 
 Photo
Homage
A
Farewell to my Father
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Thank
you for a lifetime of love and friendship,
Dad--
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Some
Photos
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Clarence
Joseph Carlos
(1906-2003)
For
several weeks I've planned to assemble a page about my
father, whom I've just lost. It was not unexpected, and he
loved to tell us that after such a good long life, with so
much love and many good times in it, he was not afraid to
die. He admitted he didn't look forward to it, but as long
as it was not a long painful ending, that was okay, we all
had to face it eventually. As the quality of his life ebbed
slowly, this modest man (to a fault) no longer desired mere
quantity. He was at peace, grateful for the good parts of a
long life. (The only two years in two-digit form that he
didn't see were: '04 and '05...)
At first I couldn't
bring myself to take the methodical steps to assemble
another new section to this sprawling mess of a website
that's my metaphorical home in the ether. Yet there was an
indescribable warmth in knowing that after several of my
friends and animal friends had passed on, their names and
faces would continue to "float about" in that internet
ether. I know, that's soppy and silly, but I can't quite
convince myself that there's not a spooky kinda "magic" to
it, as if an analog of a friendly ghost were thereby
conjured from the depths of html++...
Gradually the tears
have become less painful, and I'm hoping as I put this new
section together it won't be so difficult to work through.
While I'm far from being past the CU grieving stage, by now
it seems the ideal time to post this page. Monday, December
8, 2003, is my dad's 97th birthday. It's a fitting moment to
take a moment or two to look back on a good long life, a
life that I happened to know quite a bit about. Let me
collect some snapshots here, to show you what Clarence J.
Carlos looked like during his century, a century he enjoyed
asserting contained the greatest changes in human history.
Then he'd remind me that when he was a boy automobiles and
planes and electricity were brand new, radio, then TV, space
exploration, miracles of medicine and the whole field of the
CPU were topics of fantasy and science fiction. How could
one argue?
So here are a few
photos, from before I remember him, and then a few much more
recent, each with a bit of commentary. After that, I'll
assemble a few scans and examples of the artwork he created
as an avocation -- if not vocation -- in many media
throughout his lifetime.
Here
are three early snapshots
Click
each for a large view in a new window. Close that window to
continue here.
In
6th Grade
(1918) - With
Mrs. Foster
(1934) - Newlyweds
(1937)
Clarence
was the oldest of six children of Charles J. and Rose E.
(nee Frasier) Carlos, born on the morning of December 8,
1906, in Chelsea, MA. He was named after his father's older
brother, as he recalled to me during one a long recent phone
visit. The earliest photo I have of him appears above left.
It's a cropped section from a badly faded class photo taken
during his last year of formal education, probably in
Everett or Plympton, MA. He showed me this wallet photo
about eight years ago, and I offered to try to scan and
restore it on my Mac, the best I could. Let's start off this
section with it.
The center photo was
taken in the mid-'30s, down near the shoreline of
Narragansett, RI. The family liked to spend some time by the
ocean each summer. I think someone had the use of a beach
cabin once or twice, and the clan trolleyed down to be near
sun and surf. After "we kids" started coming along, someone
acquired a jalopy, and we'd all pile in for the long drive,
singing boisterous strains of "You are my sunshine" and "I'm
looking over a four-leaf clover," with an encore of "On top
of old Smokey." The woman standing next to my dad here is
Mrs. Foster (don't know her first name), another warm and
spirited family force, rather like my dad's mom, and part of
their sprawling circle of mutual support. They must have
been close, as he kept this well worn snapshot among several
in his wallet right to this year.
The photo to the right
is another cleaned up scan turned into a 60th Wedding
Anniversary card for my parents. It was taken shortly after
they married. I recognize the location -- my dad's parents
(tenement) house on Knowles Street. Each Sunday during my
youth the family converged there, creating a clutter of fond
memories of assorted cousins, aunts, uncles, noise, laughs,
music, food and gossip. They were mostly clever people, on
both sides of the family. You HAD to be clever in those
days, I suspect, when "do it yourself" was not yet a
self-conscious, trendy slogan. It's touching the "body
language" of affection evident here, and also quite genuine.
They married for love, they told me, even though some in the
family at first objected. In time they all became close
friends, blood and in-laws alike.
