By Carrie Jacobson

In just about two weeks, sunset will begin to get earlier.

And yet, it seems a moment ago that we all were feeling, even here in Virginia, that winter would never, ever, ever end.

Summer has ambled into town like a sun-blonded surfer, who suddenly seems to have lived here forever, though no one can remember him moving in. The days stretch out, long and yellow and topped with towering thunderheads, that surfer lolling on the beach and promising to work, but never quite getting at it.

These past few mornings have been sweet with the heavy scent of honeysuckle, and rich with birdsongs and the surprisingly loud flutter of wings. I’ve watered the gardens before the sun can get at them, and filled the birdbath, and enjoyed  watching the robins and their friends take ridiculously long baths, getting so wet they can hardly fly.

Before we know it, summer will amble out of town as silently as it came in. But I am going to notice. I’m going to take advantage of the sun and warmth of these long, tawny afternoons. I’m going to delight in the cool early mornings. I’m going to watch the flowers bloom and pass, the birds come and go, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of this sunny warmth.

I hope you will, too.

Flight
Oil on canvas, 24×24

By Carrie Jacobson

A couple years ago, my dad told me that his father’s brother had been a hobo. A real, honest to God, rail-riding hobo. He’d gone all over this country, on trains and on foot, and had traveled and bummed around Europe, as well.

When he came home, irregularly and not often, to the family’s house in Philadelphia, my great-grandparents wouldn’t let him sleep in the house. He slept on the porch, and, I imagine, ate his meals there.

He had lots of issues, including alcoholism, and he died young. And no one ever talked about him. I was 56 when I heard about him for the first time.

But it explained a lot to me.

Before we were married, Peter lived in the same apartment for 13 years. In the next 20 years, we moved 12 times. Some of the moves were for work – that’s the way it is in newspapers. If you want to climb quickly, you have to move. But some, I admit, were because I was itching to see something new.

I’ve promised Peter we won’t move from Wachapreague, here on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. If he wants to move, we’ll move. But I won’t instigate it.

And I don’t have to. This artist’s life involves more driving and more traveling than I’d ever imagined. I leave today for Indianapolis and the Broad Ripple Art Fair, then head to Northampton, MA, for the Paradise City Arts Festival. A week later, I’m headed to Annapolis, and shortly after that, Rhode Island.

So I get explore my hobo heritage – and Peter gets to stay here, settled and rooted and happy being at home.

And the best part of it is that when I’m away I miss home. And when I’m home, I know there’s nowhere better on the planet.

Help Me with the Title!
Oil on canvas, 30×40

By Carrie Jacobson

Sometimes titles come easily to me … sometimes not. This is one of the nots.

I love the painting! Love the big cow, the ripples on the water, the huge, towering clouds. I’m really happy with it. But I can’t come up with a title. I’d love your input! Please put your title ideas in the comment area below.

The whole business of putting titles to paintings is a little mystifying. Titles are not headlines, in the same way that headlines are not titles (a confusion that used to drive me a little crazy when I worked in newspapers). Titles need to say something about the painting – and also, I think, suggest something, a feeling, an atmosphere. Sometimes I skip this last and just put a sturdy, workmanlike title on a painting… But I have a “Big Cows” painting right now, so that won’t work… and I have a “Storm Rolling In” painting, too, so that won’t work, either.

For a while, I tried lines of poetry, or lines from songs. But none of those comes to mind for this piece.

I did think of something like – – “Shouldn’t You Be Lying Down?”  So far, that’s the best I’ve got.

What’s your best?

Big Sunflowers

By Carrie Jacobson

Sometimes, I just have to laugh at myself, and the places this life is taking me. This week was one of those times.

I needed a huge painting for my booth at the shows, and so, over the weekend, I set out to fill a gigantic canvas – 48 inches by 60 inches – with sunflowers. I love painting them, and people love to have them in their homes, so it’s a great combination. And this time, on this giant canvas, I painted the sunflowers bigger than ever.

It took tons of paint, tubes and tubes and tubes and then even more tubes. It was so heavy that I had to ask my husband to help me move it up on the easel. I painted for days and days and days. I made thousands of strokes. And then, when I was done, I had a fabulous, massive painting.

And so I turned to my next canvas, for a project at a nature center in Mystic, CT. And this one, below, was 5 inches by 5 inches.

It just made me laugh.

Storm Rolling In

By Carrie Jacobson

I had the good fortune, while I was in Tubac, to be out and painting on a day when a big rainstorm rolling in over the mountains. Apparently, rain is pretty rare in southern Arizona in February.

I like the big warm clouds at the top of this painting, and the way they’ve blown in, and I like the strip of light that’s made its way through those clouds. The afternoon felt like this – a little chaotic, a little dangerous, but soft, also, and rich with the promise of bright sun and fresh, clean air.

I’m on my way to South Carolina for a show this weekend, and a show in Chattanooga the following weekend. It’s a beautiful time to be in the south – spring has already showed up here! Fruit trees are well into the first phases of blooming, and the air is warm already.

It feels a little soon to be on the road again – I could have used another week at home, it’s been so great to be there. But I’m excited about two new shows, and about my new paintings, too.

Rio Grande Near Taos

By Carrie Jacobson

I made my way home to the Eastern Shore of Virginia a week or so ago, having been on the road for most of three months, painting, doing shows and enjoying the lack of winter.

