Posts Tagged ‘autumn’

Carrie’s Painting of the Week – 10/25/14

Thursday, October 23rd, 2014
October Morning, 10x10

October Morning, 10×10

By Carrie Jacobson

There is some sort of balance, it occurs to me, between the shortening of the days and the brightening of the trees. The vivid colors of the leaves, and the grasses and here in Virginia, the yellow soybean and red sorghum fields, these seem to make up for the lengthening darkness. And while it’s not an even trade, it’s often a good one. Sometimes, I think, the autumn colors give me more than the shorter daylight takes away.

I rise early, always, and these mornings, these dawns, seem long, and dark, and impenetrable. I do know that the sun will come up every day – but sometimes in these long dark mornings, I find myself questioning that certain fact. I will squawk and grumble along with everyone else when we set the clocks back an hour, but the early-rising part of me will rejoice. (Probably in secret).

Until then, I will glory in the colors of autumn, soak them in and think of them as added sunlight.


Carrie’s Painting of the Week

Saturday, November 19th, 2011

Clinton Marsh

By Carrie Jacobson
Winter is taking its time getting here, and that is OK with me. I find I am loving the muted, color-drained landscapes, pewter instead of chrome, maroon instead of crimson, bronze instead of shining gold. There’s something calming and reassuring in it for me, and it’s pushing me in new directions with my paintings.

Also, former hippie that I am, I find a peculiar delight in a certain sensory confusion that befalls me in spring and in these sorts of falls. I will be walking or driving along, and, especially if the air is sweet and damp and there’s a crisp breeze, I have trouble recognizing the season. Is it March? Is it November? I stumble into these confusions and why I enjoy them, I can’t say, but I do.

I hope you all have blessed Thanksgivings, filled with love and family and the joys of the season.

Carrie’s Painting of the Week

Wednesday, August 24th, 2011


By Carrie Jacobson

Peter filled the feeder for the hummingbirds last night, and they are flashing and happy and drinking up this morning. My guess is that it’s the last time he will fill their feeder this year.

The past two days have been finally, blessedly cool enough that we – finally, blessedly – shut off the window air conditioners and opened the windows wide and let the warm days and cool nights breathe into our little house.

A hurricane is blowing up along the coast, sunset is coming more quickly each day, and grass and gardens all seem dry and brittle and spent.

I’ve always loved fall. I loved school, and fall meant school, and books, and classes and learning, and I loved all of that. It meant new clothes, and nights where I could wear shorts and sweaters, and it meant the trees coming alive with color – and I loved all of that.

I luxuriated in this summer’s golden twilights and slow, lengthy dawns. I soaked up the sun and the glorious flowers and all the brilliance and shine of this summer’s steamy, sunny days. And much as I love fall, I’m sad to see these broad, open days pass.

A friend of mine died this week, a friend from high school. We reconnected last year, both of us sober for decades, and blessed to be. We rejoiced in this, and in renewing our friendship, which we’d done by computer.

She showed up at one of my shows this summer, a wisp of what she had been, thin and dry as the August grass. But her smile was beautiful and her joy genuine, and we talked and laughed and hugged, and said we’d get together soon.

We did not. And now, she’s gone.

Autumn comes too soon, stealing summer’s wealth, and death comes too soon, as well.

I must remember this.