The Forest Loverby Susan Vreeland
In her acclaimed novels, Susan Vreeland has given us portraits of painting and life that are as dazzling as their artistic subjects. Now, in The Forest Lover, she traces the courageous life and career of Emily Carr, who-more than Georgia O'Keeffe or Frida Kahlo-blazed a path for modern women artists. Overcoming the confines of Victorian culture, Carr became/i>… See more details below
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In her acclaimed novels, Susan Vreeland has given us portraits of painting and life that are as dazzling as their artistic subjects. Now, in The Forest Lover, she traces the courageous life and career of Emily Carr, who-more than Georgia O'Keeffe or Frida Kahlo-blazed a path for modern women artists. Overcoming the confines of Victorian culture, Carr became a major force in modern art by capturing an untamed British Columbia and its indigenous peoples just before industrialization changed them forever. From illegal potlatches in tribal communities to artists' studios in pre-World War I Paris, Vreeland tells her story with gusto and suspense, giving us a glorious novel that will appeal to lovers of art, native cultures, and lush historical fiction.
Susan Vreeland's third novel (after Girl in Hyacinth Blue and The Passion of Artemesia) again brings to light a prominent female artist, this time modern Canadian painter Emily Carr. As imagined here by Vreeland, Carr struggles against turn-of-the-century Victorian codes that dictated both how a lady should act and how art should rendered and evaluated. In embracing the rapidly disappearing indigenous cultures of British Columbia, Carr created bold, Impressionist paintings that horrified the public as much as those of her male French counterparts. It was only belatedly (though still in her lifetime) that her art was embraced. In this richly imagined telling of Carr's life, Vreeland creates a fascinating cast of characters, from the indigenous people Carr befriends to her own sisters who cannot understand her passions or her paintings. Most memorable is her friendship with a mentally disabled man, Harold, who finds peace in Carr's paintings, which remind him of his own troubled childhood as the son of missionaries. Filled with vivid detail and gorgeous descriptions, The Forest Lover is a lush, rich novel that will not disappoint fans of Vreeland's earlier efforts.
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- 4.45(w) x 7.28(h) x 1.24(d)
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Read an Excerpt
: Salmonberry, 1906
Letting her cape snap in the wind, Emily gripped her carpetbag and wicker food hamper, and hiked up the beach, feasting her eyes on Hitats’uu spread wide beneath fine-spun vapor. Cedars elbowing firs and swinging their branches pushed against the village from behind. One wayward fir had fallen and lay uprooted with its foliage battered by waves and tangled in kelp. Wind whipped up a froth of sword fern sprouting in its bark. At last, she was right here, where trees had some get-up-and-go to them, where the ocean was wetter than mere water, where forest and sea crashed against each other with the Nootka pressed between them.
She had been to San Francisco and found it cramped, to London and found it stifling. She had ridden the Canadian Pacific Railway across the Rockies, breathless at their jagged power, and had galloped bareback across a ranch in the Western Cariboo, swinging her hat and whooping to the broad sky. She’d gone home to the starched and doilied parlor of the yellow, two-story bird cage of a house in Victoria, British Columbia, where she’d been born, and found only hypocrisy and criticism there.
But this, oh this, the west coast of Vancouver Island, wave-lashed and smelling of salt spray and seaweed, the teeming, looming forest alive with raven talk and other secrets, the cedar bighouses scoured by storms to a lovely silver sheen, the whole place juicy with life, was more wild, more free, more enticing than she remembered it when she’d come here eight years earlier. Or was it she that was different?
Lulu, grown into a young woman now, clamming on the beach, remembered her as soon as she’d climbed out of the hired canoe that had delivered her here from the steamer dock a mile away. Now, with Lulu carrying Emily’s canvas sketch sack, a pack of barking, leprous-looking dogs came tearing toward them. “Stay down,” Emily ordered, planting her feet wide apart.
