Carol Larson - textile artist

People are always asking me if my daughter is going to to marry her boyfriend of 7 years? I have no idea, is my answer and my truth. Getting married is not their top priority, nor is it my business.

Yet this afternoon as I labored away on my newest work, I could not help but think of making a wedding dress. And hoping when and if that day comes for my daughter, she opts to either design her own dress (she got her BS in Fashion Design) or buy one.

While I am making an awesome, somewhat 3-D design, I am sewing with the finest silks: organza, organdy, a slippery, slimey charmeuse that should not even be sold as fabric and a permanently creased sheer polyester. Fine little silk threads are everywhere on the machine, under the machine and all over my black sweatpants. It is arduous to stitch these bias strips onto the sandwich and yet the end result is spectacular!

Somehow this tedium reminded me of making wedding dresses, and how I hoped I never have to make one. My mother made mine; I don’t remember why. She could have well afforded to buy one for me, but perhaps because I married Mr. Wrong, in her eyes, she was not going to do that.

Instead, she sewed a beautiful albeit warm (flannel lined for April 1971, in California!) long dress with long sleeves and high collar with picot lace trim. I was more covered up than the Amish! Maybe her intention was punishment for our cohabitation.

I just know if I ever have to sew a wedding dress, I am not using these slimey, slippery fabrics. Flannel is looking better all the time!

I just realized that I am now procrastinating on the decluttering which I was doing as a way of avoiding working in the studio. Ack, a monster has been created.

In the meantime, I did revise the ‘front page’ of my website after two valued people told me it was outdated! How could it be outdated when I just put it up last year? But marketing is marketing, so I whipped out a collage in PhotoShop, of other pieces and slapped that image up there. Now, I anticipate the collector who wants to buy that specific piece. I would have to say print out the screen, lady! Or I could cut up all the work involved and rework into a new piece and toss the remaining portions. Nah, not likely to happen.

I am pleased that I went for the 30 minute redux as opposed to the 3 day redux. I still need to jazz up the other pages, but not today. I need today to get back to my decluttering!

In the meantime, I have made trips to two charities, and listed 11 quilt books on Amazon, selling Libby Lehman’s already; have 5-6 quilts ready to go to the SJ Quilt Museum auction fundraiser and have two items listed on EBay. Not bad for a week’s work!

Now, I am seriously off to finish de-cluttering the studio! I am a bit surprised as I HATE clutter, always have, always will. I am actually astonished that I do have it, although most is of the I might use it someday variety. Well, someday is here and I am now using it to fill grocery bags for charity.

I have never been big on clutter, or so I thought. I have caught the de-clutter bug and today absolutely astonished myself with the amount of crap I pulled out of the studio.

The first thing I did was clean out the closet in the guest room, formerly known as the kid’s room. Then I moved ALL of my rolled and covered quilts into the closet. They are standing like soldiers and behind the closed door. There is no room now for houseguests’ clothing or boomerang daughter, so in reality this is probably a really good plan. That is, until…the closet fills up. I have only half of the closet to use as Mr. Fixit built in drawers on the other half for our daughter when she was a kid. Believe me, there is stuff stored in there too!

So with all the quilts out of the studio, I was able to get rid of two wire baskets that were holding them, and pulled out handfuls of foam core board scraps, and drafting paper and 1/2 ripped cutting mat, an old phone and a partridge in a pear tree from behind the cabinet on which the CDs and boom box sit! My high school English teacher would have loved that sentence.

Then I culled the books and listed 10 brand new quilting books on Amazon. And put another 20 quilting and knitting books in the pile of stuff to go to the senior center thrift shop that specializes in “craft items.” I cut labels off of 6 quilts to donate to a textile museum for auction and one to go to charity. I cleaned out under the design table, where quilts also were stored and made space for the bolts of fusing, and boxes of freezer paper. I found an excellent use for the sewing machine cover. It is a Pfaff and has a long slot in the top of the cover. It worked out as a perfect holder for the variety of quilt sticks, waiting for a home. As if, at this point that I would ever consider making more work, to store eventually…somewhere!

Crutches and canes went to the attic! The recycling can is at the curb and overflowing. The garbage can is full, and I have three piles of stuff for various charities.

And this is just one room!!! It looks fabulous. Energy is moving. I can see the freaked out look on my husband’s face, knowing eventually I am going to get to the basement and have my eye on his Nordic Track which has not been used in 12 years! By then, maybe I will have the strength to haul it out to the car!

When I was young, I was forever putting my foot in my mouth. And it was quite a stretch as I was much longer, then. I have pretty much gotten past that, or perhaps it is such a part of my life that I never notice it anymore. I rather suspect I matured and learned to engage my brain before opening my mouth.

The past few weeks though, I have noticed that when I do “get out” I tend to run off at the mouth. It probably started with the self-imposed retreat I took from public life, when I broke my wrist. It was such a pain, literally, to get dressed that I didn’t go many places. And after nearly 36 years there are not many conversations the old boy and I have not had. So I was lacking in interpersonal conversation and it is my theory that is where I lost some practice.

