Hi Reader,

I hope you are doing well. Spring is just around the corner, which is always a wonderful feeling.

Thank you for being a loyal follower of my art and this newsletter. I've been on a sabbatical from writing, an extended bereavement leave. But like the emergence of spring, I'm slowly finding my way back in a nurturing way.

Eight months ago, my husband Nick died unexpectedly at home. Nick was my rock, best friend, and north star in my night sky.

Always my number one fan, he encouraged me to take my first painting class many years ago. He built me a studio when we had the farm and ensured I had studio space here in our coast house.

On a beautiful, sunny morning, our final conversation was about painting and our plans for the day. I wanted to return to my favorite spot on the coast trail to try another version of a scene I had painted a few days before.

I showed Nick the first painting, and we talked about ideas for the new one. We both petted our dog Ellie because she would get jealous whenever Nick spoke to me for too long. We reassured her, "It's all about Ellie."

I walked into the other room, blissfully unaware those words would be his last. Moments later, he was gone.

Grief brings the loudest silence I've ever heard. Grief brings the deepest pain I've ever felt.

This winter was harsh: long nights of loneliness followed by gloomy, quiet days. Birthdays and holidays were tough. I constantly felt homesick, and Nick was the 'home' I was looking for.

But grief has also brought kinder gifts: vulnerability, gratitude, awareness, gentleness, and empathy.

With support, professional help, and time, sadness is no longer a permanent resident in my heart. She still shows up frequently, bursting in unannounced, but her visits are graciously brief.

A good friend shared this quote with me, as it had brought him comfort in his grief.

One of my neighbors has a lovely pink cherry tree in her garden. And guess what? The first blooms appeared a few days ago. That's something to celebrate.

I'm on a 50-day streak of painting from life. Most days, I paint a simple still life, pulling some produce out of the fridge or pantry. Oddly enough, I've painted a lot of onions. Sometimes, weather permitting, I take the dog and my sketchbook to the beach.

As Stephen Pressfield says, "Nothing else matters except sitting down every day and trying."

I keep my expectations low for these daily paintings, as in 'just get some paint on the paper.' Nonetheless, this is also something to celebrate.

One thing I've noticed during this streak, besides onions being ready and willing subjects, is that joy is returning. I feel happy when painting, which would make my number one fan happy.

Thank you so much for reading this lengthy personal account. I hesitated to say so much, but art and life are intertwined, and I wanted to explain where I've been before moving forward.

Take care of yourself and give your loved ones an extra squeeze today.

Gratefully yours,

Vinita

See some of my daily paintings here:

​https://www.instagram.com/vinitapappas/

​https://www.facebook.com/vinita.art/​

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For the Painter Newsletter | Issue # 73: March 5, 2024 | Vinita Pappas