Inside the Studio: Carla J Fisher
- Art Dealer Street
- 1 day ago
- 8 min read
Updated: 36 minutes ago
Carla J Fisher’s work begins where language ends — in the quiet, complex space of grief, memory, and transformation. What first emerged as a personal need to process loss has evolved into a deeply tactile and poetic practice, where discarded materials are given new life and meaning. Through thread, texture, and shadow, her work becomes not just an object, but a living metaphor for resilience, renewal, and becoming again.
Working primarily with unconventional and previously discarded materials, Fisher transforms what was once overlooked into something profoundly intentional. Her sculptural surfaces, often mistaken at first glance, reveal themselves slowly — inviting viewers into moments of discovery, curiosity, and emotional connection. At the center of it all is thread: delicate, persistent, and quietly powerful.
After a long career in financial services, Fisher entered the art world later in life — bringing with her discipline, structure, and a deep understanding of purpose. What she has built is not only a body of work, but a language — one that speaks of loss, survival, and the courage to begin again.
In this Inside the Studio conversation, Carla J Fisher reflects on grief as a catalyst, the transformative power of materials, and how beauty can emerge from what was once discarded.
Read on to learn more in an exclusive interview with Carla J Fisher:
Your work was born at the intersection of grief and a deep need to create. How did making art shift from being an outlet into becoming a language for healing and renewal?
When Ed died, I felt profoundly lost. Most poignantly, I had lost my sense of purpose. When I returned to college in my sixties and began making art, the rhythm of stitching soothed my soul.
The truth is, I did not return to school intending to become an artist. Many artists choose art. I needed it. I needed a language that could express what words could not, even if at the time I didn’t know I needed it.
Colors and patterns brought a quiet smile to my face. As I began exploring texture, something deeper awakened—excitement.
Yet something still felt unresolved. My soul was screaming for a way forward, yet another part of me longed to recede into the quiet safety of muted colors. I wanted my work to grow larger, almost as if it were waving a sign to the world, “I’m still here.” At the same time, I wanted that message to remain gentle, spoken through softness and restraint.
It sounds contradictory, but all that tension mirrors the emotional terrain of widowhood—finding strength while still carrying tenderness.
One day a friend and I began experimenting with unusual materials simply for fun. Among them were Tyvek envelopes. When heat is applied, Tyvek twists and gnaws into fascinating shapes.
“The only problem,” she told me, “is you can’t control it. You can’t even color it.”
I have always been someone who challenges the word can’t.
As I explored the possibilities of Tyvek, other unconventional materials began entering my studio: five other grades of Tyvek, coffee filters, dryer lint, bicycle tires, Shout color catchers, and natural elements. I began disguising them within my work until viewers experienced that moment of surprise when they realized what they were seeing.
Soon it became essential that my work use only previously discarded materials. They became my metaphor for widowhood—the feelings of loss, uselessness, emptiness, and the struggle to reclaim meaning. Ugliness transformed into beauty through art.
Thread became the counterpoint to that story: a single strand moving forward.
Later I realized that the shadows so integral to my work carried meaning as well. They remind me that my husband is still there behind me—unseen, yet gently encouraging me forward as I step into this radically new life.
Thread is at the heart of everything you do — delicate, persistent, and quietly powerful. When did you begin to see thread not just as a material, but as a metaphor for resilience and identity?
The metaphor of thread emerged naturally once I committed to using discarded materials in my work. Those materials became my quiet homage to widows and widowers everywhere—people who must rebuild their lives in ways uniquely their own.
Thread, for me, represents the individual journey. It is fragile, yet persistent. It binds, connects, and builds strength in subtle ways.
That single strand became my personal metaphor: a woman discovering resilience in the most unexpected places.
You often work with “throwaways” and overlooked materials, giving them new life through free-motion embroidery. What draws you to materials that others might dismiss, and how do they shape the emotional weight of your work?
After finishing each piece, I spend time experimenting before beginning the next one. It’s my version of becoming a mad scientist in the studio. That process clears my mind and restores the sense of curiosity needed to begin again.
People now know me as “that lady who works with trash,” so they constantly bring objects to the studio with the challenge: “See what you can do with this.”
That’s when the questions begin.
What happens if I apply heat?
Water?
Glycerin?
Chemicals?
What if I freeze it first? What if I stitch into it?
“What if?” are my two favorite words in the studio.
My goal is to understand what each material can do—and then allow it to become something more. Later, when I begin designing a new piece, I know which materials might give me the color, texture, or patina I’m looking for.
Not everything works. For every exciting discovery, there are just as many disasters. But even those failures serve a purpose—they renew my energy and prepare me for the next work.
Many viewers experience surprise when they realize your sculptural forms are made entirely of thread. How important is that moment of discovery in the way you think about viewer engagement?
