Honoring Camille: A Reflection on Loss, Time, and Transition

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’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.

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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.

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

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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.

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

Winter with the Egeli’s: Reflecting on an Early Morning in Edgewater

A brief MEMORY — from my month of Studying Portrait Painting and Figure Drawing with the Egeli’s. It was a cold January in 2002.

Old year out, new year in. And so it goes, past and future: each minute precious! Burrowing back under the covers on a cold winter morning is always a temptation, but you’ve got to emerge from your cozy nest ‘neath the covers sometime. To help me embrace the day in equal bliss, a copious amount of caffeine was top on my agenda. So off we headed to “that coffee house”, the one that shall remain nameless for reasons I can’t divulge. Best intentions aside, the first order of business of each of my days was pleasure, a 20oz mocha generous enough to warm both hands and the NY Times crossword puzzle. Of course, we had to buy two copies of the Times, one for Camille, and one for me, for the crossword had become an activity in which to indulge in immature competitiveness. And Cynthia was content with reading the morning sports section while occasionally blurting out tennis stats across the table. Like a barely heard Latin tempo–I could barely hear the Latin tempo — but pulsing with energy, we prepared ourselves for the day ahead. (By the way, I’m in awe of people who can talk out loud in a public space and not care that nobody is listening–the reason I could barely hear the Latin tempo.) We collected ourselves to face the bitter cold. I only say that because we’re from California, "the land of endless sunshine." On schedule, we jumped into our truck, that truck that Cynthia aptly named our “estrogen chassis” — It was a huge king cab Ford truck that made everything around it look fascinatingly tiny. The sprinkles fell as scheduled. It only takes one little leap of imagination to see these brilliant shiny drops of water as tiny celebrations, for the jewel-bright droplets seemed to sprinkle effervescence on the day. And like clockwork, the three of us pulled our “estrogen chassis” into that always so tight little corner in front of Cedric and Joanette’s studio. We noisily bounded into the studio with our gear as if we were greeting a long lost lover.   Deep in the snowy woods of Edgewater, all laid chilled and hushed, a dreamland bower blanketed in serenity. But at the break of dawn, powdery morning mists danced in the shafts of light that filtered through the firs, giving the moment a pristine, ethereal look. Everything was lusciously hued as a mocha laced with whipped cream. A winter scape's quiet serenity in its hushed hues of ivory snow, sky blue, tree bark grey and chimney smoke charcoal tempted me to stay outdoors and play. But I knew that the instruction I was to receive was going to be like no other. If you’ve ever contemplated taking a month off to study with Cedric and Joanette Egeli, do what it takes to get yourself there, for as spectacular the setting of the space, the workshop is SO much more!

Accepting Failures

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

Peggi Kroll-Roberts said...

I LOVE this post Carole.

marcypainting said...

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

marcypainting said...

Yes!