Column: Mason brings humanity into textiles through repurposing the past
“Being an Artist is a Worthy Thing To Do”: A review & celebration of Lori Mason’s Artist Talk at TDAC
By Sarah Cook
Given that I am a sensitive and easily inspired writer, you’d be reasonable in assuming I must have a strong habit of keeping pen and paper on me at all times. Surely, you might think to yourself, I’m not someone who just waltzes into an exhibit at my local art center without being prepared to capture the details of what’s likely about to transpire.
Sigh. The truth is that I’m often woefully unprepared for inspiration’s most obvious arrivals, and that certain lessons just can’t stay learned in my brain.
Lori Mason /Photo courtesy of her website.
Picture it: There’s me sitting in the back row at The Dalles Art Center on September 14th, eager to hear from and learn all about Oregon textile artist and fabric designer, Lori Mason. She begins talking, and the room and everyone inside it—you can feel this happening—are stunned. Enraptured! I look to my right and see my dear friend nodding along contentedly. Next to her, my partner—and CCC Movie Reviewer—takes diligent notes in his trusty journal.
Equally inspired, I look down at my own supplies: a small empty bag—I’d grabbed it specifically for carrying my water bottle, which was currently sitting on the kitchen table at home—and a pile of Snickerdoodle cookies TDAC was handing out for free.
What’s a writer to do? Despite my fear of looking like a bored teenager, I wiped the crumbs off my face, pulled out my phone, opened my notes app, and began typing.
From The Dalles Art Center: “Lori Mason is a maker and a storyteller. The artist has worked steadfast and quietly for decades, exploring her craft and various mediums of textile art. Eventually, Mason found the deepest meaning and satisfaction in her work through creating memorial quilts for families to honor the passing of a loved one.”
That energy—the superpower that is a steadfast and deeply introspective kind of labor—was palpable throughout the night. Lori was in conversation with TDAC’s Executive Director, Sally Johnson, and she fielded her questions with a grounded brilliance that felt both wise and approachable. As if every good idea inside her—there’s clearly a bunch of them—is one she’s eager to pass on to you.
Lori’s work exists at the intersection of practical use and artistic value, and it’s her organic weaving together of the two that I found most inspiring. It might feel easy to assume that the use value of practical items—a spoon, a blanket, a table—is one thing, while the merit of artistic objects—an abstract oil painting, a Rodin, Kusama’s “Obliteration Room”—is something else entirely. But Lori’s work makes obvious the artistic value in practical, well-worn shapes, and the preservational potential of everyday patterns.
In other words, I felt binaries and competitions melting away as I listened to Lori speak about her process, and I grew inspired instead by the deeply crafted and admittedly spiritual blending of the common with the divine.
And where some artists might chase that blending in the direction of conceptual art—Duchamp comes to mind here—Lori’s work maintains something that feels like the opposite of concept or theory, yet still more lush and abundant than the merely practical.
I think the adjective I’m looking for here is: humane. There’s a humanity to her unique artistic process—turning clothes into memorial quilts for grieving families—that’s impossible to ignore, particularly when you’re standing in front of the quilts themselves. (Which was a rare treat: most quilts don’t get exhibited, as they make their way from her studio back to the families who ordered them. It’s a wildly interesting thing to think about, in my book: the dissemination of an artist’s work, and how it must feel to spend most of one's time making things that one won't likely ever encounter again).
Viewing Lori’s work, then, I’m reminded that making art is, before it becomes anything else, a way to engage with our own humanity. Before movements, trends, publications, sources of income, or indications of one’s status, the practice of making art is a practice of looking at the immediate spaces around us, expressing ourselves into those spaces, and inviting witnessing. It’s a way to be in relationship with nature, feelings, peers, loved ones, and in the case of Lori’s work, grieving strangers.
I appreciated hearing Lori go into detail about her background and her artist’s journey, as she told stories about her time working in more commercial spaces, including Nike—not the easiest environment for an artist to work in, she generously confessed—and how finding her way toward her own authentic process involved recognizing that “the obvious thing wasn’t the thing” she should be doing.
What are “obvious things” for artists? Adhering to the models & molds we learned about in school, for one. Or prioritizing turning our passions into money. Or following trends (I breathed a big, cozy sigh of relief, between bites of cookie, when I heard her gently admonish this word. It was a permission I desperately needed to hear).
In short, Lori’s artistry is fueled by textiles, memory, and our shared experiences of grief, that one single thing that unites us all, and the long-held conviction that fabric is the medium for her, “no doubt.” Over the years, she’s utilized fabrics of all different kinds: wool, silk, neckties. Anything stretchy. When needed, she’ll incorporate appliqué and stabilizer. Meanwhile, she’s looking for and building patterns, working with palettes, and conjuring the stories, memories, and life experiences that each client shares with her in advance of the work.
It’s a process nearly as old as time: Quilting. But also, alchemy.
On the day of polishing up this draft, I suddenly remembered that Lori has an Instagram page and, though I aim to spend precious little time on that platform, I felt called to see if she had any recent posts.
What I found had been shared one hour earlier. I saw a photo of a delicate white romper, laid flat against a green measuring board. Perpendicular yellow lines where jutting out behind it in every which way, as if radiating directly from the empty garment itself.
And next to the picture, this caption: “This little white romper was worn as a baby by a 16-year old young man who mistakenly took a pill he bought at school that was laced with a lethal dose of fentanyl. Today I am beginning to deconstruct the collection of clothing his mom gave me to make into a memorial quilt. He was her only child. I have made a career’s worth of memorial quilts for people, and I have developed healthy ways to set up what I consider “grief boundaries” to allow myself to be able to emotionally continue the work I do. Mostly I’m able to do that. Today, I’m struggling. As I should be. In one minute I’m going to pull myself together enough to cut the little garment into 2.5” squares that will eventually be sewn together next to the young man’s beloved blue jeans, the first dress shirt he bought at Goodwill, a few other plaid rompers, and the black formal shirt he wore on wrestling match days at school. I will transform these keepsake moments in time into a meaningful remembrance piece that will reside with his bereaved mom in place of his beautiful self.”
For those who missed the talk and exhibit, scrolling through Lori’s website is like visiting a candy store for artists with a spiritual bent who also love pattern and color. You can discover rows and rows and rows of memorial quilts, view special event quilts and pieces from her for-sale studio collection, and read moving entries from Lori’s notebooks that celebrate personal details from different collaborations.
To learn more about Lori’s work—or to schedule a personal consultation—visit lorimasondesign.com/. You can also follow Lori on Instagram @lorimasondesign
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