Carol Larson - textile artist

Years ago, a wise and kindred spirit taught me about expectations, and how our expectations often lead us astray. At that point, I began to let go of my expectations that my only child would marry and bless me with many good-looking, intelligent and rich grandchildren to care for me in my old age. I also let go of the expectation that each piece of work needs to be a masterpiece or an award-winning creation. Because I work at not holding expectations, which suck up an enormous amount of energy, I no longer come unwrapped (pun intended) over Christmas and “the holidays!” Sure I groused privately to a friend or two about the 15 purple fat quarters from Santa, but generally, I have no expectations, so I have little disappointment.

This morning, when it was a bitter 28 outside, I slapped on many layers and ventured down to the dungeon to paint cloth. I had three pieces half-done begging for another layer and a fourth piece ready to go. Major expectation came into play as I added a 2nd layer of paint to an already completed and seemingly finished art quilt. Whatever possessed me to take this piece out of the closet and add paint months after “completion”, I will never know.
I had been thinking about what work is really cutting-edge, and this particular piece is not so much in design, as it is in fabric. So I decided to paint it! I made a new screen to apply onto the stitched and layered piece, but it did not go well. There was a lot of smudging of the image, because of the thickness of the surface. So I let it rest in the basement for the past week while I pondered my next move.

And then I remembered something Randall Darwall said in a class I took as a weaver. If it doesn’t look finished, add something! So today I added another layer of paint, with a different screen, but in the same color as before and voila! it popped. I believe it still needs just a touch more in a complementary color. But whew! saved that one.

Meanwhile, I went to work on yet another stitched piece. This one took major chutzpah as most of the fabrics are vintage Japanese kimono silks. This is where my expectations kicked in. What if I ruin them? Well, if I do, the world will not end, and if I don’t I just might create an awesome piece of art. Or I may just learn something! Part of what I love so much about the process of surface design is that unless one is extremely anal, the end result is usually a surprise. Expectation and surface design do not have common goals, at least not in my studio.

The other piece I am working on down there has a gestation of its own. It is background cloth for another piece in the Tall Girl Series. This ongoing, and seemingly never-ending body of work has changed my life in that I have been able to channel through my hands the physical, emotional and psychological pain I have carried in my body for over 5 decades. My original expectation was to finish the series by my 60th birthday, which was just over 3 weeks ago. Starts and stops kept me from that goal. I now realize that I may never finish the TG Series, completely. After all the debilitation of my body is ongoing, and I am ongoing. The series like the artist is a work in process.

Yet it is not lost on me, how many of the individual pieces have gone through an agonizing gestation and birth process. That is the case with this current one. It is also a bit humorous to me, so that is also a factor, how one story can lead to another. This is not meant to be a teaser but rather an observation on how by doing this body of work, I have also given birth to the artist within.

Generally I TRY to avoid using the word TRY or TRYING in my communication, because I have come to find out that TRY often is a substitute for I gave it a shot, but no way am I actually going to do it. And it is most frequently used in a sentence at this precise time of the year when people say they are going to TRY to quit smoking, TRY to give up sweets, TRY to get to the gym, TRY to spend less time on the PC, TRY to get into the studio more and TRY to get more work done.

TRY is also the first cousin of MAYBE… MAYBE quit smoking, MAYBE give up sweets, MAYBE get to the gym, MAYBE spend less time on the PC, MAYBE get into the studio more and MAYBE get more work done.

What is with New Year’s resolutions anyway? Has nobody figured out that January 1 is just the day after December 31 and no amount of TRYING or MAYBE is going to change anything? It is no different than deciding that on April Fool’s Day, we will join Weight Watchers! I don’t make resolutions (anymore) because I learned it was just too much pressure on myself to deal with something of which I was not yet ready to deal.

About 10 years ago I got that, and most likely because by then I had given up smoking, I had gone to the gym, and I had begun sensible eating. Until then I was faithfully making my list.