I went all the way to the Pacific Ocean, then doubled back and spent my time in Arizona, Utah and New Mexico, living, breathing, eating and sleeping painting.

It was a joy to immerse myself in this astonishing country – and in painting, and tasks associated with painting and my sponsored painting trip (22 people bought paintings in advance from me – I painted these, and more, en plein air on my travels). It was a pure, pure joy – and a boon to my painting. My pieces got stronger and stronger throughout the trip, I think – and new ideas and new approaches came to me more and more readily.

It was hard to be away that long. It was hard to do that much painting. It was scary to plan this trip, knowing what it would cost and not knowing whether I’d get enough sponsors to make it worthwhile.

But the fears and the difficulties vanished in the face of what I saw, and what I strove and stretched and managed to produce. There might not be many times in a life when you have the chance to devote yourself to your passion. But if the possibility exists – or if you even catch a glimpse of it – I’d encourage you to do whatever you need to do to have the experience. It will be worth whatever it takes, whatever it costs.

***

I had a fabulous stroke of luck while I was in Tubac, Arizona, visiting my dad. Actually, two related strokes of luck. I was taken on by a marvelous gallery there – Art Gallery H – which is a lovely place, run by a very nice, very enthusiastic couple, Karl and Audrey Hoffmann.

Every year, Tubac produces a visitors guide, with listings of every shop, restaurant and gallery in town, maps of the town, advertisements, and a calendar of events. The guide is available for the entire year, and is distributed in all the businesses in town, and many in the general area.

Gallery H is responsible for supplying the art for next year’s guide – and they chose me to make the painting for the cover!

Burros!

By Carrie Jacobson

I’ve spent an awful lot of time during this painting trip missing my husband, and our home, my friends and my dogs and our little town on the Eastern Shore. I’ve felt guilty about leaving for so long (mid-January to mid-March), for missing this dire winter (yes, mid-January to mid-March; I’ve missed all of it), and for leaving my husband alone with the dogs in this cold, dismal time.

Now that my California Calling painting trip is winding down, I am surprised at how sad I am feeling!

It seems impossible that I could feel these two very strong, very divergent feelings at the very same time – but I do. I can’t explain it and I apparently can’t stop it, so I am just living with it, rocketing between tears and sadness that this amazing adventure is winding down – and joy and anticipation at being home and living my small, colorful life with my dear man.

I imagine that everything will sort itself out once I get going. And the trip is not finished. I have a show in Albuquerque this weekend – click here to find out more about it – and drop me an email if you’d like a coupon that gives you a discount off admission.

Between now and then, I have a few days to paint in New Mexico, and I’m excited about that. And then after the show, I head home. Even thinking about it makes me excited – and wistful!

At any rate, I love this burro painting, which was commissioned by a lovely woman who lives out here in Tubac. It’s one of my favorite paintings ever – and I can say that with no contradictory emotions at all!

Red Hills

By Carrie Jacobson

My heart and soul respond with joy to the colors of the West. I have loved seeing and painting the known places, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley – but what has made my painting soar are the unprotected places, the empty, unnamed lands, the spots beside the road that people drive every day to work.

These rough places, these daily sights, these truly stir me. I love the yellow grasses that line the edges of the roads. I love how the sage is green and in these winter days, a soft and gentle blue. Wildflowers grow in soft and fragile colors, and tumbleweeds blow through. The red earth delights my eyes and spirit, and the streaks of color in the mountains amaze me – and make me want to get out of the car Right Now and paint!

South Rim of the Grand Canyon

By Carrie Jacobson

The Grand Canyon is more amazing than you can imagine. It is stunning, vast, transporting. It is rich with colors and patterns and shadows, with history and geography and the forces of earth and nature. I stood at the edge of it and fell silent with wonder. I imagined the forces of the earth that caused it, the sharp and violent upheavals, the slow and nearly imperceptible carving by wind and water. I imagined the Native Americans living on the banks of the Colorado, deep, deep below the rim. I imagined the first white explorer to reach the rim, and the awe – and terror? – he must have felt.

I know you’ve seen photos and movies and pictures and paintings. You’ve flown over it, seen it from the sky. But you must, must see it in person. You must stand at the edge and look out over its impossible beauty, its nearly incomprehensible colors, its phenomenal depth and size. You must stand there and feel your own version of the world shift. You must stand there and feel awe.

So go! Now! Start making plans. Take the kids, take the spouse, take the grandparents. Or just go.

p.s., it was pretty scary and pretty challenging to make this little painting.

My painting in the landscape

Blue New Mexico Mountains

By Carrie Jacobson

Out here in the West, the open skies call to me. The huge empty spaces speak my name. When I am up in the high desert, I can feel the elevation, feel the rush of height and the pleasure of knowing that I am nearly in the sky.

Out here in the West, you can see the future coming, as you stand solidly in the present. You can watch the storms move in. You can hear the train whistle before you see it. You can watch the cars and trucks on the road for miles and miles before they hit the horizon.

Some people would find it lonely, I think. It is easy to feel solitary, easy to feel alone. But I don’t find it lonely. I find it simple and spare and open.  A place for short sentences, long stories and solid truth. I love being here. I love painting here.