Lulu ran them off, her braids flying, her long indigo skirt billowing, clams clacking in the basket on her back. She came back to Emily. “Sorry. They awful mean.”
They approached the largest of the bighouses, ancestral dwelling lodges of many families, this one painted with a huge faded red sun. Lulu held open a hide hanging in the doorway, and motioned her inside. Don’t you dare go. Her sister Dede’s angry command issued in their parlor two days before still grated on her mind. Just who do you think you are ... ?
A thrill of defiance rippled through her as she stepped in.
Smells of fish and grease and the rich spice of wood smoke engulfed her. Women in striped cotton dresses sitting on tiers of platforms around the fire murmured and gave her curious looks. Some stopped what they’d been doing. An old woman in a red head scarf watched her with narrowed eyes, probably wondering what a white woman wearing a strange plaid English tam perched on her head was doing in their isolated village.
“Hello,” Emily said.
Only a twitch of her bottom lip showed that she’d heard.
“The Nootka aren’t much for friendliness,” the captain of the steamer had told her a couple of hours earlier.
“But I’ve arranged to stay with the missionaries,” she’d said.
“They packed up and left a month ago. I’d reconsider if I were you.”
She’d felt the captain’s words as a blow beneath her ribs. Dede would have gloated if she knew. As it was, Dede had given her a tongue-lashing about her mania for tramping through the wilderness with Indians, calling it a disgrace to the family. Still, she’d stepped off the steamer onto the dock at Ucluelet, and now, in this bighouse, she shoved back the fear that she’d made a mistake.
Lulu nodded to a man who spilled himself out of a hammock hanging from thick beams still shaped like tree trunks. His hair was cut bluntly at his shiny copper jaw, and he wore loose woolen trousers and leather shoes, but no socks.
“Chief Tlehwituua,” Lulu announced, full of respect, and spoke a few words to him in Nootka, to which he responded.
Emily felt his milky-eyed scrutiny go right through her. Who are you? she was certain he was asking. It was the same question she’d often asked herself. Impulsive rebel or lonely old maid? Aimless hobbyist or committed painter?
“Chief Tlehwituua say he knew another missionary family would come. Tide that go out always come back,” Lulu said. The chief spoke again. “He want to know where is your husband.”
“I’m not a missionary’s wife! Tell him, Lulu. I only came to visit the missionaries before. Tell him you remember me. Emily Carr.” She set down her bags and took off her hat.
“Not a missionary wife!” some other voice said in English.
Murmurs. Smiles. Someone laughed. A man slapped his thigh. The chief held up his hand and the room fell silent. Apparently he didn’t remember her. Maybe it was her close-cropped hair. When she’d been here before she had long hair, wound and pinned up like any proper Victorian lady. Now, to them, it probably looked like a bumpy brown knit cap.
The chief consulted with Lulu. “If not a missionary wife, why did you come? He want to know,” Lulu said.
“I came to paint this time. Ask him if I may. The village, the beautiful canoes.”
She dug out her half-filled watercolor book from her sketch sack to show her paintings of Beacon Hill Park in Victoria, woodland and seacoast in England. She felt apologetic. The English trees were puny compared to the mighty Douglas-firs and cedars here. Namby-pamby. A pathetic offering.
Why paint here, he might ask, and what would she answer? That she hoped that here she might discover what it was about wild places that called to her with such promise.
The chief made a circle with his hand, as if holding a brush, and nodded at her tablet.
“He want that you paint now.”
Was this an invitation or a command? Better to assume it was a command. Could she paint under the heat of watching eyes, paint without sketching first? The years in art school in San Francisco and England hadn’t taught her that. Time to prove to herself what, for the last dozen years, she’d only hoped she was.
