The Eight-Year Impact of Pleiades

Pleiades floor plan at the Mattress Factory

The Observer Effect, first proposed by Werner Heisenberg, theorizes that the act of observation can alter the very existence of what is being examined. Pleiades, the permanent light installation by artist James Turrell, has resided at the Mattress Factory since 1983, and my engagement with it over the last eight years has changed my life.

In 2016, I visited Pittsburgh. 

I lived in Washington state with my husband and I did not identify as an artist. When I arrived at the Mattress Factory, Pleiades—a reservation-based experience in darkness—sparked my curiosity. Asking no questions, I signed up, intrigued by the mystery.

Walking the concrete ramp toward Pleiades, the darkness engulfed me. I took my seat, eager. My eyes strained to adjust to the pitch black. I felt, before I saw, a soft pulse of energy—light—coming forward from behind me. Though my body remained still, it was as if I was moving within a force field. I was compelled to keep my eyes open for fear of missing out.

As the pulsing ceased, a deep purple thread emerged, thin and striking, before coalescing into an orb. Tears stung my eyes from the effort of trying to see. When I blinked, the orb danced, sentient and aware of my presence. Just when I thought I could grasp it clearly, it darted away, leaving a temporary imprint on my field of vision. The orb was alive, and I felt a profound kinship—a tug deep inside my chest. But 15 minutes was not enough time to fully grasp the orb’s true nature. 

During the same visit in 2016, I participated in a guided meditation—intending to meet my future self—with a small group of strangers via Zoom. Our guide led us to enter a room in our minds and in this conceptual space, I found myself standing inside a white room with no windows and no doors. Meeting my future self within this room foreshadowed an impending transformation in my life, but I could not imagine what it might be.

When I returned to Washington, the purple orb from Pleiades haunted my dreams; it would appear behind my eyelids as I drifted into sleep. I would try to catch it, but never succeeded.

The Observer Effect resonates with me now. Pleiades altered my being, and I, in turn, altered Pleiades by removing the purple orb from it.

Fast-forward eight years, it is 2024. 

I am now a resident of Pittsburgh, I am divorced, and I identify as an artist. I am not who I was in 2016, and I am grateful. I re-entered Pleiades with anticipation of the orb, but I sought new understanding grounded in familiarity.

I used earplugs to minimize surrounding noise; to hear myself better. A persistent bright light to my left vanished when I turned toward it, and the room became a consuming mouth. I welcomed being swallowed whole. A soft, dusty rose hue permeated my vision; I questioned if it was a product of my expectations as I did not see this color the first time.

Then, the deep purple lightning struck to my right, reactivating the mystical force field. I awaited the orb’s appearance. The dusty glow never dissipated; it grew and shrunk with intensity and at its strongest, emitted a brilliant white center. I sensed another presence then and all color washed out. Was the light scared? I became vulnerable. Desiring aloneness, I opened my eyes wider, concentrating on the void. The orb briefly appeared, as if to say hello, before being absorbed into the disappearing pink haze. I confronted echoes of trauma and fear, recalling various states of feeling lost but later, the joy of being found. Gazing into Pleiades' emptiness, I summoned the elusive orb, but it did not return.

A wave of urgency about time overcame me, and I heard my own voice speak from the center of my chest. My heart whispered secrets. Time is created and I own it, and I can be here as long as I want to be, so relax, take my time as we say, so I did and I was with myself for a million years. I realized I could stay in this moment indefinitely so I relaxed, embracing an eternity within the solitude. 

The Artist & The White Room

I hadn’t investigated James Turrell prior to my visits, focusing instead on defining my encounter. However, after my second visit, I learned that he began exploring light in 1966, transforming hotel rooms into pure white spaces with no windows. He blocked external light and concentrated on projected illumination.

These white rooms bear a striking resemblance to the mental environment I created during my meditation of 2016. I do not know, nor can I prove, whether I met my future self before or after my first visit to Pleiades. However, the parallel between Turrell’s artistic method and my visualization suggests deeper connections. I am that future self now; I am the projected light within my own life—my own white room—navigating the darkness to uncover the spectrum of my existence. 

This revelation serves as a metaphor highlighting how our experiences shape our beliefs. We have the power to transform our surroundings through observation, introspection and purposeful interaction. This is central to my artistic practice; creativity can only flourish when I am brave and traverse the inner landscape. 

Memoirtistry® is a mirror to Turrell’s exploration of light. Both our works serve as catalysts for self-discovery. Healing begins within, and Pleiades invited me to address and redefine my relationship with the past; it ignited a deep reckoning with my identity. Why am I so afraid to heal? Because I have been afraid of myself—of using my own compass.

Pleiades triggered me to fall in love with my light. The installation compels each observer to face their darkness, fears, and unresolved narratives. The orb I first encountered in 2016 symbolizes more than mere fascination; the orb was me, projected outside of myself. I brought it in, which is why it followed me out.