Photos
on Two Vacations
Cape
Cod
(ca. 1958) - Amsterdam
(1972)
It's
often the case that families seldom take pictures of their
daily activities, unless something unusual is going on, a
birthday, holiday, wedding, or in the cases above, while on
vacation. These snaps date to the summers of 1958 and 1972,
respectively. I recall taking the first snapshot myself,
with my mom's steadfast Brownie box camera
(using
a 2-1/4"
x 4" film size!), a
family travel companion during the '50s and early '60s.
Often we'd escape the heat of the city during July or August
by heading to Cape Cod, not a long drive, yet seemingly a
world apart, over those distinctive bridges dedicated to
Bourne and Sagamore, then along the cooling ocean or bay.
Usually we all got along well, so the grins here are
genuine. Jeepers, how formally Americans used to dress, even
here for a beachside motel!
The right hand photo is
actually two photos taken by a travel group when my parents
made one of their two trips to Europe. This stop was
Amsterdam, in the Summer of 1972, and they're about to board
a sightseeing boat. Again, note how well folks used to dress
back then. It wasn't until after retirement that they
allowed themselves the luxury of a transatlantic flight. My
mom pressed my dad into finally seeing some of the places
they'd only read about, or seen in the movies. Later they
used to joke in front of us: "See, daddy, aren't you glad we
saw Europe while we could still enjoy it?" "Oh, yes, mommy,
thank you so much for talking me into it!" The few such
trips they made like this were a great way to kick off
retirement. I'm so glad they made the effort, and they never
did stop talking about it.
Photos
during visit in Fall 2001
Deep
in conversation - Attention for
"Honey"
We
now jump three decades to two of the best recent shots I
have of my dad. He retired from a small business that his
dad and family started in the early years of WW II, after
saving for years. It was one of the typical small textile
factories that once dotted much of the Northeastern USA, The
Globe Narrow Fabrics Company. It was dirty and incredibly
noisy to visit, and was earned via dedicated sweat, if not
blood. They were a plucky lot, willing to sacrifice whatever
it took to keep their small establishment operating. It
eventually provided the family with a modest living for
three decades. By then textiles were moving elsewhere, first
to the South, then offshore. Some of the tasks were creative
(new weaving designs and patterns), but it was more often a
lot of hard work, not much for my dad to enjoy. But he was
mechanically adept, and developed the many skills needed. My
dad retired in '72, and completely enjoyed the remaining 31
years of his life.
He remained mentally
sharp right to the end. You could discuss nearly anything
with both of my parents -- they were always curious and
levelheaded. Here I snapped him in the middle of a
discussion with another friend during a visit shortened due
to the 9/11/01 WTC attacks. We were in their beautiful
assisted care apartment, which my parents moved to in the
summer of 2000. I'm grateful to my brother and sister-in-law
for finding this place for them, called "The Willows." We
chatted and argued emotionally about several topics,
including the WTC destruction, so incongruous on this
gloriously bright late Summer afternoon, the first day lower
Manhattan had been opened up to traffic again. It's a decent
photo of him, and perhaps captures his look and spirit those
final years better than any other photo I have.
My dad was the only one
living in The Willows who had a pet. My mom and dad enjoyed
living with animals, and memories of childhood inevitably
include the family cat, the neighbor's dogs, and assorted
birds and fish. He doted on the last three critters he had,
a small parakeet, then a cat who died way too soon (cancer),
then this final dear golden colored cat, whom he called
"Honey" ("...because she's the color of honey, and that's
what I call her anyway...!"). I helped him to find her, when
it became vivid how much he missed Keetchy, the cat they
adopted in '92. After several phone calls I managed to
locate an animal shelter we could visit nearby, where this
cat in fact picked him,
sat on his lap for an hour in their office. They remained
dedicated to each other for the final five years of his life
(she's now found another good home). Honey liked to sit on a
warm blanket resting on his lap, as you see here, face to
face. This was a typical pose, with my mom sitting nearby
shaking her head while smiling fondly at the two of
them.
Two
Parting Photos
Last
photo
(7/2003) - Stoic
Mother
(9/2003)
Let
me close this sampler photo album with the final shots I
have of my mom and dad, taken in early July of 2003. This
was not a happy time. My mom had been recovering from
surgery, and had moved across the street from the apartment
to recuperate in the nursing home section. My dad managed to
hobble across the street to visit with her each afternoon.
