one tell me what to do;
II. You are not, as I see, a draftsman of the very first rank;
III. This is drawn quite nicely;
IV. This head, however, deserves the adjective “bad”;
V. Only those people are dispensed from a test who have modelled figures for years;
VI. I myself once had to pass a test. (This is where I left.)
VII. Good day, Herr Klee.
Often I said that I served Beauty by drawing her enemies (caricature, satire). But that is not enough. I must shape her directly with the full strength of my conviction. A distant, noble aim. Half asleep, I already set out on that path. When I am awake, it will have to be accomplished. Perhaps the road is longer than my life. He who strives will never enjoy this life peacefully. The first re-formations (mouldings of the newly experienced world) offer a constant contrast with the fullness and freshness of impressions.
Forward, towards mature works. Childhood was a dream, some day all would be accomplished. The period of learning, a time for searching into everything, into the smallest, into the most hidden, into the good and the bad. Then a light is lit somewhere, and a single direction is followed (that stage I now enter; let us call it the time of wandering).
June 1901. Misgivings arise. What had I to offer to Lily? Art did not even feed one man. And so the time came again to think of parting. On the ideal plane a great feeling of strength filled me, because of the victory or because of love. But of what use was it in life? What perfection we reach through love! What an intensification of all things. What a touchstone it is! What a key! Each of these days is a lifetime. If I had to end now, no better end might be imagined.
Retrospect on the artistic beginnings of the past three years. Whatever in these diaries is unclear, confused, and undeveloped seems hardly as repellent, or as ridiculous even, as the first attempts to translate these circumstances into art. A diary is simply not art, but a temporal accomplishment. One thing, however, I must grant myself: the will to attain the authentic was there. Else I might have been content, as a tolerable sketcher of nudes, to turn out compositions depicting Cain and Abel. But for this I was too sceptical. I wanted to render things that could be controlled, and clung only to what I carried within me. The more complicated it seemed to me, as time passed, the madder the compositions. Sexual helplessness bears monsters of perversion. Symposia of Amazons, and other horrible themes.
Before Italy (Summer 1901). The consciousness of strength endured. At first the separation was not overwhelmingly hard to bear. I derived a certain tranquillity from the fact that I had now become a moral person, even on a sexual level. As such, this problem could no longer disturb me. I did not concern myself directly with the fact that there would be no practical solution soon. My spirit was free of such turmoil. I could now devote myself with full concentration to some course of study. The three years in Munich had been necessary to bring me to this point. I now staked everything on Italy. I envisaged the possibility of realising the humanist ideal only outside the field of special study.
I shall look for my God beyond the stars. Whilst I struggled for earthly love, I sought no God. Now that I have it, I must find Him who wrought good upon me whilst I had turned away from Him. How can I recognise Him? He must be smiling over the fool, hence the cooling of gentle winds in the summer night. Mute bliss in thankfulness to Him and a glance toward these mountain tops!
Movement of Vaulted Chambers, 1915. Watercolour on paper on cardboard, 20 × 25.2 cm. The Berggruen Klee Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Winter Day Just Before Noon, 1922. Oil on paper on cardboard, 29.8 × 45.9 cm. Kunsthalle Bremen, Bremen.
Travels in Italy
Versunkene Landschaft (Engulfed Landscape), 1918. Watercolour, gouache, and ink on paper, top and bottom borders in satiny paper, on cardboard, 17.6 × 16.3 cm. Museum Folkwang, Essen.
October 1901 to May 1902
Milan, 22.10.1901. Arrival. Brera: Mantegna; Raphael not particularly well represented. Surprise: Tintoretto. Genoa, arrival by night. The sea under the moon. Wonderful breeze from the sea. Serious mood. Exhausted like a beast of burden by a thousand impressions. Saw the sea by night from a hill, for the first time. The great harbour, the gigantic ships, the emigrants and the longshoremen. The large Southern city.
I had had a rough idea of the sea, but not of the harbour life: railway cars, threatening cranes, warehouses, and people walking along reinforced piers, stepping over ropes. Fleeing from people who try to rent us boats: “The city, the harbour”, “The American warships”, “The lighthouses!”, “The sea!”. The unfamiliar climate. Steamers from Liverpool, Marseilles, Bremen, Spain, Greece, and America. Respect for the wide globe. Certainly several hundred steamers, not to speak of countless sailboats, small steamers, and tugboats. And then the people. Over there, the most outlandish figures with fezzes. Here on the dam, a crowd of emigrants from the South of Italy, piled up (like snails) in the sun, mothers giving the breast, the bigger children playing and quarrelling. A purveyor opens a path for himself through the mob with a steaming plate (frutti di mare) brought from floating kitchens. Where does the striking smell of oil come from? Then the coal-bearers, well-built figures, light-footed and swift, coming down from the coal ship half naked with loads on their backs (hair protected by a rag), climbing up to the pier along a long plank, over to the warehouse to have their load weighed. Then, unburdened, along a second plank into the ship, where a freshly-filled basket is waiting for them. Thus people in an unbroken circle, tanned by the sun, blackened by the coal, wild, contemptuous. Over there, a fisherman. The disgusting water can’t contain anything good. As everywhere else, nothing is ever caught. Fishing gear: a thick string, a stone tied to it, a chicken foot, a shellfish. On the piers stand houses and warehouses. A world in itself. This time we are the loafers in its midst. And still we are working, at least with our legs.
High houses (up to thirteen floors), extremely narrow alleys in the old town. Cool and smelly. In the evening, thickly filled with people. In the daytime, more with youngsters. Their swaddling clothes wave in the air like flags over a celebrating town. Strings hang from window to window across the street. By day, stinging sun in these alleys, the sparkling, metallic reflections of the sea; below, a flood of light from all sides: dazzling brilliance. Add to all this, the sound of a hurdy-gurdy, a picturesque trade. Children dancing all around. Theatre turned real. I have taken a certain amount of melancholy along with me over the Gotthard Pass. Dionysos doesn’t have a simple effect on me. The sea voyage was an experience. Big, nocturnal Genoa with its lights numerous as stars gradually vanished, absorbed by the light of the open sea, as one dream flows into another. We sailed at ten o’clock on the Gottardo, stayed on deck until midnight. Then into our second-class cabin.
Livorno dull. We fled as quickly as possible in a little horse and carriage. The horse guessed our thoughts. The landing had been an amusing business. The boatmen, who fought each other with their oars: una lira, of course. The staircase from the water, the customs office. Much crowding at the railway station. Haller didn’t have the courage to ask for tickets. He put his lips close to my ear and instructed me stutteringly: “1. P-P-Pisa; 2. q-quando p-parte il t-treno?” The words lay, in fact, quite clumsily on the tongue. I push boldly on. Regarding point 1, I was asked “andate o ritorno?”, which I did not understand; regarding point 2, the gruff reply was “alle mezz”, which was not so simple either. This was my first lesson in practical Italian. And the train, which runs every half hour, was ready and took us to Pisa through rather unattractive country.
Sailing
