Carol Larson - textile artist

Every spring and summer, people compliment me on our beautiful garden. All I do in this beautiful garden is occasionally pull a weed, on my way back from taking out a bag of trash AND take compliments. This is my husband’s art quilt!

He was born and raised in San Francisco. When we bought our suburban home in 1974, there was a lawn in front, and gravel in the back. The city boy, replaced the entire estate of mud-like adobe soil, with horse manure-enriched dirt. Fortunately, he had a free source for the manure and kin, oh so happy for him to come shovel it, and haul it away!

Over the years he has grown many plants from seeds. Right now the glass table on the deck is covered with 20 x 1 gallon pots of dahlias grown from seeds. The tulips he planted in the fall, only so the gophers could eat their delicacy all spring. Last year he lost much of his summer bloom to the nasty little rodent, and his hairy cousin, the mole.

While I wax on philosophically about my dye processes or energy work, he moans ad nauseum about the rodent problem! I feign interest, but I must admit it just does not fascinate nor frustrate me, as it does him. I suppose if moles and gophers were eating my art, it might pique my interest.

Enjoy the blooms… of snowball, azalea, tulip, apple and wisteria!

I am currently learning to hear my own voice, listen to my gut for guidance and basically occupy my body, instead of wandering around in my head or in outer space. It is a full-time job to remember all the tricks of this trade, but I continually catch myself being more aware.

Today, I took the rare opportunity to discharge some cloth, in the basement. While I was working on three dyed linen napkins and two x 2.5 yd lengths of Kona cotton, I was struck by how much of other people’s wisdom was percolating in my brain.

Part of it was because the two lengths of yardage are being prepared for exhibits, where there are rules, themes, maximums and minimums. Another part of it was this whole argument of what others think is right for me to do with my art.

Used to be when I was younger, I would listen to them and be highly influenced by them. Because I grew up in a household where I was not allowed to have an opinion, it became very fuzzy for me where someone else’s opinion stopped and mine started. I would firmly state my opinion; someone would differ with me and then I would question my own opinion, analyze it so much that I no longer had it nor recognized it, if I did have it.

Now, it is different. In my 59th year, I don’t really care if others believe I should be doing different work or should be exhibiting at this, that and the other venue. Their voices are still clamoring around in my cranium as I sort out what I want. When I begin to feel lesser that I don’t measure up (to their standard), then I know I have veered off again, and eventually get rid of those extraneous voices.

A lot of my personal struggle is not only in staying on my own path, but in believing it is the right choice for me. Coming from a long line of overachievers, I have done more than my share of an over-the-top life.

I CHOOSE to not live that way anymore. I choose to live in my body, making the art I love, and exhibiting it. If I sell something, that is just icing on my multi-layered cake.

I have always had my priorities backwards and today it became more so apparent, that a friend commented on it. When I was a working stiff, I put everyone’s needs before mine, because hey that is what women were taught to do.

Every weekend of my life, I planned to get into the studio and ‘get creative.’ Of course it seldom happened, because after I cleaned the house, did the laundry, bought the groceries, paid the bills, paid attention to the hubby and daughter and dogs, I was too damn tired to ‘get creative.’

So now I have been retired almost 9 years…how is that possible?! I was 50 when my employer succumbed to brain cancer and I felt the lesson was to stop, smell the roses and design art!

For a long while, I got very good at just playing. Then another friend suggested if I were a working studio artist, then the fun stuff is actually my work, so it should come first. Ok, that was a reasonable argument.

What has really tripped me up is two-fold. Since I have been retired, I have finally come into my natural body rhythm and that is I am not a morning person. I am a late afternoon-evening person. That doesn’t mean I go salsa dancing every night. It means that I have my strongest energy when my old work ethic is telling me it is time to stop for the day!

Lately, I have been pretty much ignoring the work ethic and marching to my own drummer. Yet the drummer is misguided and I spend inordinate amounts of time on the computer doing lots of stuff for volunteer gigs, which I do enjoy; doing e-mail and otherwise expanding my buttocks into the formation of the chair.

When I run dry of PC-related tasks, IF there is any time left, THEN I go into the studio. Oftentimes, it is dinnertime and I go into my homemaker mode. And that is where my friend pointed out the problem! AHA…I need to go to the studio first and come to the PC for breaks, instead of vice versa!

I can do this, I know I can. I know I can. I know I must! Otherwise, the promise of the elusive studio will just continue to be that.

I seem to be chewing at this elephant one bite at a time. As soon as I am able to assimilate a bite of it, I rest for a short time and then take another bite. This hit me today as I lumbered the high school track in glorious weather, listening to Monsoon Wedding on my iPod.

My mobility is becoming more and more awkward and more painful, all the time. It used to be I was having a bad week, but this year I have been having several bad weeks. The hits just keep on coming. It hurts to sit, it hurts to stand, it hurts to walk. There is no denying it, even though it is much more comforting to do so.

