As a child, I was unnerved by our attic. Every Christmas, when my father climbed its ladder to retrieve a box of tinsel or lights, I cowered from that dark space, afraid of whatever unseen thing I knew lived up there. Our attic was not the charming variety where make-believe stirs young imagination, but was rather – in the spirit of Jane Eyre– like the realm of a madwoman. Indeed, in art as well as literature, attics often represent metaphysical spaces. An ascent into this space can be translated as a descent into one's own psyche.