Carol Larson - textile artist

I love my digital images as much as the next person. While I never take photos from my phone, I frequently take images from my camera. Mostly, I photograph macro of textures, patterns and colors of life. I do have my limitations. I don’t photograph other people’s art in museums. I don’t photograph Native Americans because they believe it steals their spirit. I don’t photograph weddings or funerals. And I don’t photograph the interior of rich people’s homes! The view, maybe…

You see I grew up in those fabulous fifties when there was a bit more lustre to the culture. My 28 yr old daughter says she is sick of hearing about the baby boomers, and I tell her to get used to it, there are many more coming along behind me! I seldom mention being a boomer, probably because most people I speak to, know or enjoy are also boomers themselves and why overstate the obvious?

The flip side of being raised in an era of more civility is one rapidly recognizes that they are starting to sound like their elder parent! Why in my day…

Back in my day, a trip to the museum was a really big deal. We often got dressed up, not in our clean jeans but in dresses, stockings, heels, gloves, etc. And never ever did we mumble so much as a word in any museum. Museums were like libraries only filled with old stuff other than books.

Living close to San Francisco and loving the high price of gas in a rapid transit-free zone, I have made quite a few trips lately to see some of the fabulous fine art exhibits at the SF MoMA, the Legion of Honor and the DeYoung. While viewing the Annie Leibowitz exhibit last month, I was awestruck at how noisy it was. And it wasn’t from the sound of heels on the floor either. It was yakkety, yakkety, yak. People, shhhhh, this is a museum after all, I wanted to SHOUT!

Today, a friend and I went to the DeYoung for a textile lecture. Even though both of us were going back later on to see the Chihuly exhibit, we decided to see it today, anyway. The long timed lines of people moved quickly into the exhibit, and were met at the entrance by a docent stating no flash photography and stay behind the lines; not even a nose was to cross the line. Now, to me, that would have discouraged me from shooting images, had I brought my camera, which I didn’t. But no way, Jose.

It was nearly impossible to see the spectacular, colorful, whimsical art for all the people snapping photos of it with their cellphones and cameras. Toss in a few errant screaming children, one wobbily on two legs senior (me) and duct tape lines on the floor, and the entire showcase became an obstacle course. I decided if I were to lose my balance to lean towards falling on somebody’s squalling child over falling on glass sculpture. Kids can be bandaged.

What knocked me out other than the spectacular art was people are no longer looking with their eyes. The lens of their digital device is capturing life for them to look at later, if ever. Furthermore, the shots taken today in the exhibit with mostly spot light and/or muted light were hardly professional photography grade. A hefty and handsome book of professionally shot, properly lit Chihuly sculpture is available quite reasonably in the museum store. And I bet there is not a single head or arm shadow in the book.

This first came to me on vacation with a pre-digital age film camera. Remember those? Well, I had a small Pentax that invariably got a dead battery in the middle of some sightseeing junket 90 miles from a camera store. Yeah, I know, I did carry spares, but often the spare was dead too. And one too many dead batteries later, I got it that perhaps I might want to just look with my eyes, fully taking in the splendor, the colors, the patterns, the textures, the shapes, the way the light bounces off and the environs. Maybe I could actually imprint this image in my cranium instead of onto film or a memory chip.

So today, I was again reminded of another quirky way our culture has changed since the so-called fabulous fifties. I am not so sure they were fabulous, I was a kid, what did I know? I just know that a lot of people paid good money to see this exhibit today but really didn’t see it. When they flip through their images on their PC at work on Monday when they should be doing other things, maybe they will wish they had really examined the work with their own time exposure built-in lens.

I have been at this gig for about 6-7 years now and still I have not found my own style. I have found several styles I love to work in, as evidenced by these images. About the only thing these pieces have in common is my love of the curvy line.

Everything I read about being a professional artist speaks about having a style of work, a body of work, if you will, which all looks like it came from the same hands.

All of us in this racket know who has done that; whose work we look at and instantaneously know it is their work. I know some professionals who have not changed their style one iota in 20 years, and still they are successful. Part of me, well most of me, finds that incredibly boring!!! And yet, one must have a style of their own so their work is recognizable.

