The names rush through my mind as if they were long-forgotten vaudevillian teams: Stearns & Foster, Sealy & Serta, Simmons & Spring Air. I think of Lindsay Wagner, the former bionic woman who now hawks Sleep Number mattresses on infomercials.

The somnambulistic suggestions keep me awake and alert late on a Thursday afternoon as I make my way through the Mexican War Streets to the Mattress Factory.

Cursory research revealed that the Factory celebrated its 30th anniversary last year as a world-renowned installation art space and artist-in-residence program; from the e-mails I received from readers urging me to visit and as a newcomer to town who relishes art, I figured dropping by at a later date was an idea on which I could not sleep.

So off I go, up Monterey and down Sampsonia, until it stands in front of me, this tower of glass and stone, a meld of the new and the old. Pretty neat.

Jeffrey Inscho, the Factory's hornblower, meets me inside the lobby, but not before I get to check out the gift shop's nifty ART SLUT T-shirts. He tells me that the Mattress Factory was indeed a mattress warehouse built at the turn of the 19th century. Little has been changed: The brick walls, exposed and now painted a slick super-clean white, act like giant canvases, ready for whatever impressions visitors want to (metaphorically) paint on them.

Blank slate, blank mind.

I was off.

My first stop: room-sized works from the most recent temporary exhibit, the stars of which are giant chandeliers made mostly from 400,000 wooden matchsticks. I learn the museum has an agreement with the artists whose work is on display: Unless they specifically request it back, all art is destroyed. Jeffrey regales me with stories of past destructions while we buzz in and out of galleries. When he tells me of the controversial Damien Hirst installation back in 1993 involving maggots and sugar-coated walls and yeast and wheat germ and "zillions of flies" buzzing about and dying in an enclosed room, I realize yesterday was my last supper.

There are 16 permanent installations on continuous display, and I figure these are the works that fit the museum's promise of "art you can get into." Walking through what the Factory considers its "quintessential" installation -- two mirrored rooms that house Yayoi Kusama's work -- reminds me of being in an oversized Twister game, with the winners getting plastered with fluorescent pink polka dots strategically placed on their bodies. It's fun and funky in that disco-era kind of way.

I get a sneak peek at the "Gestures" exhibition; even as I type I smile at the thought of a wooden alien who hangs from a wall the same way Jesus hangs on every wall of my alienated family's homes.

But not everything here thrills me. In fact, some of it could have easily put me to sleep. There are three James Turrell light sculptures; "Danae" and "Catso, Red" mesmerize me with their takes on light and form, but sitting in a pitch-black room for 15 minutes to experience "Pleiades" -- during which light may (or may not) be playing with my eyes and mind -- kick-starts my New York paranoia, especially when Jeffrey tells me the Mattress Factory has no security measures.

I think of Sondheim, reminding us that "art isn't easy."

As I push myself out the exit door, two other important reminders race through my mind: Art is truly subjective ... and I need a nap.