Carol Larson - textile artist

When I was a kid, my father the perfectionist used to always tell me I was a quitter. I quit the violin at 9. I quit college at 20. I was a quitter. Or, I am still am a quitter.

I just quit my Spanish class. I enjoyed reading, and writing it, although a friend who is fluent in the language told me I was hurting him. But speaking it was plain and simple torture. My first clue that this was not fun was the low grade tension headache that popped up about ten days ago. I get them when I clench my teeth!

So it was suggested to me that I might want to consider dropping the class. After all, I have no goal. I am not taking it to graduate. I am not going to Spain, Mexico, South or Latin America anytime soon. I am not taking in a day laborer. My simple reason for taking it was to enlighten myself, to practice an old skill and to reawaken some aging brain cells.

In reality, those same brain cells were overused in my decades of life as a workaholic. Quite frankly, they love being lazy now.

So I went to the college website to check out how late one can actually drop a class for a full refund (not counting the non-returnable text) and it is tomorrow! That is when the left brain took over and signed onto the website and out of the class! This was proof that my left brain is still quite functional.

And, as a matter of fact, I am a quitter. It took a little outside influence to remember that I have enough stressors in my life, physically, so why bring in more than I actually need? Ah, the sweet smell of freedom and sleeping in, once again.

I have had every possible exam and lab test this summer to find I am in excellent shape for the shape I am in. Everything except my eyes. And that is scheduled for 10 days from now. Of course, I had to wait until my eyes hurt and I could no longer read the speed limit until it was at the front end of my car.

My theory was I knew where I was going. I have lived here 32 years. I can’t go fast because there is too much traffic, so what is the problem? I totally forgot that I ALREADY wear glasses and all I really need is a stronger lens.

Last year, the HMO ratted me out to the DMV and when my birthday came I had to go in and take an eye test. While I waited in line, I memorized the chart. Now, I doubt I could see it to memorize it, so I must succumb to stronger lenses. I mean how stubborn can you get?

Meanwhile, I am taking this Spanish class and cannot read the board. My eyes hurt and I cannot think of one thing I can do that does not use my eyes, except to sleep. And I simply don’t feel like a nap today.

What this all reminds me of is I haven’t heard back from my 91 yr old friend since she told me her son and grandson ganged up on her to have her license taken away and how angry it made her. I wrote back that I too thought it was a good idea! The last time I rode with her she was 86 and she scared the wits out of me. I neglected to mention that part. Still, I made her angry!

Now I am beginning to see how this process starts. It starts with refusing to have one’s vision checked at 58.

It happens to me every year. I am overcome with fantasties of pleated wool plaid skirts, saddle shoes and a new lunchbox with a thermos inside. No, that is not true!

What is true though is every approaching September brings a desire for knowledge…i.e. new knowledge. I am looking for that special new learning experience, you know the one that provides all the answers for all the current questions. Pretty much I have this thirst for knowledge year round, although mine is a very strange variety.

You see, I don’t like much to read, because my hands are always busy, and my retention is at best lousy. I have always been a daydreamer, and now that I am a fulltime studio artist, I am allowed to daydream all day. So for me to learn anything new is always a challenge.

So every year, I once again have this dream of instant growth, knowledge and enlightenment that comes packaged in September, forgetting that it could be quite a challenge.

I am currently in week two of beginning conversational Spanish and I do enjoy it, although it is so incredibly challenging at 58.5 years to switch my brain over to a foreign tongue. The words and pronounciation are not so difficult for me as just remembering to speak en espanol!

And I have just signed up for an online 6 week course on grant writing. It has been suggested that I apply for grants for a big art project on which I am working. I know zippo about grants and would actually prefer to just whip out my checkbook for my expenses! So I figure it would behoove me to learn something about grants, if nothing else than I will never apply for one. Who knows, I may surprise myself.

And these classes do serve as structure, to enable me to utilize my time better. Although it has not happened yet, there is hope!