Then he was hospitalized briefly for dehydration, and joined
my mom in the same room. I visited them for several days,
and it was to be the last time we shared laughs and chatter
"like the old days." But my dad was chafing to get back to
his lovely apartment to take care of Honey, too. He got his
wish, if only for a few weeks.
Johnathan and my
brother called -- things had suddenly worsened. Time to rent
a car and head on back to RI. As with most parent - child
relationships, there had been rough times, but the final two
decades of my dad's life we all were unusually close. I
spent a few weeks each year with them, also on weekly phone
visits. I'm grateful for those years -- we got to know one
another better than during the decades before, becoming real
friends. Everything comes to an end. My father finally
wanted out, and said so often for the last year of his life.
On September 20th he got his wish. It took a stumble and
fall in the middle of the night, a fractured femur and rib,
to pull his own house of cards down on himself.
I keep reminding myself
of that, and recall his astonished wide-eye look when he
whispered loudly several times during the afternoon of our
last visit together: "I'm dying!" "Yes, you are," we agreed.
He gripped my hand ever so tightly. "You don't have to stay
around for us," I confided. "This is what you've been saying
over and over that you wanted, dad -- just let go. It'll be
all right, darlin'." This was to be our final visit
together, the whole family in one large, comfortable room.
He'd seen every living friend, neighbor and family member
during his final two days. I think the dear old man just
wanted to say goodbye to each of us, you know?
We went out for dinner
nearby, then hurried back. Already he was slipping downward,
comfortably. Yes, even in RI they allowed a bit of morphine
for the pain from the fractures. He wavered between sleep
and awake. We spoke, told him we'd be back in the morning,
then left to try to sleep. Shortly before midnight the phone
rang beside my bed in the motel room. A very subdued voice,
Johnathan's, greeted me.
It was over. Both
nephews insisted they would wait out however long it took,
days or a week. I heard about the final hour and minutes
from Johnny, beside him at the very end, along with my
mother. A good death, quiet and peaceful. We visited my mom
the next morning. She's taking it all very well, better than
we are, ever the stoic. I asked her to allow me take a photo
of her that she DIDN'T ruin for me this once (by frowning,
grimacing, sticking out her tongue, or some such), and got
this fine shot of her, sitting quietly as we chatted before
I had to head back home with a two-album deadline due that
very week. This provided a needed distraction, something
real to do, to keep centered.
I've procrastinated
assembling this page. Despite taking my time until I felt
less vulnerable, it turns out it has not been so difficult
after all. It has even felt comfortable to put together some
of these cherished photos and artwork examples which follow,
to describe each informally. I've been very fortunate to
have such love and support in my life, from two such dear
hearts. There is no bitterness in losing my dad, just the
inevitable sadness. Other close friends tell me in time I
will not wince so when memories are triggered, and I will
merely think: "Gee, they would have enjoyed this," or
something like that. One habit is an ouch, as I have to
check myself from going to the phone every Sunday, we did it
so regularly.
My mom's gradually
become slightly foggy, and no longer wants a telephone in
her room, is no longer the great conversationalist she used
to be. Thassokay, I now stay in touch with her by mail
instead. Relationships DO change with the passing of years,
after all, a natural part of our lives on this planet. Which
reminds me of an early '70s film about relationships, and
about losing a parent: "I Never Sang for My Father." On
screen after the opening titles the following words briefly
appear:
"A
relationship does not end with the death of a loved one,
but continues on within the thoughts and mind of the
survivor."
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Art
Samples
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Since
he was unable to gain effective entrance into the world of
graphics and art while young, my dad turned his love and
talents into a lifelong hobby. It sustained him throughout
his long life, when frustrated, or disappointed, when tired
after a hard day, and for relaxation during his protracted
retirement. He was from a poor family
(my
mother even moreso -- she worked her way through night high
school), and the best
they did for him about education was to enroll him into one
of the popular art correspondence courses that many young
Americans during the first half of the 20th Century placed
their hopes upon for low cost formal career preparation.
