Paul Klee. Paul Klee

control himself at the same time. Some lines around the chest and shoulders have the fire that comes from this kind of strength.

      In his small work Botticelli has known how to reduce his colour pattern to such a limited set of contrasts that a kind of colourlessness ensues, which is not offset by a sensual tonality, but which itself functions as an expression of chaste love. This type of feminine beauty, moreover, really has no aggressiveness. The pose in profile harmonises with it remarkably well. After I had looked through it, I followed the connecting gallery to the Uffizi. In about ten minutes it leads you over houses, roofs, across the Arno (Ponte Vecchio), sometimes affording a view. Having reached the end, I sat down in front of the tribuna, and looking at a surprising portrait of a woman by Raphael, I meditated intensely on the personality of this Proteus of painting. I also considerably improved my opinion of Lucas Cranach by looking at his “Eve”, particularly by observing the creative treatment of the legs. Jean accompanies me without a jarring note, in harmony. He doesn’t think much and yet is always in the right place. It was good to have found him.

      24.4. Associating with my young ladies gave me a certain rounding off, after I had dealt solely with young men all during the winter. As a result, my exterior life acquired a certain polish which is not to be confused with perfection of the inner man. Only my feeling for my fiancée (I didn’t use the term myself, for it was all still a secret) raised me to a certain pitch of feeling for life. A milieu like Florence could easily nourish pleasant illusions. I devoted the morning of the 24th to the church of Santa Croce. From four in the afternoon to eleven at night, I was with the two girls.

      The morning of the 25th at the Museo Nazionale (Bargello), after I had already taken a hasty walk through its chambers with Jean; this time, alone and more seriously. Donatello was the main point of attraction. The stylistic perfection of his Saint John the Baptist. I did not yet realise very clearly that it was the Gothic that stirred me so much more intensely than the Ancient and the Baroque. A personality like Michelangelo should have baroquised the Gothic – that was what underlay my yes-and-no attitude toward Michelangelo. His importance as a transformer of styles was completely clear to me. Actually such a transformer of the Gothic is lacking. Otherwise Rodin would not be driven in that direction (Klee 1915).

      The ravishing Carrand collection; I was particularly fascinated by the cupboard with the ivory carvings. The incredible amount of art lavished on a comb! The spaciousness of the building! The courtyard! The women who sit around, painting. In the afternoon, made an excursion with the young ladies from the Porta Romana to the Certosa. This area is a part of paradise.

      Town-Like Construction, 1917. Watercolour and pencil on cardboard, 34 × 23.3 cm. Museum Berggruen, Nationalgalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Berlin.

      Park Landscape, 1920. Watercolour, pen, and ink on paper on cardboard, 14.5 × 29.8 cm. Private collection, unknown location.

      Bird Garden Wildlife, 1924. Watercolour on brown distemper on newsprint, top and bottom borders with gouache and pencil on cardboard, 27 × 39 cm. Pinakothek der Moderne, Bayerische Gemäldesammlungen, Munich.

      Departure of the Ships, 1927. Oil on canvas, original frame: 51 × 65.5 cm. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie, Berlin.

      26.4. Spent the morning in the Cappella Medici; but here too I didn’t manage to get into any warmer contact with Michelangelo. Respect, highest respect! Yet there is nothing colder than this princely crypt. Intentionally? Hardly. The afternoon in the medieval Museo S. Marco. The fresco by Perugino on Via Colonna, beautiful, harmonious impression; natural, uncontrived monumentality. Then the Convent dello Scaleo. Andrea del Sarto’s “Baptism” is more in the manner of the old masters than his murals. The execution in yellow is very instructive.

      Sunday, 27.4, it rained hard. In the morning, went to the wonderful Cathedral-Museum S. Maria del Fiore. Organ railings, Donatello after a Delia Robbia. A “Magdalen” by Giovanni della Robbia is still more magnificent (also more Gothic). But I simply don’t like the technique used by these worthies. Photographs ennoble their works. How the figure and the rocky landscape blend, a masterpiece is created.

      We loafed through town; I completely yielded to the leadership of the two Bohemians and entered a real bordello for the first time. Bold curiosity drove us up the stairway, past a couple of polyglot streetwalkers to the open door of the salon. A perplexing solemnity prevailed here. There was little conversation. The padrona was knitting. The damsels, perfectly decent, standing along the wall. Only their dress revealed that we hadn’t entered the wrong house. After our eyes had quickly taken in these impressions, we turned around. Now the streetwalkers came to life, the German-speaking one said to us: “What’s the matter with you? Ashamed? Why are you leaving?” These words put me to flight and the others followed. Outside we laughed heartily. It really had been comical.

      We consoled ourselves with wine, too much wine, and ended up in the demimondaine cafe on the Piazza Signoria. Soon the company we had been wishing for was sitting at our table. A pleasant, dark creature and a real whore, painted and prettied up and yet unattractive. When we left, we were two couples plus a single, and the single was myself. I understood Wadel, I wouldn’t have been completely incapable of acting the same way. But that good soul Jean, how could he! His face, as we left, clearly showed that he was very much aware of the questionable side of his project, in spite of the wine. But one had gotten into this debauch and the joke was so good that it had to be carried through. And after all, who knows which of the two had more pleasures to offer, the young wanton or the old sow? Deep in thought, I walked slowly home.

      The following day proved me right. I felt well. The sky was brilliant, as it has to be in Florence.

      30.4. In the morning, returned once again to the Uffizi. This time looked at the Germans. Dürer well represented; Holbein, less well. But Lucas Cranach shows so much the better for it: besides “Adam and Eve”, I particularly noted a miniature diptych portraying Luther and Melanchthon, particularly Melanchthon. On May 1st the money for the trip arrived. I still visited the Boboli Gardens and the Uffizi’s graphic collection: Mantegna, Dürer, Rembrandt, and others – superb! The stained glass windows in Sta. Maria Novella were the last thing to delight me in Florence.

      On May 2nd, at 9.10 pm, I took the train to Bern, via Milan and Lucerne. Jean de Castella and Hiihnerwadel from Lenzburg brought me to the station. I slept very soundly until Milan. Here I met the waiter Lips, who had left the Grand Hotel in Rome with a few pullets. Thus I also got to have a slight taste of that establishment’s cuisine. And their Marsala wine is thoroughly palatable. From Fliielen to Lucerne by steamer.The tender green of the beeches produces a new world. O chaste, German spring, so utterly devoid of perfume, only the pure, strong scent of life! The only real and true spring! At home I found everything in order, a good bed, meals without tips, two ravishing cats, Miezchen and Nuggi, grey on grey.

      Garden in the Rocks, 1925. Watercolour on paper, 17.3 × 17 cm. Private collection.

      Harbour and Sailing Boats, 1937. Oil on canvas, 80 × 60.5 cm. Gift of André Lefèvre, Centre Georges Pompidou, Musée national d’art moderne, Paris.

      The First Years of his Studies, Marriage, and Educational Trips

      Highways and Byways, 1929. Oil on canvas, original frame: 83.7 × 67.5 cm. Walraf-Richard Museum and Ludwig Museum, Cologne.

      3.6.1902. My Italian trip now lies a month behind me. A strict review of my situation as a creative artist doesn’t yield very encouraging results; I don’t know why, but I continue nonetheless to be hopeful. Perhaps from the realisation that at the root of my devastating self-criticism there is, after all, some spiritual development.

      Actually, the main thing now is not to paint precociously but to be, or at least to become, an individual. The art of mastering life is the prerequisite for all further forms