I just spent an hour, at least perusing the Esalen website. I was certain I wanted to go there and take some enlightening weekend workshop in billy goat territory. So convinced was I that this was a fabulous idea, that I had gotten all the way through to the registration page when I read that for my nearly $700/weekend I would be sharing a room with 3-4 others and traipsing down the hall to the loo.

And that is when I decided that this was not the precise learning experience I was truly seeking. I would rather take my $700 and stay in a 5 star hotel for a weekend! Just think of the enlightenment to be found there. AHA…an epiphany!

My mother was a war bride. Throughout my childhood, I was taught to conserve and re-use. I never thought much about it. Everyone did it.

Before I became an art quilt designer, I was a weaver. I had a big floor loom and for over 20 years wove beautiful cloth. Again, it was the color whore thing. I just loved the color and texture. I pretty much hated the math part and therefore, never wove enough of any one fabric to make a complete garment, more than a half dozen times. Thus I made a LOT of jackets and “tops.”

I took my first quilting class while I still had the loom. Out went the loom and the yarn to make room for fabric. I joked that I’d discovered one could buy fabric already woven in quilt shops. The loom was easy to sell, as someone said to me if you ever decide to sell your loom, I will buy it. I knew looms were difficult to re-sell, so I jumped on it.

My collection of handwoven garments has moved from one closet to another throughout the house, since I began designing art quilts six years ago. There are not many. I never wear them, although they are by no means ugly. They just don’t suit my lifestyle any longer. Otherwise, I could be like elder weavers I know who to the day they die, will be wearing that ugly brown shawl they wove in 1953!

Last year I decided that “next winter” I would make a patchwork coat (think Godspell not Dolly Parton) from many of the garments and then I could let go of this old work. I didn’t do it. I forgot, I suppose.

The other day, I saw the garments again and thought THIS YEAR I REALLY NEED TO DO SOMETHING WITH THESE. The daughter of the war bride MUST make something of these. Would not donating them to charity be doing something? It is becoming abundantly clear to me that I would rather make new art than re-make old clothes into new clothes. And yet I can’t let go now. Maybe I need to wait another year.

After all, that is how I did it with the drum carder and the spinning wheel. I wasn’t ready to sell them when I thought I should. So I stored them each for another year and then sold them. And I never thought about it again until this very moment.

I have greatly improved though. I NEVER save fabric scraps smaller than 3″ anymore!!!

OK, I admit it. I do live in a fantasy world. I expect business people to be accountable. Obviously, this time honored tradition is no more.

I noticed the beginning of the disconnect about 5 years before I retired, which was actually 8 years ago. Thirteen years ago, when I called an insurance company for a medical authorization for a patient, I seldom got an answer from the first person to whom I spoke. Often I got people who did not understand me, as if I were speaking Swahili or people who just didn’t know the answer.

I couldn’t quite understand why they answered the phone if they did not know the answer. but soon learned this was a cost-cutting method, employed by the healthcare industry. By the time I retired, seldom could one accomplish anything without several phone calls. No one apologized for this incompetence. It simply became the new level of functioning. Welcome to America! Now, nearly a decade later, it has all just gone to hell.

Today, I called the local company where I ordered nearly $2K in window coverings (with a 50% deposit) earlier this month. I was told 2-3 weeks and they would be installed; AND that they would put a RUSH on it (at no extra charge) and I should have them in a week. Today, I noticed that was exactly three weeks ago. So I called up to inquire about the status, having a gut feeling that they may have neglected to place the order.

The first call went into their voice mail, and no one called back. The second call placed 4 hours later was answered by someone who kept calling me Karen even though my name is Carol and on the invoice as same. She said they did not show the blinds as being on their shipping schedule for this week; that she would call the manufacturer and check when they plan to ship them. She would call me back. Three hours passed, no phone call and now they are closed.

Tomorrow, I am going to do what I hate most in all the world. I am going in for a face-to-face confrontation. If they cannot give me a good answer, I will demand a refund and cancel the order. If they would simply say, it was overlooked, I would be satisfied but still cancel the order.

