintage store for next to nothing, and it’s on top of the tallboy for a reason.

On the doily is the only garage sale item I have ever taken home in my entire life: a brown vintage typewriter. A good decade ago I was walking through the West Village just after getting my hair done, when I passed by a corner house in full garage sale mode.

I never stop at garage sales; you can decide if that’s a good or bad habit. But that day as I was walking by their hedge, my foot brushed something. I looked down and saw the most beautiful old typewriter.

A middle-aged wiry Englishman/bloke made his way towards me when I inquired about it; it was his typewriter, over a hundred years old he said, and he’d been putting it out at garage sales for years. At the last minute though, he’d always take it back. Too attached to the piece, you see. That’s why it’d been under the hedge, and as a writer, he just couldn’t part with that beloved machine.

I told him I totally understood, being a hopeful writer myself; we chatted for a few minutes and then, out of the blue, he gave me his typewriter. Gave it to me, just like that. Up and down I refused, but the man insisted. “The only reason I could never part with it, really, is because I didn’t trust anyone else with it. But I know a writer will treasure it. You’ll give it a good home.”

Through several moves, that typewriter has come with me. It weighs a ton but it’s great to look it. I’ll never write a book with it, of that I’m positive, but I’ll always wonder about the sheets of paper and words that did come out of it. It adorns my tallboy with pride.

Beside the typewriter, to its back right corner, is one more ornamentation that I threw together at the last minute: my now very dried up maid-of-honour bouquet from Oli’s wedding. It looks great in the small glass vase that once housed her centerpieces.

Looking down from my landing is a different story altogether. To your left is my chocolate brown wall with my two very long windows, ornamented in thick, white waffle drapes. The same drapes cover the window on my door, in Roman blind style. I really wanted Roman blinds for the windows too, but the moron installer kept insisting that the height of my windows would wear on the drapery track. Boo again.

The wall that ends my square footage, your view from the top of the stairs, I’m very happy with. Right beside my loft bedroom is a piece of wall with a shelf built right in, which I thought would be a great place for an objet, some art, anything funky. My something funky turned out to be a silver and brass astrolabe.

Underneath that is the corner belonging to my main floor, and in that corner I have several things. To your left, the minute you hit the bottom of the steps, is a very simple black and silver coat rack, the kind you anchor right into the wall. Hung on it, for now, is a red paisley cashmere scarf with red faux fur pompoms. I love that scarf, and thought it made the space look more fun.

Under that, nestled in the corner, is my porcelain French umbrella bucket. I only call it French because it’s got some painting on it, vis a vis Paris before the Art Deco age, and inside it are several umbrellas. Just a bit over from that, directly underneath the astrolabe, is my tall black wall mirror. And on the floor, beside the mirror, are two very tall Michael Aram silver candlesticks that look like tree branches, complete with two very tall white taper candles.

Just over from that, going into my living room, is the black French cabinet I got at that secondhand store last year, which is in turn bedecked with a white doily, silver and glass Indian lantern, and two black frames. One has a picture of Oli and Corey on their wedding day; the other is of my parents, circa 1969, when they were in Schlossburg, Germany.

When I open the door to my loft now, when I look up and then down at these little things that make all the difference, I love what I see. I feel at home.

That's a good thing.