Retrospective. Inspection of my complete self, said goodbye to literature and music. My efforts to attain more refined sexual experience: abandoned in that one single instance. I hardly think about art, I only want to work at my personality. In this I must be consistent and avoid all public attention. That I’ll eventually express myself through the medium of art is still the most likely outcome.
A little “Leporello catalogue” of all the sweethearts whom I didn’t possess provides an ironical reminder of the great sexual question. The list ends on the initial of the name “Lily” with the remark “wait and see”. I met the lady who was to become my wife in the autumn of 1899, whilst I was playing music.
The conviction that painting is the right profession grows stronger and stronger in me. Writing is the only other thing I still feel attracted to. Perhaps when I am mature I shall go back to it. My relationship to Fräulein Schiwago was very peculiar. I admired her greatly, but without losing control of myself. I probably already had within me too close an attachment to Lily to do so, without guarantees, without risk, just I myself. Moreover, Schiwago at first seemed to be unattainable because it looked as if something existed, or was going on, between Haller and her. (I only learned in 1909 that she didn’t approve of this reticence on my part.)
Often I am possessed by the devil; my bad luck in the sexual realm, so fraught with problems, did not make me better. In Burghausen I had teased large snails in various ways. Now, in the Thun region, lovelier still if that is possible, I am exposed to similar temptations. Innocence irritates me. The birds’ song gets on my nerves. I feel like trampling every worm.
I drew up the outline of a last will. In it I asked that all existing proofs of my artistic endeavours be destroyed. I well knew how meagre and inconsequential it all was in comparison to the possibilities I sensed.
From time to time I collapsed completely into modesty, wished to produce illustrations for humour magazines. Later I might still find occasion to illustrate my own thoughts. The results of such modesty were more or less sophisticated technical-graphic experiments. It is convenient to define a thwarted act of will as a crazy mistake.
This summer leaves me too much time for thinking. I have not got far enough to work without a model and school. Finally evening came, and autumn. As if numbed by the day and its cares I awake and notice that leaves are already falling. And on this soil must I now sow? In winter am I to hope? It is going to be gloomy work. But work, anyway. The comparison of my soul with the various moods of the countryside frequently returns as a motif. My poetic-personal idea of landscape lies at the root of this. “Autumn is here. The current of my soul is followed by stealthy fogs.”
Religious thoughts begin to appear. The natural is the power that maintains. The individual, which destructively rises above the general, falls into sin. There exists, however, something higher yet, which stands above the positive and the negative. It is the almighty power that contemplates and leads this struggle. Before this almighty power I might stand the test, and to stand it ethically was my wish.
Completely drunk one night, I filled my diary with fancies on the subject of Lily. How deeply everything that came from her sank into me. There was even a variation about jealousy in it. Sensuality ran amok. In the final variation words that we had exchanged appeared for the cantus firmus.
Ash Wednesday. The drunkenness is gone, but stronger than my misery is the power of your image, a charming face among masks. Once again the English Garden is the scene of my feelings and confused emotions. I swear, on my not-altogether stainless honour, that I shall soon grow tired. Lily and again Lily. Once more I feel strengthened in my feelings toward her and, shortly thereafter, again shaken. Neither path nor bridge.
As for the effects on my studies, I shall say nothing. She tells me, somewhat formally, that we will continue our duo-playing, the gracious young lady. Nonetheless, I think only of the woman. Nothing else can elicit a reaction from me.
My restless life left a passing trace in my body. Nervous pains in the heart bothered me, especially during my sleep. The heart became the theme of my compositional exercises. Still, I did everything I could to rid myself of this condition, and my future father-in-law achieved a medical triumph with me.
Thoughts about the art of portraiture. Some will not recognise the truthfulness of my mirror. Let them remember that I am not here to reflect the surface (this can be done by the photographic plate), but must penetrate inside. My mirror probes down to the heart. I write words on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. My human faces are truer than the real ones.
In the spring of 1901 I drew up the following programme: first of all, the art of life; then, as ideal profession, poetry and philosophy; as real profession, the plastic arts; and finally, for lack of an income, drawing illustrations.
I have started a new life. And this time I’ll succeed. I lay low on the ground. All was permitted me I believed, my strength could be savoured to the utmost. I went to the fools’ dance, a dirty knave. The maiden’s love has freed me from such a figure. I recognised my misery, and that half expelled it. Fright pulled me together. I want to become serious and better. The kiss of the dearest woman has taken all distress from me. I will work. I will become a good artist. Learn to sculpt. My aptitude is primarily formal in nature. I carry this recognition with me.
Stuck thought he could advise me to turn to sculpture; should I wish to paint again later, I would find good use for what I had learned. Proof of the fact that he understands nothing about the realm of colour. And he advised me to go to Rümann. As a student of Stuck, I expected to be admitted there without difficulty. However, the old man asked me to pass an entrance examination. I begged to be exempted from it, for the very fact that I should be asked to take one was tantamount in my eyes – and rightly so – to having flunked. But my request got him all excited: “I myself once had to pass an entrance examination.” This had a royal sound. Then he submitted my drawing to sharp criticism; still, to a few of them he granted some merit. Finally I went away without accepting his position on the matter of the examination. Perhaps I did impress him a little after all. Maybe he expected to see me again?
Little Painting of Fir-Trees, 1922. Oil on cotton on cardboard, 31.6 × 20.2 cm. Donation of Richard Doetsch-Benziger, Kunstmuseum Basel, Basel.
Warning of the Ships, 1917. Pen, black ink, and watercolour on raw white paper, on rose-dyed handmade paper, 24.2 × 15.6 cm. Graphische Sammlung, Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart.
Automated Astronauts, 1918. Watercolour on paper, 22.5 × 20.3 cm. Beyeler Foundation, Riehen/Basel.
Angel Serving a Light Breakfast, 1920. Lithograph, 19.8 × 14.6 cm. Sprengel Museum, Hanover.
The seven prophetic words of Rümann:
I. I shall let no 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