But to waltz around, and not take responsibility just makes me nuts. You cannot tell me that they do not have a computerized record in the warehouse in Salt Lake City of when blinds are being made, being shipped etc. You cannot tell me no one in the warehouse is accountable. Or can you? Maybe I am still living in FantasyLand. Is this an E ticket ride?

It is amazing to me how quickly my comprehension of high school Spanish is returning. I had my first conversational Spanish class today and just like a 2 yr old learning English, I was rattling off the same introductory sentences, after I left class.

I ran into my acupuncturist at Trader Joe’s and greeted her with “hola, mi llama es Carol; como esta?” She just started laughing!!!

Of course, the challenge is to speak Spanish to those who understand it, but at this point, they would laugh too as I speak very slowly. At another market, I saw three Mexican madres with their muchos ninos but no way was I going to say hola, mi llama es Carol, como esta to them?!

At least half of the class, are boomers like me, which was not so surprising. One gal, has a Mexican mother but needs the class to graduate. Does this qualify as a foreign language if you are Hispanic?

Part of me is afraid of failing (anything) while the other part of me is excited about learning something new. I am not taking it for credit; it is pure fun. What good would credit do me now?

Credits and resumes are of no use to me now, nor in future lives. It is not likely I will be wearing a cap and gown at age 80. No es importante!

This was the summer that got away from me. Looking at it from end of May perspective, I thought I was going to have a wide open, quiet, potentially dull block of calendar squares to fill up in any fashion I desired.

Then we began the “let’s put in new flooring” which became a 6-week harried, stress-filled, full-fleged remodel. I got really cranky, particularly with the least deserving person, my husband who was doing all the prep work, thereby saving us thousands of dollars.

A week after the flooring went in, and the furniture was re-arranged and the artwork hung, the Swedish cousins arrived and stayed a week. My husband and I have an agreement where he entertains them (i.e. drives to San Francisco every day for 1/3 tourist stuff and 2/3 shopping spree) and I cook and do the cleanup. I have the much better end of it, I think, because I don’t have to be as social as he.

This group was a mixed blessing. There was the dreaded, selfish and paranoid 60 yr old first cousin, who has over-stayed his welcome 3 times before. And there was the bonus of his daughter,24, who he did not raise, so she has her mother’s social graces and delightful personality and her boyfriend. They were much fun and refreshing. They left yesterday. I quickly did many loads of laundry, sheets, towels, quilts putting the guest rooms back in order.

Today feels like the first day of the rest of my life. I am giddy with relief. I slept till 10. I went to swim. I languished over the Sunday paper. I watched a movie. I am just relaxing. What a concept.

Tomorrow, I start a junior college class in conversational Spanish. Because I had 3 years of h.s. Spanish 40 years ago, I thought this was a good plan to hammer some plaque out of my brain cells.

My challenge will be to enjoy and not stress out; to let it complement my art career and not dominate. I am still waiting for that quiet summer day…but this might be it!

Today, a nurse practitioner actually blurted out what I have long suspected. For years, doctors have alluded to this also, but no one ever has been as forthright as this gracious woman.

She said if ever I have a MRI, I would be fried, because of the steel hardware in my legs. Probably twenty years ago, my employer, a dermatologist, told me it would burn me badly.

Last year, I got an all too frightening reminder. I went to the ER in excruciating pain and paralysis in my right leg. They ran numerous tests, did x-rays, did a CT scan on my hip, sedated me with morphine and admitted me for two days into the hospital. I told the ER doc that I have steel hardware in my legs and therefore could not have a MRI.

On the 2nd day, while under heavy sedation, a gurney arrived to transport me somewhere. When I asked where, I was told for an MRI. I started yelling loud enough to get someone to notice and shouted I cannot have a MRI, I have steel hardware in my legs. They called the 12 yr old doctor in and she said…oh you are right! Thanks for catching that! Oh sure, anytime, darlin!