She opened her watercolor set, a curiosity to him. He stuck his nose down over each color and sniffed while she looked for a subject. The raised platforms along the walls converged at a corner post carved into a man holding a fish, the most striking thing in the house. That would do just fine. It was a difficult perspective. She faltered. It wasn’t right. She ripped off the page and people murmured. She began again, adding the fishing-man figure, baskets, stacks of blankets, carved cedar chests, coils of bull kelp hanging on the wall, and, draped over poles, strips of dried fish looking like curled brown rags. She tried to work quickly, in case they made her leave. But where would she go? The steamer wouldn’t call again at Ucluelet for a week.
When Emily finished, Lulu asked, “You want to paint me?”
Ugh! Portraits were either stuffy or dead. She wondered if Lulu had ever seen her own face. “Do you really want me to?”
Lulu thrust her head forward. “We don’t say things we don’t mean.”
Lulu knelt by the fire, and Emily began. Each time she looked up, Lulu’s dark expressive eyes were watching her. Older children and the woman in the red head scarf cast surreptitious glances but did not venture to come close.
“You see Nuu’chah’nulth women in Victoria?” Lulu asked.
“You mean what white people call Nootka?” Emily felt embarrassed. She couldn’t tell the difference between Nootka and Songhees. “Sometimes. Songhees women too.”
“Where do they live?”
“Songhees live at a reserve. Maybe Nootka camp on beaches.”
“What do they in Victoria?”
“Sell berries and fish and baskets.”
She didn’t want to tell her how the Songhees were being pushed out of the reserve in Victoria’s Inner Harbor that had been promised to them forever.
She thought of Wash Mary starching her pinafores on the back porch when she was a girl. “A Songhees lady used to wash our clothes, but that was twenty-five years ago.”
Lulu’s eyes burned with intensity. “She lived with you?”
“No. She lived in a little house beyond Chinatown.”
Emily rinsed her brushes. “There. Finished.”
Lulu studied the painting as if looking away would make it disappear. “That’s me? You make me nice.”
The red-scarfed woman came forward to have a look. Her expression revealed nothing. She walked away, opened a floor chest, wrapped herself in a dark blue blanket decorated with rows of mother-of-pearl buttons, made her way back to the fire, lowered herself onto a wooden box, pulled two hanks of gray hair bound in red cords forward over her shoulders, tapped her chest, and raised her chin in a pose.
“My grand auntie,” Lulu said.
Emily grinned. What she’d really come for could wait. She wiped sweat from her forehead, and set to work again.
The auntie was of this place. Wind and sun had sculpted her face as they had her cedar house. Her laugh lines and sorrow lines were like gullies in a rugged landscape. Flames lit one high cheekbone, left the other in shadow, giving her a secretive look.
Joy rose in her. They were letting her. The wonder of it.
The auntie grinned and said something in Nootka that made Lulu giggle. “She remember you.”
The auntie passed her index fingers over her own eyebrows and flapped her hands outward at her temples.
“She remember your eye hair, like wings.”
Emily laughed. Her one eyebrow too widely and highly arched gave her the look of someone questioning everything.
“She remember you laughing. You’re bigger now, she say.”
True. She’d gone to England a shapely hourglass and had come home as what polite people would call solid, filled-in at thirty-three. Eighteen months imprisoned in that rod-rigid Suffolk sanatorium where they promised to heal homesickness and anything else that ails a body with imposed bed rest and force-feedings of honey and jam and mashed potato mountains—that’s what did it.
“Bigger? Tell your auntie I can laugh bigger now.”
When she finished Auntie’s portrait, she set all three watercolors on a sleeping platform and stepped back, every muscle tight. “They’re for you.”
People crowded to see, speaking in Nootka. They opened a path for the chief and closed in behind him. After a few moments, he turned to her, nodded, and went outside.
“Does that mean he’ll let me stay and paint?”
Lulu snickered. “He always was let you paint. He just want to see you do it.”
Emily laughed a laugh of relief.
Auntie thrust at her a bowlful of salmonberries and said something Emily couldn’t understand.
“You sleep here,” a woman said. “Auntie wants.”
“That’s my mother, Rena,” Lulu explained.
