Exploring Gnosis & Randonautica with T.H. Kainaros

Ecosystem, 2024; T.H. Kainaros

T.H. Kainaros and I share a belief in gnosis; we envelop ourselves in spiritual mystery.

He is pensive, poetic, subtle, and thoughtful. We met on Tinder when I arrived in Pittsburgh, seeking solace and distraction amid an emotional breakup and unexpected change in my life’s course. I was not supposed to be here, and I am exactly where I am meant to be. It is not easy making friends as an adult, and it is too easy to make temporary connections shrouded in romantic foibles and call it a relationship. 

Avoiding disaster, Kainaros and I focused on our roles as artists. His body of work on Instagram moved me; inside his ethereal illustrations and intriguing animations, I gave way to the haunting of his spirit. His art told me more than his words in conversation had, as of yet, and I sensed a true kinship. We began a friendship grounded in creativity and vulnerability. Our individual artistic processes guide us to the blank page or screen or canvas without forethought, allowing intuition to guide color choice, brush size, layering effect, and hand motion. Trusting the rhythm of flow lends us easy access to explore gnosis. Self-discovery through art provides comfort. We are two introspective souls navigating a world we often feel out of touch with.

Kainaros introduced me to Randonautica, a “Create Your Own Adventure“ app. The objective of a Randonautica adventure is to notice what is brought to your attention and to engage the environment and yourself with curiosity. The app randomly generates coordinates that enable the user to explore their local area. According to its creators, the app is ‘an attractor of strange things’. It gained controversy after a report of two teenagers coincidentally finding a corpse—in West Seattle, where I used to live—while using the app. 

Our adventure began at 61B Cafe.

I was excited to see Kainaros; my body can relax in his company which tells me this person is a friend. He listens and supports with gentle curiosity. He does not try to change me or provide unsolicited advice. I am accepted.

We caught up on our lives, discussing family, relationships, artistic dreams, and the ongoing struggle to carve out more time for what we love—placing creativity in a war against financial “success”. Kainaros shared his previous Randonautica experience as a model for understanding, and then he “spun” for directions three times (to avoid landing in someone’s backyard). A digital bird flapping its wings signaled our path was loading. Our destination was revealed: Frick Park.

It was natural for me to point out magical elements of our surroundings with Kainaros. We wove sacred narrative as we walked. 

A sandwich board proclaimed, “Be yourself, not someone else.” A black limousine from another era adorned with alien green headlamp covers and a kayak on the roof. The word “funeral” came to mind. A voice inside causes me to wonder aloud if I might commune death in the water. Kainaros lets the comment float on the air.

We noted the juxtaposition of license plates—the 3333 beside the 4333. 

Two little libraries at the corners of neighboring yards. The first contained treasures—works by Dorothy Parker, a poet, and Philip Pullman’s Daemon Voices, a book about the art of storytelling. I am assured that my own practice of Memoirtistry® is worth all the time I give it. The bird on the cover, a crow. We paused then, and I flipped randomly to page 189. “Great art has always had this double character, this ability to look at the world and to look at itself at the same time, and the greatest art is perhaps where we see the two things in perfect balance.” 

The second library was uninviting, the titles heavy with religious undertones–live grenades–and so we continued along. We discussed a listening exercise I learned during a kayak tour to Sycamore Island led by artist Erin Mallea with Shiftworks. Participants were instructed to identify sounds to focus on, noticing thoughts, feelings and bodily sensations. I’d followed the sound of a siren that day, inducing grief. Revisiting the thought, I felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the trails I frequented in Washington. But here I was with Kainaros and I cherished the present. The birds chirped overhead signaling our arrival to Frick Park. 

“I’m like a bird, I’ll only fly away,” I sang aloud. We laughed. Retreating into nature is a reprieve from digital noise. In this sanctuary, we began to discuss the weight of social media, the scarcity of genuine connection, and barriers that often confine artists. Kainaros and I agree it is a challenge being artists in a society addicted to distraction, in a system that doesn’t know what to do with us. On Instagram, I display what inspires me to stay the course when I want to give up, assuming no one wants to listen to what I have to say. Listen to yourself, a disembodied voice whispers.

A chipmunk with full cheeks darted across a fallen tree trunk. An acorn fell from above, and both Kainaros and I moved toward it. He reached it first. A second acorn dropped but I couldn’t ascertain which it was among the many, so I refocused on the chipmunk. I want to be drawn to what nourishes me, the voice admits. My instinct is intact. 

“No one knows we’re doing something on purpose,” I remarked to Kainaros. “They don’t know they’re a clue to something.” 

What appears random at first glance can reveal connections and insights that expose profound truths about ourselves.

When attention is paid, with intention and openness, it fosters understanding. This is a free activity, available all the time. As we wrapped this adventure, he escorted me to my car. Hugging him goodbye feels like touching a human who is dreaming—awake and sleeping, he is always one foot in the liminal realm. 

Gnosis is a feminine Greek noun which means "knowledge" or "awareness." It is often used for personal knowledge compared with intellectual knowledge—those things you “just know”. In 2020, I was formally diagnosed with PTSD. The prefix “dia-“ means “complete”. Dia-gnosis is “complete knowledge”. I have the key. The concept of gnosis tells me the knowledge I seek to heal is accessible inside my own body. I can live free of anxiety and worry when I discern patterns of synchronicity and heed the omens nature offers. 

I connected to a deeper sense of self with Kainaros that day; his peacefulness encourages me to be more of me, not live into some ideal anyone may project of me. There is no mask I must wear, no act I am required to perform; I can explore the shadows and light of my own consciousness and he is capable of bearing witness.

The Third Dream, 2024; T.H. Kainaros

As our days continued separately, we shared texts noting the symbols. Gnosis will not produce neatly packaged answers, but engaging in the ongoing process of discovery generates purpose in our lives. The act of engaging sincerely with the world—being present, observant, and open to the unexpected—gives rise to a deeper understanding of our existence. It is what artists do; and art supports life. 

Presence is the ascension, and I am in heaven beside Kainaros.

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.