As I was busy polishing up Iron Genie in my lovely studio, in preparation for its installation at the Museum of the History of Science, Oxford, I stepped out onto the balcony, and saw some people looking up at the plaque about the poet W. B. Yeats, who had lived here between 1895 and 1919. On greeting them, I discovered that they were a very literary and erudite group of friends: Niall, Julie and David, so I invited them in for wine. Imagine my delight when I subsequently found this post on Niall McDevitt’s blog:
Last night after attending the private view of BEYOND FAIRYTALES at the Hardy Tree Gallery, I took my girlfriend Julie and my friend David to see Yeats’ flat at Woburn Buildings. We were in luck. Beyond the Yeats balcony in the Yeats room itself, we saw a figure at work.
As I was telling the story of how Yeats came to live in the otherworldly Euston abode, the figure came onto the balcony and began listening. She then spoke to us from her vantage point, saying she knew very little about the Irish poet. I told her she was standing in the very room where Yeats lost his virginity, this the poet who claied sex and death were the only things worth writing about. She invited us up.
This is one of those rare rewards for the indefatigable urban explorer, who almost always has to be satisfied with facades. It’s…
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