Stairs are a Baroque thing. Until the 16th and 17th centuries in the western tradition, stairs inside buildings were rarely meant to be seen. They were a means to get from floor to floor. It was not until the sculptor Michelangelo Buonarotti, faced with an odd circumstance at the Laurentian Library in Florence, that the stair came out of the closet. Auspiciously (or inauspiciously?) he turned it into an opportunity to invest in movement--a kind of controlled agitation-- in the composition and experience of a room or sequence of rooms.
Before then stairs, or steps really, were only mostly seen on the outside of buildings, a custom inherited from ancient days when temples, churches and monuments were lifted off the ground to reflect their elevated status as the most important buildings around. Around the 15th century, as societies increasingly turned their attention toward secular endeavors (palaces, villas, museums, theaters, city halls, libraries, schools, hospitals and so on), the most important buildings in town began to have multiple floors.
The stairs that linked those floors rarely enjoyed prominence or even visibility until after Buonarotti’s library unleashed a trend that has lasted to this day—the out-in-the-open stair treated at once as a place to be, an object to look at, an occasion for an entrance or other staged drama. In America, we live with this heritage perhaps most ubiquitously in the form of the stair-in-the-entry-hall that is the must-have of any McMansion worth its asking price.
Then buildings became stairs. Adolf Loos at the Muller House in Prague in 1930 staged a domestic interior that had not before been seen. He offset and stepped floors, rooms no longer discrete but open to one another, interiors arranged as a stage set (you could see diagonally across, up and down sequences of “spaces” ) manifesting a dramatic even slightly unsettling visual effect. He called this technique Raumplan. He claimed the technique was driven by function (rooms placed and sized according to purpose) though clearly there was more at play. He was after the effect.
In America over the next fifty years, stepped, open-ended compositions dominated the character of architecture from Paul Rudolph in the east to Ray Kappe in the west and in the incarnation with which we are most familiar the “split-level” house that first proliferated across the suburbs in the 1950s. By now, the orthodoxy of spatial indeterminacy has indurated into a mindset, a visual habit, a fixation with maybe even an addiction to the uncanny, levitation, flux, the drama of action caught fixed in place. We see it manifested in the gestural free form, biomorphic and neo-constructivist architecture of our time.
Buonarotti’s predecessors and his contemporaries, such as Bramante in the south and Palladio in the north, employed the classical language of architecture and its decorative motifs in a measured way, mathematically calibrated, with relationships of parts (ratios) nested within one another (proportion) to create an environment at rest, unchanging and eternal. Their purpose was to focus our attention as we moved through these environments on the underlying harmony of the world and our relationship with it (and by extension the cosmos). The decoration was more than embellishment, it had an articulating role.
Buonarotti was a restless artist. He insisted he was a sculptor, although obviously he was at home as a painter and an architect. As a sculptor, his life’s work was to infuse life into inert stone. It jumped species when he anthropomorphized the classical language of architecture—columns posed like figures within frames, capitals and brackets squeezed and stretched like muscles and tendons, stairs that appear to move up or down. The decoration had an expressive role, it was flesh on bones.
Frank Gehry, among others, lamented the late-modern propensity to apply expensive materials to boring buildings and he was right. There is a difference between stasis and stagnation. It was lazy to rely on marble veneers and wood panels to fulfill the role of ornament in the pursuit of “honest” design or “understated elegance” and deadening. He, among others, instead commandeered modern technology and common materials to create exciting, restless buildings, full of life, with a kind of spontaneity and fluidity that even surpasses the drama of the Baroque. The buildings are the decoration.
If, though, when we simultaneously censor ourselves (embellishment, bad) and indulge ourselves (drama, good) in the unceasing quest for excitement, do we miss out? Does constant excitement dull our senses? Do we cease to attend to our environment in any other than superficial ways? The Palladian interior is neither minimalist nor boring—it is (anticipating Einstein’s cosmic fields) a field of forces that integrates the human body in the experience of it, not as a spectator but as a participant. While we lament the loss of craft, craftspeople and craftsmanship, we nevertheless are confident that with AI, Robotics and 3-D printing we will find our footing again, recover not the classical language of architecture but still the ability to articulate environments at rest that are also not dead.