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All is well with me. The rain doesn't reach me, my room is well heated, what more can one ask for? There's no shortage of work, either.

Paul Klee

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Paul Klee
Age: 61 †
Born: 1879
Born: February 18
Died: 1940
Died: May 29
Designer
Graphic Artist
Lithographer
Painter
University Teacher
Visual Artist
Münchenbuchsee BE
p. klee
Klee
Paul Klee
Rooms
Either
Asks
Doesn
Heated
Wells
Shortage
Well
Rain
Work
Reach
Room

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What my art probably lacks is a kind of passionate humanity... There is no sensuous relationship, not even the noblest, between myself and the many.
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There is no substitute for intuition.
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Every artist would like to live in the central organ of creation... Not all are destined to get there... but our beating hearts drive us deep down, right into the pit of creation.
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All the things an artist must be: poet, explorer of nature, philosopher!
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My hand is entirely the implement of a distant sphere. It is not my head that functions but something else, something higher, something somewhere remote. I must have great friends there, dark as well as bright. They are all very kind to me.
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The beholder's eye, which moves like an animal grazing, follows paths prepared for it in the picture.
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It is the artistic mission to penetrate as far as may be toward that secret ground where primal law feeds growth.
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When looking at any significant work of art, remember that a more significant one probably has had to be sacrificed.
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Becoming is superior to being.
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Spatial art does not begin with a poetic mood or idea, but with construction of one or more figures, with the harmonizing of several colors and tones, or with the devaluation of spatial relationships and so on.
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Genius is the error in the system.
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I paint in order not to cry.
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I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing. Then I want to do something modest to work out by myself a tiny, formal motive, one that my pencil will be able to hold without technique.
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The way to form transcends its own destination, goes beyond the end of the way itself.
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Be winged arrows aiming at fulfillment and goal.
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A certain fire pretends to be alive it awakens. Working its way along the hand as a conductor, it reaches the support and engulfs it then a leaping spark closes the circle it was to trace, coming back to the eye and beyond.
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A line is a dot that went for a walk.
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My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.
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Drawing is the art of taking a line for a walk.
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Frightened, I jump up from the bank, the struggle begins anew. Bitterness has returned. I am not Pan in the reed, I am merely a human being and want to climb a few steps, but really climb them.
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