Light and darkness coexist inside each of us, and Pleiades affirms the transformative power of art. I recognize now my capacity for growth and renewal. My relationship with Pleiades, much like my artistic practice, is an ongoing dialogue. With Memoirtistry®, I reclaim my power, paint my white rooms in whatever colors I choose while illuminating the path toward healing, creative expression, and the embodiment of my true selves. Being present holds the remedy for discomfort. Fear tells me I’m doing the work, but it is no longer running the show.

As Turrell encouraged me, so I encourage others—embrace your darkness and you’ll discover the light within. Pleiades challenges us to witness our evolving selves, recognize the power of observation, and become active participants in shaping our stories. Through this lens, the Observer Effect becomes a symbiotic relationship—art influences the observer and the observer influences the art, creating a dynamic interplay.

What will you see when you look into the void of Pleiades? And who will you be on the other side? 

A 10-Minute Slow Look at Andy Warhol

Self-Portrait, 1978, Acrylic and silkscreen ink on linen // 1988.1.806
Displayed on the 5th Floor of The Warhol in Pittsburgh, PA, on September 7, 2024.

The Art Commentary Program at Wick Monet, owned and operated by Cornelius Martin—a person for whom the artist herself is of great importance, not measured by the money to be made from the artist’s work—has changed the way I approach art and it has dramatically shifted my writing. Memoirtistry is undergoing another transformation because the experience has created new goals; being an artist, who is also an author and certified editor, practicing the art of writing art commentary has reinvigorated my natural curiosities. In the commentary, I am free to express my artistry and my love of the craft. To say I am obsessed is to say enough. I have even gone so far as to pull my own paintings from my website with a plan to reintroduce the pieces through art commentary—adding by subtracting, another layer to the investigation of Self, as artist by artist through artist.

The cohort meets once a month (for six months) to offer peer reviews of each other’s work and to engage training. Last month, we met at The Warhol Museum. After touring each floor and receiving a wealth of insight from artist and program instructor Heather Hershberger—an ardent fan of Andy’s since childhood, influenced by her mother’s love of Warhol—we were given our assignment: a 10-minute slow look at any piece, followed by an additional 10 minutes to write a commentary. We were instructed to focus on describing not only our experience but the actual work, naming the colors, shapes, form and composition in our pieces, and we were allowed to take notes.

I departed the group from the lobby and, taking the stairs in twos, ascended to the fifth floor where one of Andy’s self-portraits using his screen printing method waited for me. I set my iPad in front of the piece and saw down on the concrete, legs crossed. And I looked slowly.

I see you Andy Warhol.

Andy Warhol’s self-portrait draws me into the person behind the art—the man behind the curtain; a wizard of his own Oz. His iconic white hair is screened black; his head is layered—three faces with six eyes. The pastels of blue, green, yellow and a pink that blends into nude bring easter eggs to mind. Yellow feels an afterthought, with pink heavy on the brain. The blue hues and green—water. I drown in Andy.

There are three Andy’s to consider: one looking at, depicting a brief moment of connection, one looking away, a distant dreamer, and one looking down, focused in thought… or is he ashamed?

The paint strokes are hurried; he didn’t wait for the paint to dry before applying more. 

My two eyes focus on his nose; bulbous. I am moved to feel my own nose on my face, my index finger and thumb pinching the tip and then hugging to assess the curvature. The drips in pink around Andy’s most prominent nose, phallic. I cannot help but envision the many penises Andy has no doubt had thrust in his face, up against that nose. 

I move to the mouths of the looking at and looking away Andy’s—they cut across the penis nose like an open wound. He bleeds in pastels.

i feel alone

the way i usually feel—chronic

in nature

but happy alone

…

easter inspires happiness in death

resolute ending

only the essence of the artist remains

a third eye activates—

i see you, looking at

i’m somewhere else, looking away

inside myself, looking down

I determine the portrait of the three Andy’s are unconcerned with shame, he is zoned out, calculating, in a flow state that cannot be interrupted by observation—an artist, in process.

The Bloodmire Empire of Chiina

Poetress & Author Chiina Bloodmire at Poetry Lounge

Chiina Bloodmire, a petite human with the auric energy of a powerful giant, walked into Big Dog Coffee in Southside and joined me at the table in the front window. Our eyes met, and smiles reflected. “It’s Chiina with two i’s, the better to see you with, and Bloodmire, like vampire, a hybrid witch.” 

We eased into conversation, relating with vignettes of our daily lives. I became aware of Chiina through Millvale’s Poetry Lounge owner and independent publisher, Sean Enright. She and I were highlighted in an Instagram post advertising our upcoming book releases. 

Bloodmire didn’t consider herself a poet until December 2023, even though she’s been writing poetry for over 15 years. “It was in October [2023] that I lost my mind. Nobody knows who I am, nobody knows what I do. Nobody knows nobody knows anything. I broke down. I was not doing what makes me happy every day, which is writing.”

Her work blends mythical fiction and urban literature.

“I write about black ass people in black ass spaces, black scenarios, black magical people being black. All of my characters, everyone is black. You either understand because you're black, or you learn to understand.” 

