I'm a sucker for things hanging from the ceiling. I don't know why. I remember going to an art exhibit at BYU which consisted of hundreds of tiny white paper boats hanging from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly. I stood and stared and swooned.
When Sam and I were on our honeymoon in DC, we sat in the Calder room at the ... what, Smithsonian? Okay, I can't remember the museum, but there was a room full of Alexander Calder mobiles and we sat on a bench against the back wall, watching for a very long while. They made these gorgeous, moving colored shadows on the tall walls, and I rested my head on Sam's shoulder, and we whispered about how happy we were to be together and how pretty the room was. That has to be one of my favorite memories. Maybe that's part of why I'm so obsessed.
If I had my way (and maybe someday I will), we would have something hanging from every inch of our ceiling. And I would just sit with my head turned up, smiling. All day long. That's what I would do. That would be the life. Do you think someone would pay me for that?
Right now we have one mobile, hanging above our bed. It's this one.
We bought it in London at the Tate gallery. I find it endlessly beautiful. When I wake up in the morning, it's the first thing I see, and I don't have my glasses on so it looks like this fuzzy colorful presence floating above my head. There's a draft in our room, so it's always twirling a little for me. And if I look at it for long enough, everything seems okay.