Chance
Oil on canvas, 12×12

By Carrie Jacobson

I donate art to charitable causes on a regular basis, and at the Paradise City show in Northampton, Mass in the spring, the winners of a pet portrait were the mothers of a young woman whose beloved dog Chance had died earlier that day.

Their story made me cry, and through the photos they sent me, I could tell what a great dog Chance had been.

I made the painting, and we agreed to meet at a show in Old Saybrook, Conn. in late July.

The day came, and one of the mothers stopped by my booth early to make sure we were on track. I put the painting up right over my little desk, and below it, put “To Carly, Love, Chance,” on a postcard.

Soon enough, they all showed up. The daughter walked by my tent and turned to look. She saw the painting and stopped in her tracks.

“Oh my God,” she said, “That looks like Chance.”

Her hand went up over her mouth when she realized that indeed, it was Chance. She started crying, the mothers started crying, her grandmother started crying, I started crying – and then we all were laughing, hugging, crying, and remembering the dear dog who had meant so much to Carly.

To see the series of photos showing all of this, click here to get to my own blog, The Accidental Artist. 

Hay Bales

By Carrie Jacobson

When we left the mid-Hudson Valley six years ago, it was not a happy departure. My mother had died, my boss Mike Levine had died, my job at the Times Herald-Record had been eliminated, and we lived in a house where flooding endangered our lives.

I hadn’t realized, until today, that my memories and thoughts of the mid-Hudson were tinged and darkened by these experiences.

On the drive from Saugerties to Middletown, I found myself awed, at nearly every curve, by the incredible beauty and glory of the area. This must be the greenest time of the year, and the cool morning and soft light highlighted the depth and variety of the colors.

The road wound beside clear streams, past fields thick with corn, by farms with beautiful buildings showing the care of families over decades, over centuries. And behind it all, the mountains rose, tall and blue and strong.

I’d forgotten what a place the mid-Hudson Valley is, what beauty it holds, what history it whispers, what promises it makes. Today, I remembered it all.

The Purple House

By Carrie Jacobson

Safe at Anchor
Oil on canvas, 12×48

By Carrie Jacobson

Neighbors

By Carrie Jacobson

Land of the free, home of the brave.

Sometimes, I get really frustrated with America. I want this to be a better place, more like what it could be. More like what it should be.

Peter and I talk sometimes about moving to Canada, but we always end up remembering how cold it is there.

And so we stay here, and when I am not sulking that I don’t already have government-sponsored health care, that Fox News exists at all, and that the roads around Norfolk are about as good as in a third-world country, I do rejoice.

Government-run health care, for better or worse, is on its way. While I don’t agree with Fox News, I do relish its right to exist. And if the roads around Norfolk are in terrible shape, it’s because the people of Norfolk have voted on tax issues that result in those roads.

I rejoice, most of all, in the fact that I have had the freedom to leave my steady job and take up life as an artist. And that as an artist, I have the freedom to make new kinds of paintings – like the one above – to experiment, to try, and to fail or succeed, with all that each possibility entails.

Today, with all the bravery and confidence I have, I shall celebrate every inch of my freedom, and cheer a silent – or maybe not so silent – cheer for all that is good about America.

African Gray Parrot

By Carrie Jacobson

So how DOES one paint a parrot? Well, after dancing around the question for a long time, and being scared about trying, I finally just dove in, deciding to paint a parrot the way I paint everything else.

And this brings up an interesting question: Is it harder to paint some things than others? An artist I respect greatly told me that it was just nonsense to think that way. If you can paint a dog, she said, you can paint anything.

I am not so sure. I can paint a dog, but I can’t really paint, say, a Victorian mansion – at least not in any way that looks – to my eyes – like a Victorian mansion, with all that makes it Victorian and lovely.

The issue, at least to me, is one of detail and complexity, and my skill and interest in those aspects of painting. I’m just not interested in finding and taking on the most complicated thing I can paint. To a large degree, I’m interested in finding and taking on the most simple.