So yesterday I was dining alfresco during a workshop break with two women of ample girth and I said something about being too fat for the in-the-buff sauna in Finland. By most people’s standards, I am not fat. While I have made peace with my body, I would rather not be nude in public because of being crooked and crippled.

Then there is my protruding gut, which I attempt to hold in 12 hours a day and let hang out distended the other twelve. I am by no means Venus de Milo, let us just say.

I appear to most people to be long and lean, so it is just plain stupid to complain about being fat! I don’t really feel I am fat but my weight is currently up ten pounds, and that is probably where it came from…the frustration of the increased pressure on my arthritic joints.

The bottom line is I still am buying into that Madison Ave crap about how I should be looking, even at 59. I am certain I don’t feel that way about my body, BUT I did say it. More food for thought….ah, let’s see, that might be a brownie!

When my husband and I met 37 years ago, I was not an empowered woman. I had no power, nor any idea what power was nor where to find it. But I certainly did know how to train my man to treat me on Valentine’s Day. Now, granted it took me decades to get “something” in addition to the traditional Valentine. By the time he got it that he needed to come through with something, I was empowered and it was no longer important to me. Poor guy, he can’t win!

Today he came through with the goods, as he calls it! He bought an assortment of splendiferous confections from a local bakery. Each one, is seemingly chock full of the ingredients that make my body ache! So what did I do? I graciously thanked him for his consideration and generosity.

In the intervening years between my trying to housebreak him and my own empowerment, I developed all kinds of food allergies. I also came to understand that while he is not Mr. Romance (a stoic Swede), he comes home every night to me; he builds anything I dare mention I might like to improve my performance in the studio, or dye area and that he pretty much worships the ground I walk on. So why, would I even consider telling him that the confections he just gave me are actually poison to my system?

I wouldn’t. Because as I grew empowered, he has become very sensitive. He would see this as he can’t do anything right, and in the overall scheme of things, are hurt feelings worth pastry? I don’t think so.

There has to be some irony though, that little Ms. Happily Ever After married Mr. Non-Romance and they did live more or less happily ever after. She no longer needs the tangible proof of his love. She just knows it.

I am not a practicing Buddhist, any more than I am a practicing Christian. But I do believe some of the principles of each faith are good rules for living in civility with other human beings.

That said, I am about to write of a subject WHO is driving me nuts. I find it more and more difficult to not bitch about her to others who know her, and who also think she is a nutcase.

It feels so high school to me to complain about someone like this; and yet as a sensitive person, I have a really low tolerance for annoying people!!! And I have met my quota.

Currently and in other leadership roles of my past, I do believe it is extremely important for me to not be catty about my fellow members in a group; although I can tell my mate anything!!! However, I am not a saint (yet) and therefore when I simply can no longer contain the building stress, the overflow valve opens and I find relief. Call it irritating personality flatulence, (IPF for short) if you will!

I have also looked at it from the other side of the coin…why does this person bother me so? What is she here to teach me, other than how to tie a noose?

A person with self-esteem doesn’t need pettiness; nor does a spiritual person need cattiness, as they both recognize that this is all drama created in the mind of both the offendee and the offender.

All that aside, I do have self-esteem; I do live a life of spiritual growth. So, while there is always room for improvement I feel somewhat bad when I gripe about said person. But I just cannot stomach it much longer.

She shall remain nameless even though I know she doesn’t read my blog. However, the reader will know that try as I might to live more like a Buddhist than as a nun, I simply cannot take much more of this very needy, self-absorbed woman!!!

My theory is I was born with a narcissist magnet attached somewhere on my person; I have yet to locate it. I sure do attract them, though. I am more than willing to share, if anyone is short on their narcissist quota.

Please?!!!

Today we decided to go down to San Francisco to view the Queen Mary II sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. Ah, it seemed like such a great idea to tool down to the city, instead of sitting in the house watching 8 hours of football hype.

This is the largest “cruise ship” ever to sail under the bridge. I write “cruiseship”, because Cunard prefers it be called an “ocean liner.” I heard it was the largest ship EVER to cross beneath the bridge but my husband heard largest ‘oceanliner.’ Whatever!

We left the house 2 hours ahead for the easy 45 min drive. We planned to turn off just north of the bridge and climb the hills of the Marin Headlands…I amend the car would climb, not the occupants. Just south of Tiburon, we began to suspect many others had the same idea!

It took us 30 mins in bumper to bumper traffic to go 3 miles up the hill to the tunnel. Then there was no turning off, as the park police had closed the road to the headlands. Cars were stopped everywhere. Cars parked on the shoulder of the highway, on the center space of the offramp, double-parked behind police cruisers, snaking into Sausalito, everywhere.

So we reluctantly crossed the bridge and tried to figure out the best venue spot in the city. The bicycle lane on the west side of the bridge was tread to tread in bicycles. I never knew there were that many bicycles in the state! People were 3-4 deep on the east side pedestrian walk. The ship was still out of sight.