That moment of discovery is my reward.
I am just as proud of persuading materials to behave in ways people don’t expect as I am of beginning this journey later in life. Starting an art career in my sixties comes with its own challenges—but also a certain determination.
I want my work to make people feel something.
Sometimes their journey with my work begins with the title. One piece is called “Take THAT, Mrs. Conner!”, a playful response to my seventh-grade art teacher who once told me I had no artistic talent. Sadly, I believed her for fifty years.
Another piece, “Spanish Podcast,” sold during Clio 2025 and incorporates Spanish moss brought by a collector along with bromeliad pods from plants that had dried in my home.
As viewers discover the unexpected materials—and then notice how the work appears to float within its frame, casting shadows that become part of the composition—they often become captivated by the illusion. “How do you do that?”
Those moments of surprise and curiosity are among the greatest rewards of my work.
After 25 years in financial services, you embraced a full-time studio practice later in life. How has that nontraditional timeline influenced the way you approach patience, risk, and purpose in your work?
One of the greatest gifts from my years in the brokerage industry was the development of discipline.
I remember the day I realized that my studio rhythm mirrored the structure of my former career. I actually laughed out loud.
Monday mornings are devoted to researching opportunities through platforms such as Artwork Archive and CaFÉ, studying what curators are seeking and how my work might fit. Monday afternoons are for shipping artwork.
Tuesdays through Friday mornings are dedicated to experimentation and creating new work. Friday afternoons and sometimes Saturdays are spent building shipping crates when necessary. Otherwise that’s “me” time, just like Sundays are for family and rest.
Even my record-keeping reflects my former life in finance. I track where my work is shown and sold, noting details such as color palettes or mediums that resonate in different venues. I also work in encaustic, and observing patterns helps guide future decisions.
I also learned long ago the importance of investing in oneself. Entry fees, shipping costs, and exhibition expenses are simply part of the journey.
But there was one lesson the art world had to teach me: creating beauty requires slowing down enough to notice it. Finance moves at breakneck speed. Art is about pacing—and learning to see.
Nature — especially water, movement, and organic rhythm — plays a quiet but powerful role in your practice. How does your environment inform the forms and decisions that emerge in the studio?
Nature is the world’s greatest artist. Period.
It contains every expression—harmony and dissonance, gentleness and fury, stillness and power. It offers endless lessons in color, texture, and pattern.
Most of my work begins with inspiration from nature. But I often distort that starting point just enough that viewers are no longer quite sure where it began.
I do this intentionally because I believe that the deepest meaning in art comes from the viewer. When someone brings their own interpretation—when the work evokes a feeling or memory for them—then the piece has succeeded.
My role as an artist is simply to create the invitation.
You have exhibited with Clio Art Fair among a community of independent artists. What was that experience like for you, and how did presenting your work in that context shape the way audiences engaged with your material-driven practice?
Clio provides a unique environment where independent artists not only exhibit their work but also learn how to navigate the professional side of being an artist.
It encourages artists to engage directly with collectors, curators, and fellow creatives. In that process, we quickly learn that success involves much more than producing work. Artists must also learn how to present, discuss, and position their work within the broader art world.
For many artists, Clio becomes an important step in understanding that art is both a creative practice and a professional endeavor. It opens doors in one of the most important exhibition centers in the United States and allows independent artists to bring their work into conversation with a wider audience.
Your work carries messages of renewal, revival, and the possibility of becoming again — even after loss or limitation. What do you hope someone standing in front of your work feels before they even begin to interpret it?
Mystery is often what first draws people in.
The shadows, the unexpected materials, and the composition itself begin to spark curiosity. Then viewers notice the subtle undulations—even in the two-dimensional pieces—that create movement and flow.
By then they are often fully engaged. And if I have heard it once, I have heard it a hundred times:
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
What I hope they feel first is beauty, joy, and possibility.
And perhaps, beneath it all, a quiet sense of empowerment—the reminder that something new can still emerge when we are brave enough to follow the possibilities that begin with a dream.
Carla J Fisher’s work is a testament to transformation — not just of materials, but of life itself. Through thread, shadow, and unexpected textures, she creates spaces where loss becomes form, and form becomes meaning. Her practice reminds us that even what is discarded can carry the potential for beauty, and that healing is not always loud — sometimes it is stitched, slowly and quietly, into existence.
In a world that often overlooks the subtle, Fisher’s work asks us to pause, to look closer, and to believe in the possibility of renewal — one thread at a time.
You can learn more about Carla J Fisher and her work via these links:
Website: Carla J Fisher Instagram: @carlajfisher
Facebook: @Carla J Fisher
LinkedIn: @Carla J Fisher
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