Sleep with all these people? Married people? Old men? The chief? All in the same room? She didn’t belong here, but she didn’t belong in a starchy missionary house with the Ten Commandments plastered on the wall either. Too much like her sisters’ house embroidered with homilies everywhere she looked— enough to squeeze the spunk right out of her. But at least there she wouldn’t be squeamish about what went on around her.
“Tell her thank you. I’ll sleep in the mission house.”
The auntie scowled when Rena translated.
Damn. She’d made a selfish mistake.
“Sure not a missionary wife?” Rena asked.
Good Lord. A missionary’s wife, like Dede and Lizzie’s praying ladies stirring tea with Lizzie’s sacred disciple spoons, or wearing out the parlor carpet on their knees. She never knew when or where she’d trip over one. The mere thought of the missionary families’ Sunday School sprawling into every room of the house, and Lizzie and Dede’s double fury when she refused to teach a class, prickled her skin. That she hadn’t come to Hitats’uu for a missionary purpose inflamed Dede’s provincial propriety screaming against her “degrading notion to live with heathen aborigines in a siwash village. And for what purpose? Some unfathomable, unnecessary search for the authentic BC. Rubbish. It’s right under our roof.”
Emily heard herself laugh, throaty, deep, and loud. “No. Not a missionary’s wife. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”
“Klee Wyck,” the auntie said. Others repeated it, grinning.
“What does that mean?” Emily asked.
“Laughing One,” Rena said. “You.”
Emily laughed again to please them.
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Meet the Author
Coming out of the Louvre for the first time in 1971, dizzy with new love, I stood on Pont Neuf and made a pledge to myself that the art of this newly discovered world in the Old World would be my life companion. Never had history been more vibrant, its voices more resonating, its images more gripping. On this first trip to Europe, I felt myself a pilgrim: To me, even secular places such as museums and ruins were imbued with the sacred. Painting, sculpture, architecture, music, religious and social historyI was swept away with all of it, wanting to read more, to learn languages, to fill my mind with rich, glorious, long-established culture wrought by human desire, daring, and faith. I wanted to keep a Gothic cathedral alive in my heart. My imagination exploded with the gaiety of the Montmartre dancers at Moulin de la Galette, the laborer whose last breath in his flattened chest was taken under the weight of a stone fallen from the Duomo under construction in Florence, the apprentice who cut himself preparing glass for the jeweled windows of Sainte Chapelle, the sweating quarry worker aching behind his crowbar at Carrara to release a marble that would become the Pietà. In a fashion I couldn't imagine then, I have been true to this pledge. I have brought to life the daughter of the Dutch painter Vermeer who secretly yearned to paint the Delft she loved. I've given voice to the Italian Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi, raped at seventeen by her painting teacher, the first woman to paint large scale figures from history and scripture previously reserved for men. On my own continent, I've entered deep British Columbian forests with Emily Carr, whose love for native people took her to places proper white women didn't go. My imagination has followed Modigliani's daughter around Paris searching for shreds of information about the father she never knew. I've imagined myself a poor wetnurse, bereaved of her own baby so that a rich woman, Berthe Morisot, might paint. I've taken my seventeenth century Tuscan shoemaker to Rome to have his longed-for religious experience under the Sistine ceiling. I've followed Renoir's models to cabarets and boat races, to war and elopement, to the Folies-Bergère and luncheons by the Seine.
Now some facts as to how I arrived there: After graduating from San Diego State University, I taught high school English in San Diego beginning in 1969 and retired in 2000 after a 30-year career. Concurrently, I began writing features for newspapers and magazines in 1980, taking up subjects in art and travel, and publishing 250 articles. I ventured into fiction in 1988 with What Love Sees, a biographical novel of a woman's unwavering determination to lead a full life despite blindness. The book was made into a CBS television movie starring Richard Thomas and Annabeth Gish. My short fiction has appeared in The Missouri Review, Ploughshares, New England Review, Confrontation, Alaska Quarterly Review, Manoa, Connecticut Review, Calyx, Crescent Review, So To Speak and elsewhere.