I am a fairly optimistic person, so that and denial have kept me from facing the truth for a very long time. Now, I realize that the writing is on the wall and the letters are spelling my name. I am just SO sad to be losing what limited mobility I have, at 59. I am NOT giving up, but I am facing reality in a dead stare. While I can go to the doctor for pain meds, I know there is nothing they can do to reverse this skeletal damage. Nothing!

Just as I was swallowing this latest bite of elephant, I had the positive outlook that I can still make my art. I don’t have to move much within my own home to make art. I can become a famous disabled artist! Now, there, isn’t that something to look forward to?

Today has been the kind of day that makes people decide to move to California. Overlooking the crowded freeways and city streets, the high cost of living, the narcissistic people, the healthcare system, the crime, etc, they all see that bright, sunny, Sunday in March when the folks back home are digging out, again, and say, let’s move to California!

I have often thought that the California Chamber of Commerce might consider posting their Welcome to California sign somewhere around Elko, NV. Then all the hordes of people moving here from parts East, would say, look Marge, we’re already here, ahead of schedule and set up household in beautiful downtown Elko.

My people have been here for only 75 years. My Dad came from Iowa with his Mom, Dad, aunt, uncle, four siblings and a car that had a crank in the front. Twenty four hours out, their grandfather died and they had to turn around and head back to Iowa for the funeral. After that, they headed West again. Everyone stayed, married, and had their families here.

As a native Californian, I feel somewhat protective about my homestate, but not to the point of thinking I can control other people’s behavior. People USED to be much more civilized than they are now, but then there were a lot fewer of them. And whether they were born here, or came with the Beverly Hillbillies is really of little consequence.

Today, I sat outside, on the deck, on my little plot, on the planet, in glorious weather, reading the Sunday paper. Awash in sunscreen, lest my old arms grow one more ugly thing, I just took in how fabulous it was to just sit in nature with the only sound being birds.

And then the Sunday afternoon disturbances kicked in. The first was the guy across the street who re-discovered his antique weed wacker and went to work on his front yard, which seriously needs a lot more help than that. I could hear this awful whiney noise over the top of my house, into my backyard.

When he let up, the teenager next door started screaming obscenities at her father; the likes of which, had I done, I would not be alive today to sit on my deck on a glorious Sunday. Chiming in behind her came a far-off leaf blower, and then a chain saw. Suddenly, all was quiet, which turned out to be the calm before the storm.

Somewhere in our hilly neighborhood is a young man who fancies himself the next Gene Simmons. The boy CANNOT sing, nor play, either. He has been at it for roughly five years and has shown no improvement. Because of the sound bouncing off the hills, no one actually knows where he lives. Neighbors sneer at each other, an accusatory look here or there, as if the awful noise is emanating from their garage.

Today, this budding rock star has been carrying on for at least 5 hours. Where are the parents? Or worse yet, what if he is an adult?!!! You can see just what I am doing about it..I am writing about it. And I just noticed it stopped. Maybe I should have written 4 hours ago? Oh wait, there’s the cursing teen’s yappy Pomeranian. Ah, life in the burbs…

Sometimes being forgetful has it’s advantages, such as stress reduction. For example, in September 2005 I was informed rather rudely that the Transportation Security Administation had placed me on their “terrorist watch” list. A code on an airline ticket brought me untold pleasures at the security checkpoint.

As I left in tears, I asked how? why me? what can I do to change this? I surmised it was the orthopedic plates in my legs that set me off on this not-so-funny but true story. A rather sympathetic yet bored TSA employee gave me a photocopied sheet of instructions on securing back my good name and reputation, which until that moment, I did not know I had lost.

So I sent off my letter to the website indicated and was advised to download a .pdf file of forms to complete and return with notarized copies of three forms of ID, a blood sample and a hairball from my neighbor’s cat. Strange to find out that one form of ID was actually a voter registration card, especially in light of people who have registered their dogs to vote. Those dogs are cleared to fly, but not me.

After calling the county for the voter registration card, obtaining yet another signed/sealed/delivered birth certificate, running to Kinko’s for copies of passport and paperwork, to the bank to have the whole pile notarized and then to the post office to send it certified mail; I mailed it to TSA on 10/04/05. I received the green card back stamped 10/07/05 and never heard another word.

I e-mailed in December 2005 as to what actually happened down the rabbit hole and was instructed that I would receive a letter. Said letter never arrived, ever. Because I didn’t fly last year, and I FORGOT about the paperwork, it remained a mystery until today.

In clearing some old computer files yesterday, I stumbled across the file. Hmmm, I wondered, what happened? So I e-mailed TSA again to ask and was told to call, this time.

The dog and I spent 23 minutes on hold listening to lovely music. Finally TINA came on the phone and I told her my story. She said they while I mailed it on October 4th and they stamped it received on October 7th, they actually did not receive it until Nov 24! Wow, that is some big mailroom they have at TSA!!!

