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The Sistine Chapel, where "The Creation of Adam" hovers above, is probably the world's most iconic ceiling, but the one I know best is the ceiling I grew up under in the suburbs of the San Fernando Valley. The popcorn ceiling -- the ceiling of the people! -- was a product of the postwar building boom, designed to make imperfections easy to hide and to act as an acoustic barrier. Yes, it was also a dust trap and possibly made of asbestos; but that ceiling still has a hold on my subconscious. I can see those tiny crags with their tiny shadows. I remember the scratchy feel when grazing my hand on the surface, the fear of it flaking off on me. I can picture the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets we brought back from a field trip to the Natural History Museum and the slanted cylinder-shaped crystal prism hanging from a hook, which never got enough sun from the north-facing window to throw a rainbow but gleamed in iridescent colors.
We are told to be forever mindful of having the roof over our heads, but we collectively forgot about what happens on the flip side. We adorn walls with what we want our lives to look like, we keep totems on our desks, we scuffle and sweep our floors underfoot. The ceiling is the last thing people tend to think about. And yet the ceiling has been there all along, calling you to give it another look.
The spaces of your childhood loom large, like the music you listened to growing up. In my seventh-grade English class with Ms. Novak, the ceiling was the first thing you noticed when you walked through the door. Hand-drawn book cover posters consumed the walls...