My art-related fiction, products of my pledge on Pont Neuf:Girl in Hyacinth Blue, 1999, and a Hallmark Hall of Fame production in 2003, tracing an alleged Vermeer painting through the centuries revealing its influence on those who possessed it.
The Passion of Artemisia, 2002, disclosing the inner life of Artemisia Gentileschi, Italian Baroque painter who empowered her female heroines with her own courage. The Forest Lover, 2004, following the rebel Canadian painter, Emily Carr, seeking the spiritual content of her beloved British Columbia by painting its wild landscape and its native totemic carvings.
Life Studies, 2005, stories revealing Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters from points of view of people who knew them, and showing that ordinary people can have profound encounters with art.
Luncheon of the Boating Party, 2007, illuminating the vibrant, explosive Parisian world of la vie moderne surrounding Renoir as he creates his masterwork depicting the French art of living.
New York Times Best Sellers: Girl in Hyacinth Blue, The Passion of Artemisia, Luncheon of the Boating Party.
Book Sense Pick, Luncheon of the Boating Party, 2007.
Book Sense Year's Favorites, for The Passion of Artemisia, 2002.
Book Sense Book of the Year Finalist, Girl in Hyacinth Blue, 1999.
International Dublin Literary Award, Nominee, for Girl in Hyacinth Blue, 2001.
Independent Publisher Magazine, Storyteller of the Year, for Girl in Hyacinth Blue, 1999.
Foreword Magazine's Best Novel of the Year, for Girl in Hyacinth Blue,1999.
San Diego Book Awards' Theodor Geisel Award and Best Novel of the Year, 1999, for Girl; 2002 for Artemisia, and 2005 for Life Studies.
My work has been translated into twenty-five languages.
So, what have I learned from all of this? That entering the mind and heart of painters has taught me to see, and to be more appreciative of the beauties of the visible world. That I can agree with Renoir when he said, "I believe that I am nearer to God by being humble before his splendor (Nature)." That people are hungry for real lives behind the paintings. That readers' lives have been enriched, their sensibilities sharpened, even their goals for their own creative endeavors given higher priorities in their lives.
And especially this: Thanks to art, instead of seeing only one world and time period, our own, we see it multiplied and can peer into other times, other worlds which offer windows to other lives. Each time we enter imaginatively into the life of another, it's a small step upwards in the elevation of the human race. Consider this: Where there is no imagination of others' lives, there is no human connection. Where there is no human connection, there is no chance for compassion to govern. Without compassion, then loving kindness, human understanding, peace all shrivel. Individuals become isolated, and the isolated can turn resentful, narrow, cruel; they can become blinded, and that's where prejudice, holocausts, terrorism and tragedy hover. Artand literatureare antidotes to that.
- San Diego, California
- Date of Birth:
- January 20, 1946
- Place of Birth:
- Racine, Wisconsin
- San Diego State University
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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If you enjoy reading about the Pacific Northwest, specifically British Columbia and if you enjoy art, you will enjoy this book. Our book club read this book and while we all agreed it started slowly, ultimately we enjoyed the art, the history and the book. This is the story of Emily Carr, a turn of the 20th century Canadian artist who spent much of her life trying to preserve the totems and spirit of the Native Americans of BC. Her work is very important in Canadian art history. While there are some fictitious characters in the book, Vreeland has researched extensively using Carr's own journals for information. This book was not on my radar until our book club chose it. It was a great choice and an interesting read. So glad I read it.
Not a page-turner, but delightful reading. Learning about Emily Carr's life, her utter delight in nature and how to transfer her vision to canvas. Has inspired me to visit her home and surroundings, view her paintings and the awesomeness which is British Columbia.