Today I have been doing a second round of free-motion stitching on new work. As I stitch, it occured to me that this new work is nothing like my other work, so instead of drawing closer to a cohesive body of work, I am creating yet another path! Maybe I will be the trend-setter for those who can’t just settle on one style. Must I be as disciplined in my art as I am in my food choices? Can I not just have fun in one portion of my life? Yes, I vote yes. Continue to follow my own voice and create whatever strikes my fancy. Who cares if I am not abiding by the rules? And who sets these rules, anyway ?

Yesterday I received this quilt, Naked Truth: Everyone Has Their Price back from exhibit at Cal-Poly State University, San Luis Obispo. It was juried into A Tear in the Fabric by Dr. Carolyn Mazloomi, and was chosen one of 25 works in the exhibit from 350 images.

My artist statement for this piece read: Five layers of screen-printed letters and imagery tell the story of how so many will literally sell their story, and sometimes their soul to make a buck. When the daughter of Watergate’s Deep Throat flushed her 93 yr old father out of seclusion, in order to pay for her son’s law school education, I was inspired to make this piece. The perforated film strip in the center represents both print and visual media, collaborators in this trafficking of “human interest” stories.

Tucked humbly within the Fedex carton were two exhibit catalogs, exhibit postcards and a CD. The CD contained images of all the work in the gallery setting, the opening reception images, kids’ group tours of the exhibit and art classes based on the exhibit, scans of the press articles and a tour of the exhibit. Wow! I just finished perusing the CD and I am so impressed!!! I am pleased that so much effort went into curating this exhibit, that my work was part of it and that they took the time to put together this great media package about it.

They must have had grant money, a friend said. Indeed. On the back of the exhibit catalog reads the list of who made the exhibit possible and the first one is The College of Liberal Arts Lottery Fund Committee! Well, I just feel like I won the lottery to receive this wonderful package of media about my work!

Two and a half years ago I decided to make art postcards for my annual holiday greetings. This process served me well in that I was able to clear out an entire drawer of fused fabric scraps and another drawer of unfused scraps.

I was also able to pare down the much anticipated family newsletter to what would fit on the card, i.e. 100 words! Summing up our year in 100 words has become a welcome challenge. No one I know has a life so fascinating that I need to read a page, front and back single spaced, font 9-10 about how special their kids are!

This has became an annual rite for me, and this being my third year I am starting earlier with the collages. I will print the message and stitch the card stock in December, but for now I am just at play.

Everyone raves about my fabulous holiday cards! I respond that they are just fun to make, and the bonus is cleaning out my scrap drawer, which essentially is a hangover from the daughter of the war bride syndrome…why throw out anything that might have a re-use? No, they respond, that is not it, I am gifting my art out into the world. I humbly respond that I just love doing it, and the conversation labors on.

In reality, I am gifting my art into the world, but that is not why I do the cards! I do the cards because I love making them! I do the collages as they are all mini design exercises.

There are a couple here that no matter what I pressed on made them less exciting. So finally I laid on a layer of misshapen squares and they popped. There are some here I love so much I may keep as a mini quilt. And there are some that bear the leftovers of hand-dyed and screen-printed silk scarves that formerly hung in a gallery downtown!

After stitching each of these collages will be cut into 4 small postcard size cards. So for now I am 40 down and 50 to go! Which part of the puzzle will you receive?!

When one door closes, another opens. Just days ago, I was blogging about volunteerism. While I did fully expect to take on a new task, I surely didn’t think the door would open the very same week!

Yesterday I agreed to chair the 2010 Conference for SAQA which will be in California. I am excited about it, or I would not have agreed! Yet the timing does strike me as incredibly synchronistic. This will be so good for me in so many ways. I can tap my reserve of event planning skills AND learn to speak the English language again, after a decade of electronic communication! Sometimes I am mystified when I go out in public after being the reclusive artist, that my verbal skills are trashed. And of course, when I tap you on the shoulder to be a part of this opportunity, you’ll be equally as excited…right?!

Meanwhile, I am resting up. I tweaked my shoulder. I thought it happened while sleeping, crunching it, but alas my favorite addictive computer game definitely does not help it. What’s an artist with an ailing wing to do?

Today, I downloaded one of the Netflix movies in my queue and enjoyed a summer afternoon matinee. There was a time when I could not do that, kill time in the middle of the day, watching a movie, so I see it as great progress!

I also bought coordinating thread to stitch the latest work, as soon as I am able.

