By Carrie Jacobson

August. It hardly seems possible, but the proof is on the countertop by the sink. Tomatoes, warm from the sun. Zucchini and summer squash, the beginning of the onslaught, testing my culinary creativity. Bowls of blackberries, piles of cucumbers and the promise of more melons than anyone can eat.

Here in Virginia, the crape myrtles (yes, that’s spelled right) are in the middle of their 100 days of pink and fuschia blooms. Gold has started to appear at the tips of the salt marsh grasses. Evening draws into itself earlier, shortening that long, lovely dusk that marks our summer evenings. And in the morning, dawn is noticeably later.

This painting shows my art changing along with the seasons, I think, as I strive to understand more clearly what works, and why. As the seasons turn for all of us, and bring us with them, I paint to reach my own heart, my own soul, my own spirit. And yours.

Burros

By Carrie Jacobson

I am learning to love sweating.

As the spinning of the seasons has brought us to the height of summer, I am sweating with a passion. Sweating with a vengeance. Sweating so that the sweat runs to the tips of my curls and drips off my hair and onto my cheeks and shoulders. I sweat so hard these days that my nose runs.

I vowed, when we moved to Virginia, that I wouldn’t complain about the heat. It’s not as if I didn’t know we were moving to a hot place. We lived in the South before, and that time, I was stunned by the oppressive depth and seemingly endless length of the torrid summers.

This time, I was prepared.

Still, it is in our nature to complain, and I can not count the number of times I’ve opened my mouth to talk about how darn hot it is (I would use other words) – and have stopped myself in time, remembering my promise.

It was only to myself, that promise, but it was a true and solemn one, nonetheless.

And so, instead of complaining about the heat this summer, I glory in it. I live shiny and slick with sweat, my T-shirts ringed with wetness, my neck and forearms salty with it. I revel in its cooling power, and what I believe is its cleansing power. I no longer apologize for my sweatiness. We are all sweaty. We are all hot. We are all under the same summer sun. The trick is in learning to love it.

And remembering winter.

July 7, Main Street

By Carrie Jacobson

Wachapreague, where we live, could barely be smaller and still be a town. In addition to Peter and me, there are just about 198 other souls living here, some of them only part-time.

As for municipal staff, there is a mayor, but he doesn’t go into town hall unless there’s a meeting. There’s a town clerk who works maybe 20 hours a week, and then there is the public works crew, JD and John. They do all the mowing and trimming, pick up the brush and the trash, keep the town signs painted and the town property sparkling, fix stuff that breaks, and put up and take down the flags on Main Street.

Main Street, as you might imagine, is not very long. There aren’t that many flags. But when the flags go up, I feel festive and happy. I love seeing them hanging, bright and shining and fluttering in the wind.

Our teeny town had a great July Fourth celebration, which the hurricane blew to  July Fifth. There was a small, sweet parade, with golf carts, kids on bikes, Coast Guard guys towing a Coast Guard boat, and two floats, one legitimate, one just a sort-of float. It took about five minutes – the right length for a parade, in my book.

Afterwards, there was a cookout, and a band, and people paragliding out of a plane. And at night, there were amazing, amazing fireworks, funded and set off by a guy in town.

And then on Monday, JD drove while John took down the flags. I was sorry to see them go.

This weekend felt like America to me. It felt like the dream of America, the idea I had as a kid, of an America of sunny summer days, spent with people that I love, laughing and enjoying life, in a small, quiet place.

Probably Not
oil on canvas, 20×20

By Carrie Jacobson

The other day, someone I met at a show messaged me on Facebook, and included her thought that I was “so cool.”

I immediately wrote back that while I appreciated her sentiment, I am about as far away from cool as you can get. I mean, here I sit, in my paint-covered clothes, having sweated the entire day in my un-air-conditioned studio, to which I retreated after spending hours trying to settle, and cleaning up after, an ancient dog whose demise is on the horizon.

I’m sweaty and dirty, I’ve stepped in dog pee a dozen times, cleaned up two turned-over water bowls, forced myself to take my 35-minute walk, charted my 1,200 dieting calories, failed to get to the post office (again) – and nearly forgotten (again) to post on Zest.

But after I wrote to my admirer, I spent some time thinking about it, and I realized that while I, myself, am far from cool, the life that I’ve catapulted myself into is cooler and more amazing than anything I could ever have imagined.

I mean, really! After dealing with my beloved and ancient dog, going on a healthy walk, and taking the time to plan my meals and calories, I have stood and sat in my studio, with the windows open to the hot Virginia wind, and spent my day making paintings. Making art. Painting what I see in my imagination, painting what moves me, building a life that finally, finally, makes a difference.

And I had the freedom to make the choices that brought me here.

So today, Independence Day, I celebrate for all us uncool people making way cool choices. I celebrate the country that has opened opportunities for me, and for all of us. It is a joy to be able to scare myself half to death, to find creativity in me, to meet people who are willing to buy my paintings – and to do it all in total, pure freedom.

Long, Long Longhorn, oil on canvas, 15×60

By Carrie Jacobson

Usually, I have an idea of what I want to paint when I address the canvas. But sometimes, the canvas itself determines the subject.

This has happened most with me with what I call cowscapes, or paintings of cows. My very first cowscape came about this way. I walked into an art supply store and saw, right in the front of the shop, a big canvas for sale. I think it was 48×60. Big. And it was CHEAP!

So I bought it. I’d never made a painting that big, never even thought about it. But I had the feeling that I was going to like painting large.

I got the canvas home and began thinking. If I was going to paint on a big canvas, I needed to paint something big. I’ve never been a wizard at painting houses, or cars, or cities. Trains, no. Lighthouses, I hope never. I had no desire to paint a bus, or a tractor or an 18-wheeler.

Then I lit on the notion of cows, and it all sort of fell into place.

On my big canvas, I made a big painting of big cows. I put it into a small show in a small gallery – and it sold right away. Whee!

Since then, I’ve enjoyed making cowscapes, and I always try to have one in my booth at shows.

This one came about in sort of the same way as that very first one. I bought the canvas because the shape intrigued me. I had no idea what I’d do with it, or even if I’d use it horizontally or vertically. Eventually, I got the idea of doing a longhorn – and this is what I ended up with.

Want to see it in person? I’ll be at the New Milford, CT, Fine Arts and Crafts show this weekend.

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?

Early Spring
oil on canvas, 10×10

By Carrie Jacobson

One of the best things of this life as a painter is having the time, and living in the space, to be aware of the minutiae of the natural world, and the turning of the seasons.

Weeks and weeks ago, I saw the tips of the trees begin to redden. I’ve watched the buds shift to yellow green, and then to flowers and, in a second, it seemed, burst into leaves. I drive the back roads, slowly enough that I can notice the wisteria growing wild where, perhaps, a house once stood. Slowly enough that I can stop to help a turtle cross.

The daffodils are mostly passed here, except for in the shadows, but everywhere,  dogwood is blooming, pink and white, fragile and brilliant deep in the shady woods, and dancing at the edges, too. Azaleas – ludicrously loud! Ridiculously bright! – announce themselves all over town. Irises are blooming, elegant and spiky, and the lawn is already out of control.

Working for decades inside, I hadn’t known I’d lost touch. Now, I know I had.

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.