Real Art Is Religion, A Search For

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.

Enter Into The Life Of The Trees. Know Your Relationship And Understand Their Language, Unspoken, Unwritten Talk. Answer Back To Them With Their Own Dumb Magnificence, Soul Words, Earth Words, The God In You Responding To The God In Them.

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.

Last Night I Dreamed That I Came Face To Face With A Picture I Had Done And Forgotten, A Forest Done In Simple Movement, Just Forms Of Trees Moving In Space. That Is The Third Time I Have Seen Pictures In My Dreams, A Glint Of What I Am Striving To Attain.

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.