I have always been apolitical. I have done my civic duty and voted, many times when I didn’t want to, didn’t know the issues, couldn’t stand the candidates because I feel I owe it to the women who fought so hard for the right to vote. How dare I stay home on election day?

My father, before dementia stole his ego, told me that he believed no one without a college diploma (that would be me) should be allowed to vote! And still I pressed on doing what I believed was right. I have had a consistent record of voting for no one who has won, nor any proposition that passed. My husband and I generally cancel each other out, as well. My vote is the kiss of death for politicians.

I read Dreams of my Father long before Barack Obama was in the race for the presidential nomination. I was so impressed by his character, scruples and belief in a better world. He just seemed like fresh laundry, in the breeze.

When my brother-in-law circulated a racist e-mail about Obama, I hit reply all and educated his folks that they might want to learn something about the man, read his books, before they trash talk him. That brought anger from my father, who had been on the reply all list, and that I ought to be ashamed of myself (for having an opinion!)

Some time ago, I decided that if Obama made it to the nomination, I would for the first time in my life, donate to a political campaign. I had a certain amount of trepidation because I don’t want to become some political groupie, attend rallies, have coffee klatches for the neighbors, and generally be annoying to people who want to keep their opinions to themselves. And I don’t want them coming at me for more money. I don’t want the endless phone calls. I just want anonymity in my desire to put a compassionate human being with a vision into the hottest seat in the land. I would however put a sticker on my car and wear a t-shirt, both of which are sold out in the Obama online store!

Yesterday I did it. I pledged my donation online. I charged it to my personal credit card so that Mr. I Won’t Support Any of the Candidates will not know of my generosity until next February when we are sitting in front of the CPA for our annual tax preparation!

And the trepidation rang true. I received two e-mails yesterday from the Obama camp. The first was to thank me kindly for my generous donation. The second was to ask for a donation! I haven’t looked at today’s e-mail yet but the game has begun.

In my mind’s eye, I sense political rallies are a bit like the dog show ring. Years ago we had a pure-bred dalmation, which my husband decided to show. This dog was neurotic as hell, and yet he perserved with training her and trotting her around the ring. The very few times I accompanied him, I was overwhelmed by the frenzy of show dog trainers, owners, fanciers and the like. They are really quite wacko, as in my mind political junkies might be the same. Ah, but they might say the same about artists. Everyone knows we are flaky, right?!

Slowly but surely I seem to put my money where my mouth is. I don’t really engage in political discourse, because I get so upset, I can’t find the intelligent words, only the cuss ones. Yet since becoming an adult with my own mind and opinions, I marched against the Vietnam war on the streets of San Francisco; marched against invading Iraq; and now have contributed to a political campaign. I’ve come a long way, baby!

Who knows? I may give Obama more, but you can bet I will be saving most of my discretionary funds for the SAQA online Auction in November!

Long before I retired at the ripe old age of 50, I was an active volunteer in all organizations of which I was a member. I have been program chair, president, treasurer, secretary, publicity chair, vice president and parliamentarian more times than I care to count.

The latter was perhaps the most ill-suited for me as I tend to be the one to mouth off at meetings! I can’t help myself. I often knit at meetings, because it does help me to keep my mouth zipped. However, frequently I get swept up in the ridiculous notion that whatever is being discussed is not rocket science and why are we spending so much time analyzing it? And there and then, the humor of it all just overwhelms me and what more can I say?

I retired when my employer met an early demise from cancer. I had accompanied him as primary caregiver on his journey of 22 months. This left me with an entirely empty plate of obligations to groups, as I had no time for anything, even my own life!

Thoughtfully and slowly, I added volunteer commitments of great meaning to me. I was a Hospice bereavement and office volunteer for 4 years, until the boredom set in. Then I took over as a regional representative for SAQA, which I had planned to do 4 years, but found successors in three years, so finished with that. I recently decided after considerable thought to resign an exhibition group which has been very special to me and my growth as a professional artist. Along with that has come the passing of the torch on the maintenance of the group website.

Suddenly, I find myself free of many responsibilities that have both enriched my life and filled it considerably over the past 3-4 years. I relish the wisdom of knowing that while volunteerism is good for the soul and great for the planet, it also can be one great big distraction from doing my own work. So rather than see this new and clear plate as frightening, I see great possibility and potential for myself and my art.

And I also know that I can volunteer most any time, any place at various agencies in my hometown. Some group is always looking for a warm body.