Paul Klee. Paul Klee

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      We stayed in Pisa from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon. Besides the Duomo, there is little to see; at a pinch the Piazza dei Cavalieri might be added. The Duomo is marvellous. How did the giant get into this burg? This spectacular display takes place quite a distance from the centre of town, like a circus putting on its show at the entrance of a village. We had to climb to the top of the leaning tower, listen to the echo in the Baptistery, etc. Afterwards our energy was exhausted. Instead of looking for a restaurant we bought some chestnuts and sat down on a bench. The train speeding toward Rome, what a sensation that was.

      Arrival on October 27, 1901, about midnight. We celebrated the event in a hotel near the railway station by a drunken bout on three bottles of Barbera (red wine). On the second day I had already rented a room in the heart of town, Via del Archetto, 20, IV, for 30 lire per month. Rome captivates the spirit rather than the senses. Genoa is a modern city, Rome a historic one; Rome is epic, Genoa dramatic. That is why it cannot be taken by storm. Impatience drove me at once to the famous sights, first to Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel and to Raphael’s “Stanze”. Michelangelo had the effect of a good beating on the student of Knirr and Stuck. He accepted it and discovered that Perugino and Botticelli fared no better. Raphael’s frescoes stood up under the test, but not without my intending them to do so. Less violent was the impression made by the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius and the statue of Saint Peter in Saint Peter’s. His toes, worn away by kisses, add to the effect. Marcus Aurelius is concentrated art; with Peter, faith also has a share. Not that I understand the believers who busy themselves about his foot. But they are there anyway. Who cares about Marcus Aurelius? The primitive stiffness of the bronze of Peter, like a piece of eternity in the whirl of the accidental (October 31st).

      2.11.1901. Went out to Via Appia to become acquainted with the “environs of Rome”. As we came to the city limits the Lateran palace diverted us from our project. Also, the mother of all churches was next to it. The Byzantine mosaics in the choir: two delicious deer. After this hors d’oeuvre, we went over to the Christian museum in the Lateran. Sculptures in a naive style whose great beauty stems from the forcefulness of the expression. The effect of these works, which are after all imperfect, cannot be justified on intellectual grounds, and yet I am more receptive to them than to the most highly praised masterpieces. In music too I had already had a few similar experiences. Naturally I am not behaving like a snob. But the Pietà in Saint Peter’s left no trace on me, whilst I can stand spellbound before some old, expressive Christ. In Michelangelo’s frescos, too, something spiritual exceeds the artistic value. The movement and the hill-like musculature are not pure art, but are also more than pure art. The ability to contemplate pure form I owe to my impressions of architecture: Genoa – San Lorenzo; Pisa – the Duomo. Rome – Saint Peter’s. My feeling is often in sharp opposition to Burckhardt’s Cicerone.

      My hatred for the Baroque after Michelangelo might be explained by the fact that I noticed how much I myself had been caught up in the Baroque until now. Despite my recognition that the noble style disappears with the perfection of the means (one sole point of overlapping: Leonardo), I feel drawn back to the noble style, without being convinced that I shall ever get along with it. Boldness and fancy are not called for, now that I should be, and want to be, an apprentice. Later we came upon the Via Latina instead of the Via Appia, where a good lunch was waiting for us in an inn (75 centimes, including a pint of wine). It was plentiful enough for me to feed two cats and for Haller to feed a dog; I suspect that some opposition to me was mixed up with his motives. The rustic idylls in the inns here are charming. If I am to work as I already can, then I must come out here sometime with an etching plate. Traffic of donkeys on these classic roads. Character of the suburb. Wineshops and kitchens. My horror of seeing animals tortured.

      Villa R, 1919. Oil on cardboard, 26.5 × 22.4 cm. Öffentliche Kunstsammlung, Kunstmuseum, Basel.

      Railway Station L112, 14 km, 1920. Watercolour and Indian ink on paper on cardboard, 12.3 × 21.8 cm. Hermann und Margrit Rupf-Stiftung, Kunstmuseum Bern, Bern.

      Haller perches in a sombre studio. What dust and fleas! Once I came in whilst he was developing photographs of his Russian girlfriend Sch. in the chamber pot. He wants to push his Cycle to the Sun to completion. His energy can’t be doubted. He was fooled by a ravishing little model. She said she was not a professional model; she claimed she had overcome her scruples only to save her mother and four brothers and sisters from starvation (a letter to the Pope had brought no results). In the evening the little ones cry: Mamma, fame! The mother has almost lost her mind as a result. Too proud to beg. One day Haller wanted to pay her and sent her out to change 50 lire; she brought back only 45, which he nobly didn’t count until later. We now saw through the whole scheme. And yet she was such a splendid model. Stood undaunted on a platform of tables and chairs and ecstatically spread her arms to the sun.

      This week again we conquered another piece of Rome. The Pinacotheca in the Vatican and the Galleria Borghese. In the Vatican, the utmost solidity, only few pictures. An unfinished Leonardo (“St. Jerome”), a couple of Peruginos, a priest in solemn dress by Titian. Raphael is more difficult to do justice to. Snatched away right in the middle of an overwhelming effort. The possibilities indisputable, the actual production too much that of a disciple. Burckhardt is less just toward Botticelli (only one page in the Cicerone).

      I have now reached the point where I can look over the great art of antiquity and its Renaissance. But, for myself, I cannot find any artistic connection with our own times. And to want to create something outside of one’s own age strikes me as suspect. Great perplexity. This is why I am again all on the side of satire. Am I to be completely absorbed by it once more? For the time being it is my only creed. Perhaps I shall never become positive? In any case, I will defend myself like a wild beast. More and more Renaissance, more and more Burckhardt. I already speak his language, for example. One doesn’t like to think, in this connection, of the Gothic garments of the Germans. This doesn’t apply to the Italian Dürer, the Munich Apostles are clothed in exemplary fashion. Similar unfairness towards Baroque. That Greece existed is no longer believed. Bernini a raven foreboding misfortune. November 15th. Important concert in the Teatro dell’Opera di Roma.

      Collection of ancient art in the Palazzo degli Conservatori: “The She Wolf”, “The Remover of the Thorn” and of particular interest to the connoisseur of nudes, “The Statues of the Muses”, a rotating female figure, perfect as nature. The German turns it. His bride sits on a bench and admires him. The Italian makes silly jokes. The Englishman reads his guide, emitting noble sounds. You are never alone in museums.

      Galleria Barberini. I have never liked Guido Reni, though his deeply felt “Cenci” is moving. One is involved as a human being by this portrait; it becomes a little dramatic scene. This unhappy love is felt precisely because it is a picture. The shape of the eyelids might move us to soft lamentation. The small mouth is at once the pole of suffering and the pole of bliss.

      I am working on a composition. At an earlier stage there were many figures. I called it “Moralising on Stray Paths”. (Stuck calls a picture: “Sin”.) Now the approach is satirical. The figures have been concentrated into three. The way of love. Now I have left out the woman. The problem is simpler and yet no less demanding. The woman is to be expressed triply in the attitude of the three. I must concentrate on working more intimately; there is not much ammunition at hand. Then why the big gun?

      22.11.1901. We wandered far out, over the Aventine (Basilica Santa Sabina, splendidly primitive, with open wooden roof supports, mosaic pavement) and down to Porta San Paolo. At some distance from it stands another mighty basilica, unfortunately renovated СКАЧАТЬ