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There was neither horizon, cloud, nor sound of that pink, spread silence even I had become part, belonging as much to sky as to earth.

Emily Carr

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Emily Carr
Age: 73 †
Born: 1871
Born: December 13
Died: 1945
Died: March 2
Artist
Autobiographer
Painter
Writer
M. Emily Carr
Emily M. Carr
Klee Wyck
Earth
Spread
Even
Sky
Much
Neither
Life
Silence
Pink
Sound
Cloud
Inspirational
Belonging
Become
Horizon
Part
Clouds

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The spirit must be felt so intensely that it has power to call others in passing, for it must pass, not stop in the pictures.
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Got a new pup. He is half griffon. The other half is mistake.
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real art is religion, a search for the beauty of God deep in all things.
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Oh I do want that thing, that oneness of movement that will catch the thing up into one movement and sing - harmony of life.
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Go out there into the glory of the woods. See God in every particle of them expressing glory and strength and power, tenderness and protection. Know that they are God expressing God made manifest.
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Indians do not hinder the progress of their dead by embalming or tight coffining. When the spirit has gone they give the body back to the earth. the earth welcomes the body-coaxes new life and beauty from it, hurries over what men shudder at. Lovely tender herbage bursts from the graves, swiftly, exulting over corruption.
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You must be absolutely honest and true in the depicting of a totem for meaning is attached to every line. You must be most particular about detail and proportion.
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Twenty can't be expected to tolerate sixty in all things, and sixty gets bored stiff with twenty's eternal love affairs.
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Indian Art broadened my seeing, loosened the formal tightness I had learned in England's schools. Its bigness and stark reality baffled my white man's understanding... I had been schooled to see outsides only, not struggle to pierce.
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The foolish square calves pretend to be frightened of our train. Bluffers! Haven't they seen it every day since they were born? It's just an excuse to shake the joy out of their heels.
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There is something bigger than fact: the underlying spirit, all it stands for, the mood, the vastness, the wildness.
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Trying to find equivalents for things in words helps me find equivalents in painting.
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Oh, Spring! I want to go out and feel you and get inspiration. My old things seem dead. I want fresh contacts, more vital searching.
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Writing is a splendid sorter of... feelings, better even than paint.
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Inspiration is intention obeyed.
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I wonder why we are always sort of ashamed of our best parts and try to hide them. We don't mind ridicule of our 'sillinesses' but of our 'sobers'.
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It's all the unwordable things one wants to write about, just as it's all the unformable things one wants to paint - essence.
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I was not ready for abstraction. I clung to earth and her dear shapes, her density, her herbage, her juice. I wanted her volume, and I wanted to hear her throb.
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Do not try to do extraordinary things but do ordinary things with intensity.
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Let me not fuss and fret at my incompetence but be still and know that Thou art God.
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