Further, they sent me “the letter” in January 2006, which I never received. They are now resending me the letter which should take three weeks to reach me. What, is it coming by camel from Arlington, VA? Even a camel with rest stops would take only 10 days.

Then mild panic steps in and I tell Tina that while I did not fly in all of 2006, I am set to fly on May 24 and I hope this is straightened out by then. Oh, you have plenty of time she says! Yes, plenty of time, like from October 2005 to March 2007. Yikes.

Today I swam early, and then sat in the chemically infused hot tub. My right hip has been screaming since Monday, when I walked home from dropping my car off to be serviced. Normally, I walk on the high school track, which has a softer, flat surface than the concrete sidewalks . The trek home from the mechanic involved dirt paths, and two slight inclines; one of which was extremely tortuous for the woman who can’t walk straight. My husband cautioned me about taking that course, but no, I thought he was wrong, of course I can manage! NOT!

So three days later, I am still in agony. Because I possess the owner’s manual on my body, I know that often what seems is not what is. While this seems like an arthritic hip, and often is; this time is actually more sciatic nerve connecting to the SI, with the pain is radiating down to the hip.

As the holistic health poster child, I always try every possible combination of remedies for relief before I actually succumb and go the chiropractor. Oftentimes, in 2-3 days, it self-corrects. No sense in going to the doctor, because they just want me to take drugs. And while a life of Vicodin works for others, I opt to live life without constipation, rashes and confusion.

So I came home, applied analgesic cream to my oowie hip and sat on ice, took a Tylenol arthritis and am now waiting for divine intervention. I also experienced a 23 second emotional meltdown about living with ongoing debilitation and then snapped out of it.

I especially was impressed with that. My sorrow is about what was done to my body over 40 years ago, for the sake of vanity and to enable me a “normal” life which actually gifted me chronic pain and debilitation. I have cried buckets, written volumes, counseled endlessly and still the sorrow remains. Today, my short meltdown, was kind of a wakeup call that all the grief in the world still does not change it. It is still my life and I still have to adapt. And I do, most of the time. I just get tired of the ongoing misery.

Frankly, I just don’t like that my daily activities are determined by my pain threshold or level of debilitation. It sucks the energy right out of me, and I don’t like that, but how arrogant are we to be, to think we have control over such things?

Somewhere deep inside, I do believe the key is about refocusing my attention. You know that jazz about attracting what we believe. If I believe I hurt, I hurt more. Well, it sounds good in theory, but when one is in pain, it sounds completely unrealistic!

And I have seriously thought about becoming an alcoholic, to kill the pain. But alas, I can’t drink too much or too often lest my trick knee swells and I have to have a cortisone shot. Middle age has become a high wire balancing act. But alas, in 9 months I will no longer be middle age, so maybe there will be some improvement. What an optimist!

Now, I know some well-meaning person is going to suggest I take XYZ drug to deal with it. And maybe someday I will. But I prefer consciousness to semi-consciousness. I prefer to live to the fullest. And I seldom complain about it, because nobody gets it or really cares anyway. Everyone has their issues.

Although, I must admit that when the woman with the perfect body and bad hair, bounded out the gym door in front of me today, I wondered, what was her issue, really?

On a totally unrelated issue, now I think I have seen everything! While driving home from the gym, I saw a woman walking four Chihuahuas, talking on a cellphone and wearing a baby carrier on her chest. A second look revealed another dog in the baby carrier. YIKES, I have seen everything!

Today, I finally got down to the basement, moved the rototiller, swept up the dirt and leaves to find the area formally known as the photo wall. My dear husband who is the gardener has mentioned to me that he has a different slant on organization than I do. Still it made me antsy to shoot white work amongst the debris.

So here are the two images of work potentially going to Finland. Arctic Glow is going for sure. The other is of the Avalanche Gorge in Montana.

Also, I have new digital camera which shoots killer images, in general, but alas I have much to learn about shooting my work. I loved it that my former camera and I were on the same plane and could whip out those clear digitals in no time. Now, I need to retrain myself.

I am basically inept when it comes to reading manuals. I am a hands on kind of gal. I used to believe my father’s comments about being lazy, but in reality we are who we are. I could force myself to read the manuals, but I wouldn’t really get anything out of it, because my mind would be on to something else. I recognize that is the way my mind works…nothing lazy about it! I am a visual learner.

So I need to go back down to the dungeon, and play with the lighting and the camera until I get a good shot. All of this brought me to another area of anxiety!

I learned Dreamweaver and designed my own website so I can have hands on in maintaining it. Everytime I update it, I need to expand tables and move this here and that over there and remember to drag all the links along for the ride. The last few times, I have been nagging myself to complete revamp it.

Now, I know THAT is a long term project. Maybe a good month of doing little else. Then I wonder how important is this really? Of all the things I need to attend to in my life, how important is it for me to tackle, yet one more time, rebuilding my website?

Eventually, I will probably do it. But for now, it seems yet another form of procrastination from actually doing the work.