Now, I offer myself a list of goals for the coming year. Of my goals for 2007, only 4 were met, 3 no longer apply and 2 happened without being on the list, at all.

So now as I sit in my warm house in the dank, bone-chilling, Arctic front of a West Coast winter, I am TRYING to get to the basement to paint cloth. I just cannot bring myself to do it. It is just too darn cold down there. Although, perhaps I would not need the ventilation of the fan and open door, as I could use my own breath to move the air!

Now I know we are not cold compared to Fargo or Fairbanks. But we are cold for California, and that is where I am. Everything is relative.

So I am TRYING to work, but knowing that it is not going to happen as long as I need long johns and fingerless gloves to do so. Until then, I’ve got the upstairs studio beckoning and paperwork to keep me warm. I am just making art, no TRYING about it.

So often people have told me that they are not a “group person,” meaning they don’t like nor do groups. I have never been able to grasp what that truly means. Mostly, I have assumed it meant they don’t like to contribute effort to make groups function, and yet some of the group-haters have contributed. Or maybe they have burned out from contributing, or felt unappreciated, or got tired of making others look good. Who knows?

I have always been one of those who when the leader asked for a volunteer from a crowd of 100, I perceived that she was speaking directly to me. Only as I have matured have I learned the practicality of sitting on one’s hands, knitting or just muttering the words no thanks! I have always believed that a group functions with many contributors. And yet most groups function with few contributors and a huge number of hand-sitters.

Somewhere in my mid 50’s I graduated from taking any volunteer gig to looking how a particular opportunity would benefit my life. For example, I maintain the CFA website which helps keep my web design skills intact.

This week however, I have bailed out of two contributions to groups of which I am a member. One was a new volunteer position being created just for me, and when I saw the volume of the work involved, I recognized that I would return to being a full-time resident of my left brain. I don’t care to live there any longer, after 30 years as a workaholic, thank you kindly!

Why on Earth would I sacrifice my passion and mental health in order to be a worker bee, for yet another group? And it wasn’t even about money, it was about quality of life.

My life today is enriched because I mostly get to choose what to put into it, as if a recipe. I function best on a daily dose of exercise, art, nutrition and rest. I don’t thrive on countless hours on the PC organizing data and stats. So I graciously declined.

The key element in this, is how I define my role, as a group volunteer. I still want to contribute to organizations in which I believe. Yet my downfall as a volunteer, first at Hospice and now again for this organization is once they find out I am competent, all the stops come out. Obviously this is just another boundary issue, in a different disguise.

I feel so blessed that I was able to ‘dump’ both of these volunteer opportunities before I grew resentful and angry about the intrusion into my life. And I am reminded of something said to me years ago, by one who hated groups…just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to!

It is just peeling off another layer of that Judeo-Christian ethic of my childhood…about always putting the needs of others first and doing what you can to support your community. I am of much more use to my community with my boundaries intact.

This morning I decided to go to a “gentle yoga” class because I actually wanted to buy some eye pillows for stocking stuffers and every other time I go by the yoga studio, the door is locked. Although I do a good yoga stretch routine every morning, I had not been to a legit class since before I broke my wrist, a year ago.

This yoga studio has been at it’s present location for 5 years. I was an active student when the director rented, renovated and moved into this space. One of the things I loved about it, initially, was the spaciousness, the empty walls and spiritual energy of the place. Little by little as time went on, prayer flags went up, a buddha here and there, a spiritual deity hither and yon, shelving, and products to sell, scarves, books, music, candles, mats, blocks, jewelry, eye pillows, sachet, lotions, potions, medicine wheels, yoga clothes, and a partridge in a pair tree. Then the bulletin boards went in and there were just a few business cards and a sprinkling of notices of upcoming classes. Eventually this led to class schedules being taped to the windows.