Traffic everywhere was a nightmare. We successfully drove through Sea Cliff only to find people had parked their cars in the middle of the road, double and triple parked effectively closing that road. It was amazing. And this was still a good half hour before the oceanliner came into view.

So we hung a u-turn and headed out one of the avenues, up California to the Lincoln Golf Course, where surprisingly there was no traffic. We zipped along right up to the Legion of Honor Museum and there found 1000’s of people double parking for a view of the ship. No where in the city did we even see a police car. I guess they were off watching the football game?

We decided to park in the handicapped area, with the placard. There was only one place where we could fit though it was not an official parking spot. We decided with all the cars double and triple parked, the chances were unlikely that we would get ticketed but we would take our chances. So we parked, hung the placard, locked the car and off we went. We hiked a very short distance and had the most magnificient view until the camera died!

Through binoculars, we enjoyed the view and the proceedings. We could see the smokestack barely cleared the bridge, something like 23′ clearance. We could see the multitudes of spectactors and bicyclists on the bridge had been moved so they were not directly over the ship’s passing. It was very cool, and worth the hassle of getting there, although quite possibly not worth the hassle of getting back, which took hours.

When we returned to our car, we had three cars double-parked behind us, so I ran into the Legion of Honor to use the facilities and got a free Sunday afternoon organ recital to boot.

I have never been one for series work. Even doing a stack of fabric postcards gets old after the first 10 or so!

I have been incredibly impressed with my friend, Liz Berg, though who has catalogued her Artist in Residence adventures this past month on her blog. If you are the one person who does not know about this, she has created a series of 20 pieces in a month on a ranch somewhere in Texas; where it appears the only other thing to do there is to buy black fabric at Wal-Mart and go out to eat fried food! Anyway, I have been inspired by Liz and her ongoing series on the circle of life.

As for me, I decided my foray back into art making, post-fractured wrist would be to do a series of 12 x 12″ squares for the SAQA Auction fundraiser. And one to grow on for the CFA thank you gift. So here are the one for CFA and the three for SAQA, Broken Wing II, III and IV. The grid was drawn with my left hand when that was all I could do.

By now, I am totally sick of the Broken Wing series and cutting out all those little “squares.” Unless of course I decide to make a piece with all the cutouts. Yes, that did occur to me, but only for a few minutes, thankfully!

Although if I get really stuck for a quickie piece for some exhibit, I will not rule out blowing up the grid and cutting more squares. By the time I got to BWIII, the broken wings, were looking like chopsticks and by IV, they looked like hands on the clock. (BTW, they uploaded out of order) Calgon, take me away!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have had two unpleasant experiences with Printed Treasures. This is the backed fabric for the printer, of which I own a small fortune. Suddenly, I can’t peel the paper off. It could be lack of dexturity in the right hand. The last page of labels I printed, I ended up pressing the back with a dry iron and when that didn’t loosen it, I laid a wet washcloth on the paper to basically shred it off. That also ran the ink a bit, which is not supposed to happen.

So short of running, screaming to Milliken with my dilemma, I am hoping for divine wisdom from one of the fans of this blog. I have checked their site but I have not googled for the answer. I have Marcia for that, who always finds incredible wisdom in cyberspace. Until then, I am contemplating my next work which has absolutely nothing to do with fractured anything.

What is wasting time anyway? I can’t think of anything I do or don’t do that would qualify as a time waster. Maybe I have just solved my own issue!

Like many of us in the boomer generation, I was brought up with the Protestant Work Ethic (PWE). Somehow, I sense I have written about this before!

Since I retired 9 years ago (yippee for me) Ms. PWE has dropped in to annoy me on an irregular basis. My husband frequently reminds me I am retired, I do not need to be accountable for my time. I go along with that logic for a while and then I am just minding my own business and Ms. PWE comes along and shames me for “wasting time.”

During the recuperative period following my broken wrist, I had no immediate need to rise in the morning, other than my husband making my breakfast smoothie before he set off on his own semi-retired day. I slept a lot more than usual, but I was recovering from an injury. Or at least that was my excuse.

Now, seven weeks post-injury, I am still sleeping a lot. It doesn’t bother me, especially. I actually quite like it but it reeks havoc on getting something done. That is where Ms. PWE has intervened. The day gets a later start, and because it is winter already, it becomes that much shorter. Something about dusk makes me think end of the work day, even though I often wander back into the studio after dinner.

So, today as I cycled at the gym at 2pm, instead of 10 am, I thought about my old “friend” Ms. PWE. I decided she has outlived her usefulness. If I were to regiment my time, just to suit her, how much fun would I be having? How would my retirement years be any different than my worker bee years?

i’m late, i’m late for a very important date..i’m late, i’m late, i’m late…

From now on, instead of “wasting time” when I am sleeping in, exercising late or even God forbid, JUST watching TV, I am going to acknowledge Ms. PWE’s helpful advice just prior to suggesting she get a life…her own life!