A Stroll with Paul Klee

To pick up a line and take it for a stroll. The essential is within, the mystics say, but equally important is the outside: a stunning summer sky, two wind-whipped clouds, in the intense green background a dazzling yellow field. The line crosses dead centre. To draw breath for surfaces, smooth and cross-hatched: first impressions of place. A distant rumbling. Scene changed by invisible stagehands. Gadflies in sorties before the storm, a frenzy, a slaughter: chaos linked up. A flash on the horizon: a zig-zag line. I set my face for rain. Paul notices a girl with curly hair, fleeing: a spiraling movement. A bridge comes into sight: row of curves. Lines in his sketchbook appear in the richest profusion, fading and gaining power, restrained and articulate move and countermove. The rain’s blurring it all. The feeling of space intensifies. Mesh and brickwork, when one returns to town. Voice. Polyphony. Strange face. Smiling greeting. Above us the stars are revealed: scattered points. The painter’s tree grows from roots, but its crown is a trip to the land of better knowledge. A flame-burst directed by hand. A symphony of forms. A good thing like a guiding thread in the dense bush at twilight. A joyful equivalence. A whole.