In my paintings, I am forever editing things out – windows, porches, chimneys, trees, bushes, telephone poles, collars, backgrounds, roads. I try to paint the simplest part of what is. The core of the thing, not the fancy edges.

Once, I tried to paint a falling-down mill building along a river in Rhode Island. I’d known the building when it was more or less whole, but by the time I painted it, the roof had fallen in, and parts of the building had disintegrated. My painting, to my eyes, was a failure. I painted what I saw – but what I had loved about the building, what had attracted me to it all those years ago, was its wholeness, its proud and simple stance at the very edge of the river. And that was no longer there.

So for me, I guess, at least now, I seek the iconic, the unchanging, the core. And in that regard, painting a parrot is much like painting a dog.

Jilly!
Oil on canvas, 12×12, commission

By Carrie Jacobson

Oklahoma Cowscape, 36×60

Shawnee was a one- and two-story town, with some interesting-looking shops and restaurants, some beautiful landscapes, and some of the friendliest people I met on the trip. Whenever I end up somewhere, I always think about what it would be like to live there, and I thought Shawnee would be a pretty good spot.

Except for the tornadoes.

I remember how horrible it felt when, while we were living in Cuddebackville on the bank of the Neversink River, a flood destroyed a lifetime’s worth of memories and a basement’s worth of possessions. It mangled our land and left a crater in our driveway, making it impassable.

I remember the terror, then the utter, bone-deep dismay, the terrible sense of loss, and, finally, the overwhelming joy that Peter and all the animals and I made it through alive.

My heart goes out to those families in Oklahoma. I have just the barest idea of what they are feeling, but even from my relatively tiny experience, I can tell you it’s awful.

Here are some ways you can help:

• THE SALVATION ARMY is organizing mobile kitchens capable of serving 2,500 people a day and sending them into the hardest-hit areas in central Oklahoma. You can make a donation here, or make a $10 donation using your phone by texting STORM to 80888.
• THE AMERICAN RED CROSS has set up shelters in communities across The Plains. You can donate to the Red Cross Disaster relief fund here, or make a $10 donation using your phone by texting REDCROSS to 90999.
• IF YOU’RE SEARCHING for a missing friend or relative or are within the disaster region and want to let folks know you’re OK, visit the Red Cross Safe and Well site here.

Eagle Nest, New Mexico

By Carrie Jacobson

On Thursday, I turn 57. It’s not a monumental year, not a 40 or a 50 or a 65. It’s one of those strange ages – 32, 37, 43. Indeterminate. Unheralded. Not loaded with meaning.

At this edge of this unimportant age, I realize that I do not miss my youth.

I miss my young knees and my young skin. I miss the red hair that for so many years was the bane of my existence.

But the rest of it, I am glad to leave behind. The struggles to define what my heart wanted, and to show what my brain knew. The fight to get ahead, to climb, to earn praise and promotion.

These days, I realize more and more that I know less and less. I read things I wrote back then and wonder at what I knew – and what I was happy to imply that I knew. I think I was smarter then – and certainly, I was interested in seeming smarter.

These days,  I realize, I desire less and less. I buy clothes only when I need them. I rarely wear jewelry. For my birthday dinner, I’m hoping my husband will cook burgers and oven fries, and I’ll splurge with an extra slice of cheese.

I have no regrets, not really. I wish I had the money that I spent on clothes and jewelry and other fancy things – but that spending brought me many happy moments, and I don’t regret a second.

These days, these insignificant days in the middle of an insignificant decade, these days I’m happy to be doing the work of a lifetime, making art and selling it to people who are made happy by it.

I am happy with the today’s gifts: a gentle sunrise, a loving dog, a husband I adore, family and friends who pull me through the hard times. I’m happy to live in a small house in a small town in a beautiful place. And live a quiet little life, rich with faith and hope and the joy of making beautiful things.