I nodded and without hesitation, she pointed to my skin. “When I tell people of your complexion there are no white people in my stories, they either say it’s not realistic or not relatable.” 

I asked if she ever wrote white people in to “balance the score”, and we shared between us a morbid laughter. “I did write them [when I was younger],” she confessed. But she was “writing the same overplayed scenarios we see on TV, the slave bullshit.” 

In Bloodmire’s work there may be no white people, but there is also no perpetuation of slavery as acceptable narrative.

Chiina began writing in 2002, when she was 9-years old, learning the craft through text-based role playing similar to the well-known Dungeons and Dragons—a complex interactive character building and storytelling game. Becoming the master of an entire world, she cultivated a gift for developmental editing. In 2006, she created a profile on Gaia Online and birthed a fictional country, with states and cities, that is still active today. For her recent work, she’s reconceptualized the world she built in her childhood. She wrote an entire family of people to life with their own personalities, mannerisms, likes and dislikes. 

Chiina herself is one of the family members. “Those are my babies. We've been writing about them since 2002. There’s six of us. They cook together, eat together, throw parties together. They satisfy their clientele; they throw it to people around them.” She smirks, and laughs with her internal crew. “[We have] my own language, my own traditions, my own culture, my own everything.” 

Bloodmire is disciplined with her facts. In her youth, she penned a scene, set in the 1920s. Four of her characters are isolated on a boat in the ocean for two months. Rediscovering the piece, the scene made her question why they were on the water so long. Realistically, how long would it take an Ocean Liner to cross the distance? Chiina rewrote the scene to satisfy her now 31-year old self. 

Her characters evolve as she herself evolves.

“Whenever I need them to write a story, I call on them as if they’re my ancestors,” she explains.

Chiina practices Tulpamancy, a meditative act which trains the imagination to engage in dialogue with invisible companions called tulpas, or thought-forms. Tulpas share the mind and body of the person who created them, but have autonomous free will and agency. In Tibetan Buddhism and other traditions of mysticism, the tulpa is a spiritual practice requiring intense concentration. 

Bloodmire creates by conscious effort while I lean toward the other end of the spectrum, aiming for unconscious effort. However, Chiina and I agree there are similarities in our writing experiences; the way we “zone out” and channel these inner voices to move their words to the page and identify who is speaking to interpret what they mean. We each have our own tongue with a personal, secret language and it is unveiled in our roles as writers. Poetry offers clues. 

A transplant like me, Bloodmire moved to Pittsburgh from Queens, New York in June 2022. Her breakdown in October 2023 led her to invest in herself and reflect upon her life the way only grief can guide us to.

It was April 2019, before the world knew of Covid, that Chiina’s grandfather passed away suddenly. It didn’t make sense; he had the flu that turned into pneumonia. Doctors said he had a week left and the next day, he died with Chiina as witness. “I was sitting in that room, and the first thing I heard was, ‘if you died tomorrow, would you be proud of yourself?’”

Bloodmire’s eyes filled with tears. I greeted her grief with my own—my aunt died unexpectedly in September 2019. The surprise of death changes a person, but resilience is found inside the pain. We agree we must make the most of living while we have lives to live. Chiina fueled her breakdown with poetry, and has been riding an inspiring wave of creative flow and recognition. On her own in a city unknown, magic took her on a journey.

On February 20, Chiina went to “the wrong right place, wrong right date” looking for an open mic event. Discovering Poetry Lounge was an accident. Her performance garnered the attention of Enright who invited Bloodmire to be featured in YAWP Carnival Poetica (April 19) and two board members of the Pittsburgh Poetry Collective plugged their next open mic on February 21. “I was like, I don’t know what this is. I started memorizing my pieces.”

Bloodmire owns the mic.

From there, she met poet IncoMEplete who brought her into the fold. On March 6, she attended her first Steel City Slam and won first place. On March 20, she slammed again, winning first place. On April 23, she graced the stage at City of Asylum and secured the Grand Slam Champion title. On May 9, she was featured for her championship at Greer Theater. She thanks her newfound poetic family. “The way I’ve been embraced, seen, felt and heard has me knocking down challenges behind closed doors with ease.”

Chiina’s third published work, The Book of Kuu, was released by Poetry Lounge Press on August 20. “Even though she's like, running around, having fun, busying her business,” Bloodmire relays, “she's very serious about what she does.”

Living from the core of one’s artistry is serious work.

Bloodmire has three publications available on Amazon, S.I.N.: Shadow Integration & Nurturing, a guided shadow work journal and workbook for healing, self-love and self-discovery with prompts (July 2023), Hai-Kewchie: A Collection of Haikus Telling The Tale of Punani Bliss (June 2024), and The Book of Kuu. 

Chiina glows in vibrant sisterhood—no longer a stranger among strangers—that spans time and spins gold.

For readers and fans of Bloodmire, you can access more of her work via Patreon and links to her performances can be found on Instagram.