Thoughts on Still Life in Fragments by Paul Klee, 1925

I've only ever seen this painting in digital or print form, so I was delighted to find the original at the Art Institute of Chicago this past weekend. I never imagined its size, but it seems to be in the perfect dimensions, kind of similar to a shelf, or somewhere inside of a curio cabinet within the home, marked from things that have rested there; a candle, a book, a window behind it, the landscape further away, a stain, loose sheets of paper, napkins, twigs and leaves collected from outside, random tools... and no matter their distance, they are still all placed near to us, leaving an auric-like essence of their past presence all the same.

Usually, when you see this painting online, you can't notice the etchings, scratches, and tiny incisions on its brittle canvas. But in person, it's all too clear to see, as if its symbolic shelf-like symbolism was an actual utility - used, dinged, banged up every so often as this or that was placed on it, or a fist slammed down in anger, or the uncareful pushing of keys, their ridges digging ever so slightly into the chest's surface.

Looking deeper, I began to look at the actual objects within the painting - images like bruises... accidents when one hits their knee on the edge of the bed, or their funny bone on their desk, or their forehead on an open cabinet. Or else spliced and sliced like fragments of a good life; the cutting of an apple close to its core, the splintering of an orange peel by short fingernails, the lighting of a match, letting smoke waft up after it is blown out. Each object's auric field is unable to be taken away, retrieved, and/or glossed over by those who have might've abused it while our backs were turned away (subjecting the space to a different type of bruising).

Stepping back, looking over the painting entire once again and finally for this particular visit, Still Life in Fragments means, for me, the remembrance of the warm hearth that lives within our mind's eye, our heart's awareness, so deeply penetrated by the passing of time that their metaphysical presence remains despite and because of their inability to fully heal, broken objects used to their full potential... much like scar tissue on our flesh, sensitive and forever seen on the skin. Is this not close to memory? I think it is.