What my art probably lacks is a kind of passionate humanity. I don't love animals and every sort of creature with an earthly warmth. I don't descend to them or raise them to myself. I tend rather to dissolve into the whole of creation and am then on a footing of brotherliness to my neighbor, to all things earthly. I possess. The earth-idea gives way to the world-idea. My love is distant and religious.
Everything Faustian is alien to me. I place myself at a remote starting-point of creation, whence I state a priori formulas for men, beasts, plants, stones, and the elements, and for all the whirling forces. A thousand questions subside as if they had been solved. Neither orthodoxies nor heresies exist there. The possibilities are too endless, and the belief in them is all that lives creatively in me.
Do I radiate warmth? Coolness?? There is no talk of such things when you have got beyond white heat. And since not too many people reach that state, few will be touched by me. There is no sensuous relationship, not even the noblest, between myself and the many. In my work I do not belong to the species, but I am a cosmic point of reference. My earthly eye is too farsighted and sees through and beyond the most beautiful things. 'Why, he doesn't even see the most beautiful things,' people then say about me.
Art imitates creation. And neither did God especially bother about nonessentials"-- Diary entry 958(1915), Paul Klee
he continues: "...SHAZAAM, BITCHES!"
counterpoint:
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| (I apologize for the photo quality) |
"Believe it or Not I am Exceptionally Capable of Empathy" Acrylics, PVA, teabags. BGK.
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