Imagine my shock when I walked in today to discover every flat vertical surface in this building is covered with a notice of some sort. There are all kinds telling us that money does not buy happiness, although we might consider spending ours on this, that and the other class, this special guru, that special guru, a flat for rent, roommate wanted, dogs, cat, gerbils and what-all for sale, how to heal ourselves, what to eat, what not to eat, and on and on and on.

And I was even elated to find more signs in the bathroom! There was a yoga specific scroll on the inside of the bathroom door instructing me that happiness again cannot be bought. There was a sign reminding me to turn off my cellphone, which never rings; to not wear perfume which makes me itch, and to leave my shoes out in the hallway, as a consideration for others (to trip over). There was also a notice about holiday hours. Where was the sign saying do not even think of putting your yoga mat within 3 feet of the tallgirl, because she has the wingspan of an eagle?

When class was over, I was exhausted from trying to ferret out the doorway for all the notices. And alas, there were no more eye pillows! As I drove across town to buy groceries, I passed a chain link fence with at least a half-dozen banner sized signs strapped on, for soccer sign-ups and basketball sign-ups, for condos for rent and hay for sale, for a realtor and for a craft fair.

What is with all the signage? I find it a bit ironic and silly that a sacred place such as a yoga studio, should be as cluttered as a phone pole in Berkeley or the local market’s community bulletin board. Perhaps, it is the silence of the ritual that has brought on the visual blight of too many words.

And breathe…. I have been keeping a secret for about ten days now. I received word that five pieces of my work had sold, while I was packing for our trip to New Mexico to celebrate my 60th. I joked that who knows what went to New Mexico with us! I chose to keep it a secret so as to not jinx anything. I felt it was a done deal, but until I had the check in my hot big hand, I was not going to broadcast anything. I likened it to all those times I told people I was going to quit smoking, and then didn’t. Twenty five years later, I remain a non-smoker.

So today, hubby dearest and I trekked to San Francisco to install five pieces of my work in the corporate offices of The James Irvine Foundation. They had decided on four with the fifth to be chosen from three others. I was as thrilled with their choice as they were!

The piece they chose for the fifth was Summer in the City I, which is a companion piece to Summer in the City II. Both had been created with CFA exhibits, in mind. But is that not the point of exhibiting, anyway; hoping to sell work? SOLD!

The common ingredient of all these pieces is orange, which is their signature color. James Irvine was an agricultural leader in California about 70 years ago, and at one time owned 3/4 of the land that is now Orange County. I believe orange may also be my new best and favorite color!!!

The photos on this post show the work in it’s new home. The best photos of these individual works are on my website The pieces are: Autumn Leaves, Persimmon, Sunday Best, Summer in the City I and II. The easiest way to access them is to click the mini image on the pricelist page. It will take you directly to the work.

As soon as I got home, I uploaded my revised website and blabbed the news to all, far and wide. Already so many wonderful compliments have come in; about this being the best birthday and/or Christmas present. Funny, for me this is a lifetime gift, that goes far beyond special December days. I am so honored and proud.

We’ve just returned from New Mexico, one of my favorite places on Earth. When people ask me why I love it so, I assume they have never been there. Mostly it is the colors, the hues, tones and shades of the land, the dark and light of the wide-open sky, the Native American reverence for the Earth.

I just batch sized 150+ images from my camera and the overall theme of this trip was color! What a surprise. I had over a dozen images of colorful buildings, nearly a dozen of incredible lichen and well over two dozen of sky, i.e. sunsets, rain-clouds and shadows. Even my husband has trained his photographic eye to see surface design in nature.

This was my tenth trip to Santa Fe, and my husband’s 4th. I chose this locale of fabulous food, great smells, awesome galleries and great spiritual energy to roll over into my 6th decade. All year I entertained the idea of turning 60 and felt totally at peace with it. And yet the day of my birthday, I found myself a bit stunned that I could actually be sixty! Me, 60? Too much. A day later I thought that in ten years, I will be 70…unbelievable! But then reflecting back on 50, it seems so long ago, and what a difficult decade it was.