In her inspiring biography of Canadian artist Emily Carr, Susan Vreeland introduces us to a determined and self-directed young woman in such an engaging way that immediately, a sense of friendship with this brave, gutsy and talented Canadian artist is formed. Emily's family life (I visited her family home in Victoria) was distressing and difficult, and yet, despite all of her disappointments, Emily sought her own happiness in her art discipline, even during a long period when she had to rent rooms, cook meals for her roomers, and board dogs to make ends meet, Emily found a way to decorate all of Canada with her magnificent art. A wonderful biography!
Fascinating story of a painter I knew little about. I couldn't put the book down.
I picked this up out of a bargain bin for something to read on a plane. It was a little slow in the beginning, but after the first chapter, I found it very captivating and hard to put down. Emily Carr was an amazing woman, and Vreeland depicted her very well. An overall nice read.
Such is the dominance of US literature and culture over Canada that it can be difficult for non-Canadians to appreciate its history. Reinforced when considering British Columbia. Traditionally, Canadian culture has been centred on Ontario and Quebec. A third handicap is when a subject or backdrop is the native tribes of BC, who often rate cursory mention. Vreeland tries to remedy this by giving us a work of historical fiction, set in the first 2 decades of the twentieth century, amongst these tribes. Her book is also a searing social commentary on the deprivation and misery endured by the tribes. Afflicted by disease and a demoralisation brought on by British conquest. In the book are depictions of a crusading Christian church and a local government bent on a coerced assimilation of the natives. To such extent that in this period, potlatches were banned?! As symbols of heathen superstition and backwardness. Students of history will see echoes in similar policies carried out against the Australian Aborigines and the tribes of the US. Yes, this book is fiction. But perhaps it belongs in the same ranks as 'Oliver Twist', which Dickens wrote as a contemporary denunciation of nineteenth century British poverty.
A stage background in Shakespearean plays may be what gives voice performer Karen White's voice a richness of timbre so appropriate for this story. Further, she reads the life of an iconic artist with sympathetic understanding while not at all detracting from the courage and determination that defined this remarkable woman, Emily Carr (1871-1945). With messianic zeal Carr was determined to paint the incomparable totem poles carved and decorated by the Indians of British Columbia. Years ahead of her time she chose to do this with bold colors in modular, expressionistic depictions. Following her calling much to the distress and recrimination of her family and the society of her day, she became an art teacher who decried traditional ways. In this fictionalized portrait of the extraordinary artist Susan Vreeland (Girl in Hyacinth Blue and The Passion of Artemisia) traces Carr's travels into the deepest wilderness to meet an indigenous people. While many of her journeys were solo undertakings she did have friends and compatriots, among them were Sophie, A Native American basket maker, Harold, a missionary's son, and Fanny an Australian painter. Later Carr went to Paris where in 1911 she became a part of the avant garde artists who were developing modernism and cubism. With her third such novel Vreeland once again brings to unforgettable life another time, another place, and an extraordinary individual.
Normally I'm a huge fan of Susan Vreeland. I loved Hyacinth Blue and the Passion of Artemesia. I really looked forward to the Forest Lover but was very disappointed. I found the book very boring and could not get into it at all. I knew nothing of Emily Carr before reading this book and did not find her to be an interesting character. Normally I finish a book like this in a few days. I was so bored with this book that it took me 2 months to finally force myself to see it to the end.
The book was good for no battle scenes but a little bland. There was alot of sadness and no true living. She made no lovers, created no passion other than in her art that really didn't touch anyone but herself. The one friend she did make was of different cultural living so they in reality never could have been as close as the author related.
As this was my first Emily Carr biography written by an American author, I was immediately curious about whether or not we would do this unique character justice. The answer is a resounding no. Vreeland uses fictional sexual relationships in attempt to keep the reader from noticing her lack of strong facts. Carr is poorly represented here. She is shown as a horny and selfish girl instead of as the strong, solitude loving woman that she really was. Although her devotion to First Nation art is well-represented, that is one of the few aspects of Carr that is shown clearly.