Paul Klee Museum
The Zentrum Paul Klee is a museum dedicated to the artist Paul Klee, located in Bern and designed by the Italian architect Renzo Piano. It features about 40 percent of Paul Klee’s entire pictorial works.
Paul Klee (18 December 1879 – 29 June 1940) was born in Münchenbuchsee, Switzerland, and is considered both a German and a Swiss painter. His highly individual style was influenced by movements in art that included expressionism, cubism, and surrealism. He was also a student of orientalism. Klee was a natural draftsman who experimented with and eventually mastered colour theory, and wrote extensively about it; his lectures Writings on Form and Design Theory, published in English as the Paul Klee Notebooks, are considered so important for modern art that they are compared to the importance that Leonardo da Vinci’s A Treatise on Painting had for Renaissance. He and his colleague, the Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky, both taught at the German Bauhaus school of art, design and architecture. His works reflect his dry humour and his sometimes childlike perspective, his personal moods and beliefs, and his musicality.
The inside of the museum
I love his works. Unfortunately photography was prohibited in the exhibition room.
Here are his works.
“Motivo da Hammamet” and “Red Balloon (Roter Ballon)”
Klee suffered from a wasting disease, scleroderma, toward the end of his life, enduring pain that seems to be reflected in his last works of art. One of his last paintings, “Death and Fire”, features a skull in the center with the German word for death, “Tod”, appearing in the face. He died in Muralto, Locarno, Switzerland, on 29 June 1940 without having obtained Swiss citizenship, despite his birth in that country. His art work was considered too revolutionary, even degenerate, by the Swiss authorities, but eventually they accepted his request six days after his death. His legacy comprises about 9,000 works of art. The words on his tombstone, Klee’s credo, placed there by his son Felix, say, “I cannot be grasped in the here and now, For my dwelling place is as much among the dead, As the yet unborn, Slightly closer to the heart of creation than usual, But still not close enough.” He was buried at Schosshaldenfriedhof, Bern, Switzerland.
I thoroughly enjoyed a wonderful old town, artworks of my favorite painter Paul Klee and splendid scenery.
Nothing prepared me for heaven.
Its scaffolds — street after street —
halls leading to halls,
rooms papered with distance
as if heaven were only perspective,
a vanishing point drawing us
until we vanished. And if
I am crying, it’s for small things:
staplers, bowls, gloves, spoons
on their pedestals, their ideal forms
lost at the ends of corridors —
for Music in its winged box,
Math’s fulcrum and see-saw,
Geography’s colored pins, its there, there.
How did we ever come to think
the single world was precious,
the model for us to love —
one town, one house, one sky,
one woman, the mole on her back —
when it is the universe, its gaps,
the mileage between its outposts,
God loves and is his image?
They weren’t lies after all, the stories
where we are transmuted into stars
or into water lost in the infinity
of itself. Who could have imagined
God’s need for distance,
his hurling us away to be near him?