(Only
with my generation did college become common, and I was the
first person on either side of the family lucky to earn a
degree, thanx to their belief in education and
support.)
Around the house when I
was growing up you'd "bump into" several of the art course
books. I was delighted to pick up what I could, to figure
out what he'd learned from these same books before me. This
was obviously eons before computer graphics became the norm
for most graphics and illustration (he found it magical when
I demonstrated PhotoShop to him in the '90s). Pencil
sketching was a crucial base for just about every medium, as
a first step, or even as the only step. My dad was a very
skilled pencil artist, and mastered the technique with a
variety of pencils: graphite, charcoal, and several kinds of
colored pencils. The house was filled with his art tools and
his drawings of family members, still lifes, of animals,
more often imaginary characters but some famous faces,
too.
Two
Pencil Drawings
"Lassie"
(ca. 1940) - Ava
Gardner
(ca. 1945)
I'm
sorry that I don't have very many of his drawings. My
brother and his wife told me that they had saved what they
could find, and eventually I'll check through what they have
preserved. During the many visits with my parents during the
past two decades my dad occasionally would suddenly hand me
several drawings to take home as souvenirs. I hated to take
his only copies, which had so many memories, but also was
glad to have examples that my dad was a talented artist (he
modestly considered himself only mediocre). Around the house
were to be found constructions of various kinds, pastels and
paintings, carved wooden figures, props, even some
beautifully built clever action board games he had invented
(Parker Bros. and Hasbro were not interested, alas).
The two pencil drawings
here are typical of many from the years around WW II. Since
my dad loved animals so much, it was inevitable that he try
his hand on wild or tame animal life. "Lassie," the
film-star collie, appears in this drawing on Bristol board
(his fave) using graphite pencils. It's about 10" tall. To
the right is his portrait of film star Ava Gardner. It's a
decent resemblance (he studied several magazine photos),
while the actual pose and details are something he came up
with out of his head (he respected those artists who could
draw directly from mind and memory).
It's generally agreed
that a natural ability to draw is, like musical,
mathematical, athletic or several other notable abilities, a
matter of inherited talent. Many members of my dad's family
were predisposed with artistic skills, his brother used to
paint and use pastels, and they could all draw a pretty fair
circle freehand. I've always been able to do that (my
brother, too) and take no bow for it, any more than the
musical ear we inherited mostly from my mother's side of the
family. Most of her family could sing and play various
musical instruments quite well. Talent also carries an
obligation, and in our specialist-focus society you have the
years and energy necessary to become "pro" on only one, or
at most two, of your sharpest abilities. I thought my dad
was better than me at drawing, so I turned instead to music
(our home was always filled with music) and they agreed it
was a fine choice. I'm sorry they never were given any
choice, my dad for his beloved artwork, my mom as a talented
lyric soprano, whom I accompanied often on the piano, so
many years ago...
Two
Pen & Ink Studies
"Plowman
with Horses"
(ca. 1935)
- Four Mandala
(ca. 1950)
Pencil
sketches were my father's favorite medium -- their ease of
correction, speed to the finished product (his art was
created during usually stolen moments). My dad also admired
fine pen and ink work. It's a much more difficult medium
than it may first appear. The line must be drawn with steady
delicacy and control. It's also unforgiving in the extreme
-- if you blow it, you'll probably have to begin again.
White-out always looked patched-up, and razor-blade ink
removal is itself a practiced skill. You learn to make an
underlying pencil version to work out your ideas, then trace
over the sketch with a nibbed pen and some good India Ink.
When that's dry, you might add brush work (like water
colors), or fill in bolder areas and lines with "Speedball"
type pens, which have wider widths in many shapes and sizes.
When everything's dry you erase the underlying pencil work,
although my dad often preferred to leave it there, a ghost
of the initial stages.
The man working a field
with horse drawn plow was once a common sight in the New
England countryside. This is one of his many "made-up"
scenes, something from memory filtered through an
understanding of perspective, lighting and staging. My dad
respected the art of the illustrator especially, more than
other more formal art forms, as it required the artist, in a
limited limited time, to create beauty "on spec," with
subject matter defined at the outset. It was practical,
pragmatic creation, free of pretensions, like he was. The
four Mandala wheels to the right are unusual themes for my
dad, much more rigid and geometric than the free forms he
preferred. It was his way to learn control of the pen, and
also might become a background element for another "looser"
drawing at a later date. He came up with similar studies as
color charts and wheels later on, to figure out for himself
what made colors tick, which went together or not and why.
