I've had two rooms in my life, and both featured a Waterhouse painting. Currently, The Tempest hangs above my bed. I was staring up at it the other day, and suddenly wondered what my favorite art reveals about my subconscious.*
For one, Miranda is a dreamy, cloistered innocent. She's standing there, looking out to sea, waiting. The outside world rushes on, but Miranda is content with her island.
But better than analyzing my previous companion, The Lady of Shallot. The Lady is (again) cloistered, this time in a tower, where she weaves, night and day. Alright ... then she sees Lancelot through her magical glass, looks down to Camelot, and the curse comes upon her. She promptly dies. Oh, goody. That's fantastic.
So what's on your wall?
*One-eye-twinkling. My mother graduated with a psychology degree, which she now regards as One Hundred Percent Worthless, so in our household, psychological dissections are seen for What They Are.