I Do
Oil on canvas, 16×20

By Carrie Jacobson

I was driving by the courthouse in Accomack last summer, when I saw this wedding happening, under the shade of the big trees there on the lawn. The groom was clearly a soldier, and I imagined that he was about to leave for a tour of duty. But who knows?

I am just starting to try painting people, and I like this painting. I think it has a real feeling, tells a real story. Peter and I have been married since 1988, and I am thankful every day that we found each other.

Mr. Owl

By Carrie B. Jacobson

Where the heck have I been? Texas, New England, and flat on my back with strep throat. But no matter, I’m home and getting well, and painting again.

At Wal-Mart the other day, I was waiting in a line at customer service (there were no lines at the checkout stations. Zero. A Christmas miracle – or just the way they run things down here).  I got talking to the man beside me. It was in the 40s outside, and windy, and we chatted about it before I pointed out that I was wearing only a denim jacket, and he wasn’t wearing a jacket at all.

“Sure is better here than where I moved from,” he said, and after a little bit more talking, he told me that he had moved from Monticello.

I told him we’d lived in Cuddebackville, and we laughed about the small-world thing, and confessed that we never hoped to live anywhere else but the Eastern Shore.

Those of us who live on the Shore love it. I love the light here, the pace of life, the friendly people, the beautiful landscapes.

Of course, life here is not without its drawbacks. It takes 90 minutes to get pretty much anywhere, if you want to see friends or family away from the shore, or if you want to shop at more exciting venues than Wal-Mart or CVS. It’s tough to ship packages from here, though the women at the print shop that does FedEx shipping are saving boxes for me to package my paintings. Medical services are perhaps not the best here, but where are they the best, outside of huge metropolitan centers?

So shopping and shipping and doctors might pose some problems. But the air is clear, people wave when they drive by, and our little town is quiet and peaceful and decked out for the holidays. Lights are strung across Main Street, and a Christmas tree stands in the gazebo in our little seaside town park. On Saturday at dusk, we’ll turn out to sing carols and celebrate the lighting of the tree, and we will shiver and rub our hands together as the wind blows in off the Atlantic.

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.

Poppies No. 2, 16×16

By Carrie Jacobson

I started painting flowers a couple years ago, and I admit, I started timidly, never having been a real fan of floral painting. But over the years, I found that I liked to paint sunflowers, and tulips, and I also found that people like to buy floral paintings.

So I kept at it, kept experimenting and discovering, trying new approaches and new colors and new flowers, and just this past week or so, experimented my way into a style I really, really love.

It reminds me of Peter Max, with the bright colors and the black outlines, and the whimsical shapes. I wrote about this on my own blog, and a few readers chimed in with their own Peter Max and Max-related memories. One wrote to me about the favorite dress she had as a kid – one that she remembered because of my painting… and her memory reminded me of my favorite dress as a kid. It was a swingy minidress, covered with blurry, bright red and orange and pink flowers – not so different from the flowers in this painting!

At any rate, if any of you want to see this painting, and my other new florals, in person, check out the Paradise City Arts Festival this weekend in Northampton, MA. It’s a drive from the mid-Hudson, I know, but it should be a pretty drive, full of fall colors. And the show offers a wonderful collection of art and high-end craft – and good food!

Meantime, I hope you have great memories of beautiful gardens, bright flowers – and your favorite clothes!

Rooster No. 5

By Carrie Jacobson

I was emailing a friend who is also an artist and a collector of my paintings, and she wrote about how scary it is to make a painting for someone. For anyone, really. They might not like it, it might not look like the person/dog/scene that the buyer was picturing, the buyer might think you’re a talentless hack…. and on and on.

I confessed that I’m scared pretty much all the time. As I drive up to a show, and especially to a new show, I am often literally shaking. I’m afraid that the people at the show, buyers and artists, are going to look at my paintings and see right off the bat that I am self-taught, that I don’t know the rules, that I’m a messy painter, that I can’t draw, and on and on and on.

But I told her that I just get a hold of myself, pull myself together, and go on and do it. Be scared, sure – but do it. We are all scared – or at least, I suspect we all are.

After I wrote this to her, I went to the home page of the Piedmont Plein Air Paintout, that I’m participating in this week. I started looking at the paintings by the participating artists  – and totally freaked out again. Sigh.

I left the site, got a handle on my fear and paranoia, and went back to the site later in the day. When I looked again, I could see clearly that my paintings do stand up next to everyone else’s – and after all, I was chosen to participate! That should be enough to quiet the fears, right?

I’m sharing all of this not so you all will tell me that I’m a good painter, etc. I’m sharing it because so many people tell me all the time how frightened they are – of painting, of trying to paint, of applying to shows, of thinking of quitting their jobs to follow their dreams. People tell me how brave I am – and I just wanted to share that, really, I am not brave. I am scared and hesitant, but I go ahead and do it anyways. And anyone can do this. It doesn’t take not being afraid. It takes not letting your fear paralyze you.

Pink Driveway

By Carrie Jacobson

Down here in the South, there’s a kind of tree called crape myrtle, which, according to my friend Pat, blooms for 100 days, starting in July. There are white crape myrtles, and lilac-colored ones, but most of them bloom in various shades of pink, and they are everywhere. They color the sky when you look up, and their petals gather on patios, and the edges of the roads, and in driveways, turning the ground pink. They are amazing, and I love them, and how they light up these hot summer days.

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.

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.