On October 1935, Emily Carr stood before the students and faculty at Victoria’s Normal School, delivering her speech “Something Plus in a Work of Art.” She confessed in her journal that she had spent a week preparing and, despite feeling steady rather than nervous, she felt the audience of “young things” received her warmly—far more enthusiastically than the trio of “set‑stiff” professors.

Carr argued that real art transcends labels like “ancient” or “modern,” pointing out that what truly matters is the passion and depth the artist infuses into their work. She described the old masters as artists who tapped into deep wells of emotion and vitality—unhurried, thoughtful lives that gave their art lasting resonance. In contrast, she noted, much “Modern Art” of her day veered into mere experimentation, and too often artists focused on pleasing patrons rather than expressing anything substantial. She lamented the rise of art made to retell stories or flatter viewers, rather than stir profound response.

Describing the Modern Movement as a necessary rebellion, she praised its pioneers who sought to “put the something back into art” by stripping away sentimentality and digging into fundamentals. She emphasized that true art demands sincerity, personal vision, and thoughtful design: not gimmicks or superficial strangeness.

Afterward, students and several administrators expressed gratitude. One professor praised her color insights—“that same yellow…green that looked yellow”—and affirmed that her observations rang true to his own experience. A female manager called it “something quite different from the talks we usually get,” noting the audience’s “enthusiastic, warm reception.” Carr smiled, acknowledging the applause, and walked away with both relief and determination: next time, she would meet every face and let her voice fill the whole room

Her speech resonated because it bridged the gap between modernist ideals and everyday perception, offering fresh perspective rooted in genuine feeling—and her students recognized and rewarded that authenticity.

Carr sees the Modern Art movement as a necessary rebellion—a return to fundamental, primal truths in art after a period of superficial sentimentality. While she acknowledges that much of modern art is still in a phase of experimentation, she values its sincere effort to restore meaning and passion. True art, for Carr, demands personal vision; artists must express what they deeply feel and truly see, not copy others or chase trends.

She highlights the concept of the “something plus” in art—an intangible quality that conveys the inner spirit or life-force of the subject, which she believes is essential for enduring work. This is exemplified in the totemic art of the Indigenous peoples of British Columbia, whose creations radiated power and meaning because they were rooted in spiritual belief, cultural identity, and lived experience.

For Carr, the “something plus” was not limited to any one culture, medium, or moment in time. She saw it in the old European masters, in the spare elegance of Japanese painting, in the geometry of African sculpture, and in the raw sincerity of the West Coast totems. In all of these, she felt the same impulse—to express the felt essence of a thing, not just its appearance. It’s what she called “the divine fire,” and when that fire was shaped and honed through good design and craftsmanship, it could produce something timeless—what she called a “universal language of man.”

Carr’s message to those students in 1935 wasn’t just about painting. It was about how to live as a creative person. You must look deeply. You must feel fully. And you must work with honesty and courage, even if what you’re doing is misunderstood, even if you doubt yourself, even if the outcome is imperfect. Only then, she said, does a work of art become more than a clever arrangement of lines and colours. Only then does it speak—really speak—to the soul.

Her speech concludes that technical skill, design, and aesthetic appeal are not enough. Great art is born of truth, belief, and inner necessity—when artists speak not just with their eyes, but with their whole being.