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It’s taken me some time to sit down and write this. I’ve been quiet, and I appreciate the patience and understanding of those who’ve noticed my absence. Today, I want to share the journey I’ve been on lately, both in my art and personal life.


Camille resting after painting, 1996.

As many of you know, my mentor and dear friend, Camille Przewodek, passed away recently. Camille was more than a mentor—she was a guiding light in my life and art. For over 25 years, we shared not only a studio but also a bond that went beyond teacher and student. She challenged, inspired, and ultimately, in many ways, shaped me into the artist I am today.


In May of this year, I had the privilege of spending four final days with Camille at the Plein Air Convention in Asheville, North Carolina. These were the last days of her relatively good health, and I cherish that time we had together. We painted together, and walked through the humid, damp landscapes as faculty field painters for the PACE attendees—soaking in the atmosphere of an area that has since sadly been impacted by Hurricane Helene. Reflecting on that now, I can’t help but think how close we were to what later became the center of that storm. Those days, though, were calm. There was something magical about them, a quiet understanding between us, though neither of us knew it would be the last time we’d share that space together. I felt honored then, and even more so now, to have had that time with her.


Camille Przewodek, 1996
Camille Przewodek, 1996

Camille’s passing has been a profound loss for me. Grief is a complex emotion, and processing her absence has not been easy. After losing her, Al Tofanelli and I made the difficult move out of our shared studio space. In the earlier days, especially, our studio had been our sanctuary, a place where creativity flowed and where the boundaries between art and life often blurred. In the coming months, I hope to re-establish a new space of my own. It’s a bittersweet transition, but it’s a necessary one, a way to keep moving forward while holding Camille’s influence close to my heart.


There’s another chapter of my life tied to Camille that I’m ready to close: the house we shared in the south of France. It’s in the village of Soreze, which was once a place filled with memories—of quiet mornings painting under the French sun, deep conversations over wine, and inspiration drawn from the landscape surrounding it. I’m trying to sell the house, a decision that comes with its mix of emotions. As I step into this new phase, I ask for your good vibes and positive energy to help support the sale of our 400-500 year-old stone and mud house. It’s time for that chapter to close so that new ones can unfold.


 

Where we held classes and workshops.

In the time since Camille’s passing, I’ve found myself in a period of reflection. Creativity, for me, has always been a source of healing, but there are moments when the weight of grief makes it difficult to do creative work. I’ve taken this time to step back, to honor my feelings, and to allow myself the space to process everything. But I can feel the pull of the landscape tugging at me to be painted again, that quiet nudge that tells me it’s time to return. I know Camille would be lecturing me to get back to work, to not waste a moment and continue exploring the boundaries of light and color, and to carry forward the lessons she so dedicatedly shared with the art world.


As I emerge from this quiet period, I want to thank you all for your continued support. Your messages, thoughts, and kindness have meant more to me than I can express. The art community is a place of deep connection, and I feel fortunate to be part of such a caring network of friends and colleagues.


 

My things, (and Camille's things too), are safe in storage.

 

Moving forward, I’ll share more updates on my work and the exciting projects I’m working on. Camille’s influence will forever be woven into my art, and I hope to honor her legacy with each new work and creative project. There’s still so much more to discover, so much more to create, and I know she’ll be with me every step of the way.


Thank you for being here with me through this time of transition. I look forward to what’s next, both in life and in art.


 

Below is my tribute post to Camille from my Instagram page.



A STORY of MEMORIES —


Carole Gray-Weihman navigating the currents

The times when I want to change something, I look at what's perfect. I delight in the myriad of hues that take me beautifully through my days and into my evenings. Twilight — that magical time when ocean's blues begin their surrender to midnight black.  There's a timeless romance shared between the moon and the sea and the dimly lit clouds that float over a seascape of indigo waves--where the cool rippling waters meet pebbled shores, and the sound of the gulls shrill clear in the air. These intimate moments, witnessing and painting the sea, I'll always have lingering memories of the sights, the scents, and the sounds. With this, my memories, luxury is an everyday sensation. My natural instincts for survival always keep me steering clear of the rapids. When the noise in my head drowns out the sounds of the sea, I go outside and surrender myself to her, so that I'll finally hear the truth — and keep from going deaf! Too much internal noise, causes me to stop listening--causes me to want to change things and alter my course. Ahh! But, hoist the mainsail and scuttle the jib! I've spied the treasures of the sea! Here, I can be the empty vessel letting the current take me to the next destination. Set the course for a long, carefree sail where my thoughts can be as light as a trade-wind.


PREVIOUS COMMENTS


Unknown said...

So excited to read this! It just makes me feel like the ocean can indeed be found in my heart, which is landlocked in Colorado . Beautiful work, friend!



A STORY — It was nearing the end of the year 2000. Camille and I were meeting every other week to discuss her writing an instructional art book. I was to be her editor or ghost writer or something of that nature. Camille and I have a long history of never entering into any contracts. We would just DO things together never knowing where we would end up. The book project was exciting while it lasted. There were a lot of pages I wrote that she wrote — scribbled nonsensical ramblings with artist's quotes–and paper flying everywhere. Things changed. The project stalled. Suffice it to say; the book never happened. It's now 12 years later. I'm examining and re-examining my life, as a painter and someone who finds pleasure in writing, but almost never writes. And I certainly don't paint as much as I yearn to. But, I am still a professional painter and instructor, and — let's not forget — a life-long student. 


I'm in the process of setting priorities in my life such that I ensure that I am living the most productive and creative life possible and just as equally important to me, that I'm inspiring others to do the same.  My rough draft for the opening paragraphs of the book that never was:


Enjoy yourself and feel accomplishment in the face of a failed attempt to produce a fine work of art. It's critical that we accept our artistic failures and not let ourselves get upset by them. Try not to be greedy or seek "too hard" to paint that elusive visual truth. As beginners and advanced painters, we must learn to live with and accept our artistic desires without the obsession to satisfy them immediately. Don't fight against what you don't know. We can rest in the knowledge that as we grow, whatever frustrates us in our painting process is impermanent, and it WILL pass. Do not try to control your learning, by over-analyzing and trying to discover formulas or the secret that this book is supposed to provide. Be receptive and JUST PAINT. There is no right way to being a painter — being a painter IS the way. Give up any notions that you're not doing it right. With every painting you do, the closer you'll get to discovering your visual truth.


Are we not often as dissatisfied with what we DO get as with what we don't? The desires we have, if it's not on being "a great painter," or ending world hunger, it's ALWAYS something. Desires just cause us to suffer when we can't live up to them. Sure, acknowledge those dreams, but try not to LIVE for them. If we can give ourselves this freedom, perhaps it can end our suffering through our process of our artistic journey.


The traditional Buddhist term for the cessation of suffering is the Sanskrit word, "Nirvana." It's impossible for me to explain what Nirvana is as I haven't experienced it–not many of us have — it's like describing color to a blind man. But, Nirvana is an unconditioned state of liberation from suffering. Maybe this is what we can experience with our painting if we are not hung up on tormenting ourselves through the process. So, we must make an effort, the visual truth lies in our hands, but we have to work for it. So, what are you waiting for? Paint!


PREVIOUS COMMENTS


I LOVE this post Carole.


This IS so well-written, a real keeper. I may have to copy it down, just for my own (perpetual) reading, re-reading. Okay?


Yes!

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