Betty Davis, The Independent Artist & Crow

As a transplant from Washington, it’s been difficult to create meaningful connections in Pennsylvania. I’ve moved 29 times across six states and cannot relate to the many generations who’ve stayed in Pittsburgh, never to leave or left only to return. I have a restless spirit and, when tended to, it grants me unlimited access to creative flow. I am a transitory artist, however, I am not immune to homesickness; familiarity tethers me to the present. Without an anchor, it’s easy to feel lost. I seek the wonder and captivity of solitude, the healing mediums of the arts, and the kind of attention only the dead can provide; I commune with grief, a constant companion and muse. 

When I learned Betty Davis is buried in Homestead Cemetery, within walking distance from where I live, I was struck by the news of her death; I didn’t realize she passed away in 2022. I discovered her music and Nasty Gal persona in early 2021, when I stumbled upon the documentary They Say I’m Different (2017). 

Betty was the first black woman to write, perform, and manage herself. She was described as an enigma; her clothes expressed who she was—an extreme funkstress of jazz fusion—and like most musicians of her caliber, she influenced many. She was “Madonna before Madonna” and “Prince before Prince”, but I had never heard of Betty and wondered why. The rawness of her vocals and in-your-face expression on stage, how she owned her body and moved freely, entranced me. Uninhibited by drugs and alcohol, or by being a black woman, Betty was liberated. Her performances shocked audiences; at the time, there were no other women doing what she was doing. Betty described her music as raw, saying that “anything raw has to be pure.” 

Raw is the purest form of innocence.

Betty’s growling voice spoke to the rage in my belly–ancient and sacred, an eternal flame. I wonder, if I don’t speak about it, does it make it unreal? If I don’t speak about it, it doesn’t go away. This woman did what I aim to do in my work; reclaim my innocence by releasing trauma through self-expression in performance and artistry. 

Betty’s arrival on the ‘70s music scene was short-lived; she was banned, boycotted, and soon, she disappeared. Her abrupt departure warranted her an “almost mythological reputation for being reclusive.” The decision to step away from the music industry when pressured to conform, mirrors my own struggle against a society that prizes marketability over vulnerability. Her bandmates say she was fed up. She suffered in her liberation; being “ahead of the times” is a heavy weight. Artists are often pushed to change the very thing that makes us stand out; to dilute our voices for commercial gain, reproduce our work for easy consumption, and operate outside of our morals for fame, fans and followers. Disingenuous markers of success.The artists who stand out to me are those who don’t give in—the ones who’ll die to their vision before selling their soul, maintaining independence while navigating the pain of freedom. 

Whenever I leave the house, I step into the world as an artist. No one who asks me what I do is surprised when I say I am an artist. It’s when I’m asked “what kind of art” that shifts the conversation. The struggle is being listened to and understood. I can tell when I’m not; I am interrupted and receive unsolicited advice—told what I “should” be doing more of (marketing/social media) and what I “should” make and sell (to become successful). When I comment these things I “should” be doing directly oppose my personal values, my work is dismissed as a hobby. As if what I do have to offer is not enough.

Throughout the film, Betty makes symbolic references to Crow, which signifies the beginning of her self-awareness that she was different. Crow is the heartbeat, she says, and to me it signifies someone under the influence of creative flow. Since she was a girl, Betty felt there was “something inside of her that had to come out”—a similar restlessness to my own. It was the women who sang the blues that connected her more deeply to Crow. “Women who sang about how they felt inside … about things that weren’t right.” Her grandmother’s wise words rang out like an alarm. “You should always know who you are and do what you have to do.” (That’s a “should” I can stand behind; the integrity to rise above, no matter what.) Betty didn’t speak from oppression, she sang knowing who she was and what she deserved.

“In the end,” Betty concluded, “I found I could only be myself. Being different is everything; it is the way forward.”

She inspired me to embrace my journey of self-discovery with boldness, which is why I’m living in PA in the first place. In May 2023, I accepted an invitation to study performance with an artist in Georgia. I was ready to develop Crow for the stage. I moved to Atlanta, but circumstances changed and my study was disrupted; no sooner had I arrived, I was on the road again, heading for Pittsburgh. Even as I wrestled with homesickness, I knew I couldn't return to WA, not yet. Where Crow beckons me to go, I follow.

Betty returned to Homestead after her father’s death and laid her music career to rest 44 years ago. Revisiting They Say I’m Different, the locations are familiar to me now. Listening to her albums while I drive these streets, the borough pulses with the energy of her legacy. 

Rest in peace, Betty Davis.

The body that housed the soul of The Queen of Funk calls me to her gravesite.

Her resting place ignites a desire to ritualize my time here, however long it may be. Echoing her spirit of defiance and unapologetic self-expression, I release expectations of being understood. To honor Betty’s life, on the ninth of December, I placed the dying heads of nine cut pink roses at the headstone; I was born on a ninth, and she died on a ninth. Three nine’s divisible by three; a calculation and request to the gods of numerology. 

A kinship with Betty continues to develop across time and space. Her return to Pittsburgh signals me to consider a return of my own, to my birthplace in Anchorage, Alaska. I trust Crow, my compass that tells me when to stay and when to go. When I visit Betty, I sense I belong here; wherever I am is home. I can never be where “I am” is not.

“People tell me I paved the way,” Betty reflects in the documentary. “I’m happy about that. I’m happy my music is still alive. For a while I flew high and strong, but the struggle to breakthrough hurt me. Everyone wanted me to be someone I wasn't.” 

Being true to oneself can mean standing against the current, and some of us have the bravery to do so. Like Betty Davis, may I also refuse to compromise my creative vision. She chose independence, something difficult for artists, especially women, to have, and I choose it too. 

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?