Bluebird

Bluebird

Oil on black canvas, 5x7, $70

To buy this painting, click the button below - 

or email me at carrieBjacobson@gmail.com, or text or call me at 860-442-0246

sold

THIS IS THE SECOND DAY of my Bird A Day project, which will take place weekdays in 2020, for as long as it seems that it should go. The bird paintings will all be small and unframed, and will mostly cost $70, which will include shipping.

I think this is a fun project, and is one that I can manage, as I finish the 101 Dogs project and navigate through this, my new and solo life. I will be doing shows, but not as many as I have in past years. I will be selling more on line, more from my studio, more from my galleries, and doing workshops in person and online. All will happen as time and healing permits.

I will be posting the paintings here first, and then on my Bird a Day Facebook page.

***

I WRITE THIS on the first day os 2020, as the sun begins to go down on the first day of the new year. I've been up since 4 a.m., and I am tired - but pleased beyond reckoning that this is a new year, as artificial as that distinction might be.

It is a year that holds no memories of Peter, nothing to miss or mourn. We did not wait up for midnight last night. We did not watch for fireworks, we did not share breakfast or lunch or talk about what we would have for dinner.

I thought about him, and I missed him, but I didn't have to miss him being in 2020, being a part of this new, fragile year.

***

A Final Thought 

Sonnet I by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied 

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year’s bitter loving must remain                                   *

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.

There are a hundred places where I fear

to go - so with his memory they brim.

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”

And so stand stricken, so remembering him.