started the descent and kept going without pause. Somehow I missed the trail. When I got to the road again it was in totally different country; however the track was there, so I knew I could make Pemberton by walking along it far enough. I could have kissed the beastly bridge, it was so good to be sure where I was.
When I limped into the hotel kitchen they were appalled. “My goodness,” said the daughter, “you’d got to the top that we meant, when you ‘started’ on the trail. You must have got on the old McCulloch trail up to an old mine. Why, I wouldn’t dream of going up there without a man.” Counting that awful climb, I must have gone nine or ten miles. I ache dreadfully.
THE ELEPHANT 1933
JULY 16TH, 1933
Once I heard it stated and now I believe it to be true that there is no true art without religion. The artist himself may not think he is religious but if he is sincere his sincerity in itself is religion. If something other than the material did not speak to him, and if he did not have faith in that something and also in himself, he would not try to express it. Every artist I meet these days seems to me to leak out the fact that somewhere inside him he is groping religiously for something, some in one way, some in another, tip-toeing, stretching up, longing for something beyond what he sees or can reach.
I wonder will death be much lonelier than life. Life’s an awfully lonesome affair. You can live close against other people yet your lives never touch. You come into the world alone and you go out of the world alone yet it seems to me you are more alone while living than even going and coming. Your mother loves you like the deuce while you are coming. Wrapped up there under her heart is perhaps the cosiest time in existence. Then she and you are one, companions. At death again hearts loosen and realities peep out,but all the intervening years of living something shuts you up in a “yourself shell.” You can’t break through and get out; nobody can break through and get in. If there was an instrument strong enough to break the “self shells” and let out the spirit it would be grand.
I ought to descend to the basement and do out a tub of washing but I am so woefully tired I shan’t. It’s been very hot for two days; now the wind is up doling out bangs and smacks with a lavish hand. The roses are protesting — only the young strong ones can stand it, the old tired ones flop to the earth in soft, tired twinklings.
A nice elderly couple called on me today to show me their griffon and to see mine. Theirs was O.K. but my four somehow were finer. They obeyed and there was a wise sweetness to them the other fellow lacked. During tea in the garden with the beasts the old lady said, “Are you a sister of Emily Carr, the artist?” “I am her.” They said they
loved
pictures and would like to go up to the studio. Their tastes were conservative. I knew that because they told me of a lovely painting of flowers by
me
in the Vancouver Gallery. It was not mine. I knew whose it was and so what they liked. So we clambered up the stairs. They edged in past the litter and fell to talking of the studio to gain time. They spoke of their lovely old watercolours and beautiful photographs. Then I produced some canvases. They were a sweet, honest old pair and they said what they could with cautious sincerity. They are coming to fetch me to see theirs. So be it.
I
shall be in the same box wondering what to say.
JULY 17TH
Bess and Lawren think over-highly of my work. Of course I’m glad they think there is something in it other than smearing on of paint, but I feel a little hypocritish too because sometimes onelets the mundane sweep across their work, the earthy predominate, and the spiritual sleep. Bess’s letter was fine. I don’t follow all the theosophy formula but the substance is the same as my less complicated beliefs: God in all. Always looking for the face of God, always listening for the voice of God in
When I limped into the hotel kitchen they were appalled. “My goodness,” said the daughter, “you’d got to the top that we meant, when you ‘started’ on the trail. You must have got on the old McCulloch trail up to an old mine. Why, I wouldn’t dream of going up there without a man.” Counting that awful climb, I must have gone nine or ten miles. I ache dreadfully.
THE ELEPHANT 1933
JULY 16TH, 1933
Once I heard it stated and now I believe it to be true that there is no true art without religion. The artist himself may not think he is religious but if he is sincere his sincerity in itself is religion. If something other than the material did not speak to him, and if he did not have faith in that something and also in himself, he would not try to express it. Every artist I meet these days seems to me to leak out the fact that somewhere inside him he is groping religiously for something, some in one way, some in another, tip-toeing, stretching up, longing for something beyond what he sees or can reach.
I wonder will death be much lonelier than life. Life’s an awfully lonesome affair. You can live close against other people yet your lives never touch. You come into the world alone and you go out of the world alone yet it seems to me you are more alone while living than even going and coming. Your mother loves you like the deuce while you are coming. Wrapped up there under her heart is perhaps the cosiest time in existence. Then she and you are one, companions. At death again hearts loosen and realities peep out,but all the intervening years of living something shuts you up in a “yourself shell.” You can’t break through and get out; nobody can break through and get in. If there was an instrument strong enough to break the “self shells” and let out the spirit it would be grand.
I ought to descend to the basement and do out a tub of washing but I am so woefully tired I shan’t. It’s been very hot for two days; now the wind is up doling out bangs and smacks with a lavish hand. The roses are protesting — only the young strong ones can stand it, the old tired ones flop to the earth in soft, tired twinklings.
A nice elderly couple called on me today to show me their griffon and to see mine. Theirs was O.K. but my four somehow were finer. They obeyed and there was a wise sweetness to them the other fellow lacked. During tea in the garden with the beasts the old lady said, “Are you a sister of Emily Carr, the artist?” “I am her.” They said they
loved
pictures and would like to go up to the studio. Their tastes were conservative. I knew that because they told me of a lovely painting of flowers by
me
in the Vancouver Gallery. It was not mine. I knew whose it was and so what they liked. So we clambered up the stairs. They edged in past the litter and fell to talking of the studio to gain time. They spoke of their lovely old watercolours and beautiful photographs. Then I produced some canvases. They were a sweet, honest old pair and they said what they could with cautious sincerity. They are coming to fetch me to see theirs. So be it.
I
shall be in the same box wondering what to say.
JULY 17TH
Bess and Lawren think over-highly of my work. Of course I’m glad they think there is something in it other than smearing on of paint, but I feel a little hypocritish too because sometimes onelets the mundane sweep across their work, the earthy predominate, and the spiritual sleep. Bess’s letter was fine. I don’t follow all the theosophy formula but the substance is the same as my less complicated beliefs: God in all. Always looking for the face of God, always listening for the voice of God in
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