Immediately, I ordered a MEDIC ALERT bracelet, which says orthopedic hardware, no MRI. And I wear it faithfully, day in, day out. No medical professional has ever looked at it.

I find the entire thing a bit frightening. I came home and begged my husband to always look out for me if I ever lose consciousness; to make certain they don’t try to fry me.

He asked would I be fried all over or just locally? You want ketchup with that?

Approximately two years ago, unbeknownst to me at the time, I was placed on the potential terrorist list the airlines keep on their SABRE system. Me…your middle-aged white female textile artist from suburbia! I wasn’t quite sure when it happened but I suspect it was when I took my daughter to Las Vegas to see the Cirque de Soleil “O” show and to pee myself singing karaoke on the American Idol stage at Madame T’s Wax Museum at the Venetian.

We flew from SFO to Vegas, easily. On the return, however, their wands were more sensitive and bleeped down my shin. I assured the wanding technician that I had steel plates in my legs and she smiled. I asked if a note from my doctor would help and she said, “no, anyone could carry a note!” Short of jetway surgery, I have no way to prove I actually have steel plates embedded. There and then, I believe was when I was added to the list.

Each pass through security thereafter became more intense. Last September, I flew home from Albuquerque, where I was wanded from here to Tuesday, nearly cavity searched and my carry-on ripped apart. I was in tears and nearly missed my flight. My companion had to wait 25 minutes for me to be cleared. I was told it was printed on my ticket, in code, that I was a high security risk.

I inquired how I could get myself off said list. I was handed a piece of paper which led me to a website. I filed the complaint on the site and was sent a .pdf file to file an official complaint. I completed the form, sent the required THREE forms of ID, paid for the copies of two forms of ID, had everything notarized, paid for the notary, sent it certified mail, paid for the certified mail; generally a huge waste of time and money.

I sent it. They got it. Nothing happened. I e-mailed two months later inquiring as to my status. I was told, never fear, they would contact me. My claim fell into the governmental abyss; never to be heard from again.

So this past year I have traveled places I could go by land. I took a cruise out of a west coast port. We drove to another destination. Yet all is not lost.

Because while I have been a threat to national security, I have had an incredibly successful year as a studio artist. My work has been juried into various prestigious venues, I have sold work, I have been published twice. This staying home and doing the work actually has it’s benefits.

I don’t know about you, but I find it incredibly comforting to know our taxpayer dollars are being used to scrutinize people like me, while the real terrorists are lurking about. Eventually, I will fly again and then I will find out if my paperwork ever actually did any good. I am not holding my breath.

With the exception of new blinds, the remodel was completed yesterday. Well, with the exception of the bathroom, also. It is semi-complete, with new flooring, and half of the wallpaper removed. The rest of the paper will come down, as well as old fixtures post-company. It will be painted and turned into a wonderful new space to contemplate. And then the remodeling will be officially done.

Today, was the day between the post-remodeling cleanup and the impending arrival of the Swedish houseguests; which now looks like Monday!!! About an hour ago, I felt the huge sigh of relief. It was a funny thing. I was back in the zone, of sewing on a piece in the studio and out of nowhere came this ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, the feeling of the stress leaving the building. I am back to no unreasonable demands on my time. I am back in the studio. I am even re-designing an old piece! This is a 3-D object made for the CFA’s exhibit in Huntsville, next year. When I constructed it last year, I unwisely used a glue based solution to stiffen it. Well, we had a very wet winter and it schlumped like fused glass. So now I am re-constructing it and hoping it will be bigger and better.

This has been a great week for me, artwise. I sold a quilt. The Surface Design Journal premiere gallery issue came out and I have work published in that. I also have work in Holly Brackman’s new surface design book and my image is on the website hawking the book plus I got a reject from Houston. Since I have had work in their Chicago and Lyon exhibits this year, I am not heartbroken.

Ah, it is great to be in the studio again!

For some darned reason, I cannot get the links to work on this blog. I can design an entire website of my own, but cannot link up to the page with Holly’s book. A learning curve, I fear.