In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, August 2, 2020

Strangeheart



 
It's up ahead 50 x 70 x 2 cm - acrylic on canvas



STRANGEHEART

Okay, I admit it, I’m a man.
What’re you gonna do about it?

In a dream
I’m chasing the city’s hero a

round archaic walls, an arrow
dipped in poison chasing me. “Well,

one thing you don’t suffer from is
low self-esteem,” chuckles the doctor. I am a man

I trim a little fat from the steak feed
it to my black lab. The women atop the archaic wall

s are wailing, previews of rape and servitude
circling their heads like hornets on fire.

“Oh God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market place.”
Roger that. Want me to pick up some milk on the way home?

Trim a little fat feed it to the lab. Shiver in the duck blind.
Wade through wet grass in jump boots. Put the barrel in my mouth

before God-knows-who-else does. Tear the heart out of my own chest
only to find someone strange got there first.   



Sunday, July 19, 2020

Talking it Over




Talking it Over 80 x 80 cm - mixed media on canvas




MY GRANDMOTHER’S POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY

On Thursday afternoons
she met for a few hours with the mayor 
of our small town, which was just starting to sprawl out
in unpredictable ways. Maybe they talked
about zoning issues? Sundays, after football,
a black and white William F. Buckley, Jr.
performed in my grandparents’ living room: slumped in his chair,
clipboard on lap, stuttering polysyllabic obscurities
from behind a sleepy aristo mask
basking in the warm light of utter certainty. Not unlike a reptile
that sticks the tip of its tongue out before striking.  
“He’s too English,” my grandfather complained
a little later, referring to WFB, Jr., while plastering
self-made barbecue sauce onto a pair of rotating game hens.
“He’s too conservative,” corrected his wife. “He wants everything to go
…backwards. He’s such a Tory he would have been
against the American Revolution. His first loyalty
is to his class, not our country.” Life wasn’t better
back then, it was just life, but a lot more quiet. For example, what my
grandmother talked about on Thursday afternoons at the Concord Airport
   Holiday Inn has not come down to us.




Monday, June 8, 2020

Complaint



 
They say it's your Birthday 65 x 50 cm acrylic, oil pastel and charcoal on paper



COMPLAINT (1)

When you’re away you have to stay
clear of those statues whose fig leaves
have been chipped away by curious school girls.
And I have to cut down on cheese burgers
and grilled cheese sandwiches because of
cholesterol and salt and other poisons. It’s about
time for our Annual Relationship Audit, a Situation Report
from the Situation Room where things can get rather weird.
At the moment it’s quiet. The cats are cleaning themselves.
You’re on the couch, plugged into WhatsApp, while I’m
spreading like a puff of smoke over a back yard fence.
A neighbor’s got ribs on the grill. We seem to be
in California but it smells like Louisiana
in steam-bathed, barbecued August; a delicious
lethargic deep south vibe I don’t know all that well
though I’m jiggling my legs—spastic movements
that raise a few eyebrows— to its back country harmonies.
Sometimes I’m someone looking for a Big Idea, a ready-made
sustainable system cruising along the skyline  
like any charlatan absolute. I even read books. In the end, all
solutions are temporary. Still, until you’re home unscathed
everything will feel hopelessly permanent, and I’ll be
someone not merely solitary but vaguely menacing too.
When people spot me they’ll grab shovels or gardening shears.




Sunday, April 19, 2020

Swirl

Swirl 24 x 18 cm - collage/acrylic on canvas board





BARDIC RECOLLECTIONS

Maybe we should permit
memory to make us stand
up on our hind legs and bark
for a treat, e.g., thought I was being
funny and asked my doctor to prescribe
a pizza but none of that deep
dish Yankee crap, only slices of
the real thing would do, a chewy sour-dough
crust enriched by squirts of virgin olive oil
pressed out in the hills behind Ventimiglia.
That was the trigger. You and I had some
face time in those hills or further down
the boot, in Camogli, I think, fire flies in the wood
near the Ristorante, Pavarotti’s creamy voice
drifting in from the kitchen along with
two plates of ravioli in walnut sauce. I know
it sounds too good to be true
or too bildungsbürgertumlich to be good
but I can top that: after Dolce and espresso
we could hear a nightingale’s solo and I swear
there was Shelley heading out to the sea
that would kill him, Keats already dead and
Byron lifting Shelly’s heart from the fire
in which they burned his body on the beach
then I automatically stopped barking and nurse Anna
handed me my prescription for blood pressure pills.




Sunday, March 29, 2020

Nessun Dorma in a time of plague


 
Here and There and Everywhere 69,5 x 69,5 cm - acrylic on paper


 


A SELFISH LOVE POEM ( BELLEZA MALATA)

Pollen on the olive leaves again.
San Baronto, Arezzo, arrosto vitello con patate.
I want to come back to you as soon as I can.

The fattest lemon ever seen, and felt, was in Sicily.
Rolling off a garden table, it nearly broke a big toe.
I wouldn’t mind pressing my face to the nose gay

of a Milanese perfume whose fragrance rises off
the olive hued, peach-fuzzy neck of its maker’s
   elegant daughter, then lingers in a tall-windowed room.
(Ah, the old romance scam. Sounds creepy too, but it feels empirical.)

I’ve always thought that, under certain conditions, wine
without food is marginally regrettable. But food without the
rough density of a country red or a noble Brunello, what’s that?

Scarcity. I don’t like the austere. It’s too thin-lipped, hard bodied, 
empty inside, Nordic in its responses. Not at all like the peach
that seduced me once in the hills above Vinci. Leaning back

when I bit into it I still got squirted, white shirt wrecked.
I don’t know how much of you will be left but when
you feel better I’m coming back to love every region of you.