Be careful that you do not write or paint anything that is not

Host: The studio was a cathedral of quiet color and fading light. The sun, a tired ember, sank behind the pines, spilling its golden blood across the floorboards. The air smelled of turpentine, charcoal, and memory. In the corner, a canvas leaned against the wall, half-finished—a landscape trembling between reality and dream.

Host: Jack stood before it, brush in hand, his eyes haunted by the image of something he could not quite capture. Across the room, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands stained with ink, her notebook open like a confession.

Host: The light shifted, dimmed, and the room became a place between worlds—where creation could either be truth or theft.

Jeeny: “Emily Carr once said, ‘Be careful that you do not write or paint anything that is not your own, that you don’t know in your own soul.’”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it carried a quiet weight, like a prayer meant for those who had already sinned.

Jack: (with a dry laugh) “Then maybe I shouldn’t paint at all. What’s ever really our own, Jeeny? Every brushstroke, every note, every word—someone else has already breathed it before us.”

Jeeny: “Not like you would, Jack. That’s the point. Emily Carr didn’t mean originality; she meant authenticity. Paint what’s true to your soul, not what you think the world will approve of.”

Jack: “The world doesn’t pay for souls, Jeeny. It pays for style. It pays for echoes of what’s already sold.”

Host: He turned toward the canvas, his face caught in the dying light—half illumined, half in shadow. The painting before him was of a forest, but the trees seemed to lean in despair, their roots tangled in doubt.

Jeeny: “Then why do you paint, Jack? If it’s just for money, for recognition, why are you still here at midnight, arguing with the ghosts on your canvas?”

Jack: (pausing) “Because I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be real again.”

Host: A silence bloomed between them, delicate and unbearable. Outside, the wind brushed against the window, as if listening to the confession neither had yet fully spoken.

Jeeny: “When I write, I can feel it. The moment when the words stop being mine—when they start sounding like someone else’s. That’s when I know I’ve lost my soul on the page.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse of creation. You start with your truth, and then the world enters—expectations, critics, standards, comparisons. You start to hear the noise over the voice.”

Jeeny: “But you can choose which one to listen to.”

Host: The lamplight flickered. Dust floated through the air, illuminated like tiny galaxies caught in orbit around their conversation.

Jack: “Do you really think anyone creates from their soul anymore? The gallery scene, the publishers, the industry—it’s all performance. Even the pain has become a brand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But truth still shines through, Jack. Look at Carr’s forests, or Van Gogh’s skies, or Frida’s wounds—they didn’t paint to be liked. They painted because not painting would have killed them.”

Jack: “And yet, the world only loved them when they were gone. Maybe authenticity is just another word for loneliness.”

Host: His voice broke softly on that word. He set the brush down, his hands trembling, the way they do when you’re holding something too fragile to keep, but too precious to let go.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then be lonely, Jack. Be true. Because the moment you start painting what they want, you stop existing. You become your own ghost.”

Host: She stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the forest, black and silent under the moonlight. Her reflection merged with the glass, two worlds—the real and the imagined—touching but never blending.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Every artist is born twice. The first time when they learn to create, and the second time when they finally dare to be honest.”

Jack: “And if honesty isn’t beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s still worth painting.”

Host: The lamp cast a golden halo over the room. Jeeny’s words settled into the air, soft but unyielding. Jack turned back to the canvas. The forest seemed different now—less about perfection, more about presence. He lifted the brush, dipped it in a shade of dark green that looked almost like grief, and began again.

Jack: “Do you think Carr ever doubted herself?”

Jeeny: “Every real artist does. Doubt is how you know you’re still searching, not just repeating.”

Host: The sound of bristles meeting canvas filled the space, steady, rhythmic—like breathing returning after a long silence. Jeeny watched, not speaking, as the shapes began to form—wild, imperfect, and unmistakably his own.

Jack: “You know, I used to think art was about beauty.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s about recognition—not of the world, but of yourself.”

Host: The wind outside shifted, moving through the trees with a low whisper, as if the earth itself was listening to a forgotten song.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what Carr meant. Don’t borrow beauty—become it. Don’t imitate pain—understand it. Whatever you create, make sure it comes from your soul’s voice, not the echo of someone else’s.”

Host: Jack paused, his eyes glistening—not with tears, but with a quiet clarity. The canvas in front of him was still unfinished, but something inside him no longer was.

Jack: “It’s strange… The more I paint what’s mine, the less it feels like I’m the one creating.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Host: The moonlight found its way through the window, landing gently on the wet paint. It shimmered—alive, uncertain, unrepeatable.

Host: Outside, the forest stood silent, infinite. Inside, two souls breathed in rhythm with their art. And somewhere between the silence of the night and the stroke of the brush, the truth that Emily Carr had spoken still lived—not on the canvas, but in the courage to make it one’s own.

Host: The scene faded, the light dimming to black, leaving only the soft sound of creation—honest, human, and unborrowed.