He decorated several home built pen/pencil cases with color
wheels, and would use those to refer to at times while
working on drawings.
Mixed
Media Poster (with
verse)
"Comfort
Time"
(ca. 1990)
Many
later drawings also contain poetry and verse. He was sad
that poetry seemed buried by films, radio, television. It
was very "alive" and popular during his youth --he could
still recite many poems by heart. He loved to play with
words, and came up with simple verses or narrative poems.
Some were featured in oversized book form, with hand cut
cards containing the narratives, other cards the
illustrations. You could enjoy the interplay of image, word,
and layout, in these custom books. They would have made
grand children's books. But only the family and friends ever
saw the charming creations that he seemed come up with
spontaneously.
My dad came up with two
major insights for graphic layout, structures which would
assure that the results held together and "grabbed" the eye.
The first was that longer shapes, like a flower on a stem, a
standing human figure, even the path of a shadow, were
particularly graceful and less static if given a subtle "S"
curve. The second insight, shown here, is that you ought
position your dominant objects along a diagonal path, here
from top left to bottom right. He said that many talented
beginners followed these ideas naturally, and even great
photographs often contained similar rules. These are two
lovely perceptions, I think, something to be aware of, even
when you have to make an exception (which would then "prove"
the rule).
During their retirement
for some years down in Florida, my parents often put
together stage productions for their Senior Center, plays
and musicals, designing sets, costumes and posters (and my
mom would be the M.C.). So dad fell into the habit of
creating poster art. Usually they were 11" x 17" or larger,
in his preferred combination of pen and color pencils,
pastel sticks, plus acrylic paints. Elements were rendered
on smaller sheets of Bristol board or poster cardboard.
These were then glued in place onto the backing sheets.
"Comfort Time" is a lovely example, created before one of my
visits with them in their comfortable little ranch house in
Rumford, R.I. I saw this hanging on their wall in the tiny
den where I'd crash for the night on the hideaway sofa.
Later he came up with a different version (he would rework,
refine ideas over and over), and shyly asked me if I'd like
to take this one back with me. I am SO glad to have it here
now (I do miss him)!
Parrot
Hand-Puppet Construction
(ca. 1980)
A
Recent Photo - "Polly" Tweaks Charly's
Nose
Let's
close this section with a different medium: paper mache
construction. These are photos I took right now of a parrot
hand puppet. My dad created this as part of the props for
one of the plays my mom and he put on during one of those
Florida plays. They'd made a full pirate's costume,
including the kind of hat, peg-leg and eye patch featured in
films like Treasure Island. The story was a parody of those
cliches, a clever way to entertain the bored seniors, and
provide some of them a chance to perform on stage. The
"pirate" slid his hand up into the base of the parrot,
although you scarcely notice the opening. Inside were pull
tabs for wires and strings which moved the parrot's head,
beak, and tongue. Tabs made the wings flap, and the whole
body could swivel, bobbing the head up and down. Pretty dern
cute.
I was taken by it
immediately when I first saw it, noticing the way it was
assembled, using: steel wire, wood sticks, felt, paper of
three kinds, tape, and some discarded eyes from a stuffed
toy. The parrot was appropriately perched up high in the
basement "rumpus room" of their home. My dad seemed quite
proud of it, of my appreciation, and told me to take it back
with me. So I have it here in my loft's studio, where it
found an honored spot on the end of one of the keyboard
stands. You can see it in some of the photos of me taken in
the mid-'80s or later. Many visitors halt in their tracks to
ask me: "Where did you get that parrot?" To the right, you
can see what happened when Charly watched me take it down to
photograph, two nights ago. He immediately jumped up on that
chair, curious to discover what the "big bird" was all
about. My dad loved bright and curious critters, and would
have grinned to see this shot of smug Charly investigating
his parrot, who at this angle seems to be tweaking the
insouciant Siamese Royal nose! Shux, sure wish I could show
it to him...
Dad -- this page is for
you!
--Wendy
Carlos
NYC December 2003
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