Losing two of my closest friends to cancer and suffering much physical debilitation myself, the fifties were challenging years. And yet they have lifted me up to where I am today…grateful to be alive, to be in good shape for the shape I am in and full of passion for my art. Two wise elder women have told me their 6th decade was their best; one of which also told me at 50 that it would be my most difficult decade, so I feel quite blessed to be moving forward.

Maybe I shouldn’t have put the sunset at the end of the post?!!!

The season of merriment is upon us once again. Each year I seem to tweak a bit more what it is I want (spiritually not Claus-wise) from the season. When I was a young married, I only wanted to impress my mother with my perfectly decorated home and tree! So I raised a child who was forbidden to touch the tree, and thus as an adult who could care less about having one.

When we bought our house in 1974, we were instructed that first December by the kid next door that it was our moral obligation to string brightly colored bulbs along our roofline, on the neatly placed hooks. We obediently did that for about a decade and then switched to mini-white lights. The last year we did it took my nagging ’til April to get the old boy to take down the darned things.

Then we strung white lights through the rhodies out front. We have two large groupings of them and it was quite festive, and when the January white sales came, I could get to them and take them down. Then as the bushes grew larger and larger, we needed so many strings of lights that it overloaded the grid and bam! silent night. So then I opted for lighting the windows. It was tastefully done and easy to do, with a few suction cups.

This year, for some foolish reason, I fell victim to the alluring netted white lights. Yesterday, we spent over an hour trying to untangle just one box of the darned things. Finally, we stretched it out and the now huge rhodies wore it like a bikini top on an opera singer. It looked like a bandaid, compared to the monstrous shrubbery. So we tried to net other plants and a tree and eventually decided, we just did not really care if we had lights out front or not! What a concept!!! We just set ourselves free from the residential lighting prison.

There was an afterthought that I could just wind the two nets into a giant ball and light it on the driveway. With all the neighborhood bambi, snowmen and Santas, we could have the Christmas snowball. OK, so the outdoor lighting display is not my thing. How exciting to ditch that “tradition!”

For nearly twenty years, I worked for a Jewish dermatologist. The entire year, the man was easy to work for, but come December a dark cloud descended over the office and even Pollyanna would have been on anti-depressants. It always started with the dreaded trek to the Hallmark store to pick out “non-Christmas” holiday cards for him to send to his colleagues. Because he so hated this ritual, he would drag me along to choose for him. I too grew to hate the season and the ritual, except that I was rewarded with a lunch of my choice afterwards. How desperate was I for attention!

Yet I learned a very important and huge lesson, which I carry with me to this day. And that is, Christians do not own the planet. There are other people here, with other cultures, other traditions, and it is important to respect that. How would we like it if the Jews were shoving Channukah down our throats, or the Muslims Ramadan. And because Christmas to so many is about the outdoor lighting display, endless trips to the mall, and spending far more than they are making, to keep everybody happy and impress people who don’t even care; isn’t it all just a bit overdone, anyway?

Traditionally, my father’s family has gathered on Christmas Eve for over 5 generations, to eat, sing, and have a book swap. In my forties, I found a desperate need to find my own tradition, which meant boycotting the family gig in favor of snow trips to Yosemite with my husband and daughter. It took a quick slip on black ice and a cracked coccyx for me to get that what I was seeking, I already had. While my own definition of what works during the “holidays” has evolved over the years, one thing I know is that despite all our quirkiness, that old time religion found in those old Christmas hymns does it for me. While I more closely align with Buddhism, it is the music that harkens my childhood and good times with grandparents, who didn’t string lights, run to the mall, overspend and who clearly loved me. And my grandparents who did not dance nor do liquor, might delight to see that generations later we are so many that cocktails and finger food have replaced the sit-down dinner! Yet we are still together for that one night a year.

Sing praises…