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, January 6, 2019

The All American Dream

Color Riot 32,5 x 20,5 cm acrylic on raw linen canvas

                                                                                         For Karin

We used to smoke weed on the roof at work.
Nobody wore hoodies, no hats, not
even when “scoring” in those pre-legal days.
No smart phones, Netflix, no hipsters.
Below us 80 or so bored co-workers willing
the clock to move faster. Young, all we wanted
to do was get high and make out, read important books,
say things we thought were smart. Each of us
was almost something else. I was almost a poet. You were
almost a painter. Our buddy Holt was almost Hemingway.
Mac who wasn’t a close friend but almost funny
said things like, “I’m as queer as a football
bat,” then let out a rebel yell. He was from Mississippi,
which explained his gift for metaphor. I was almost jealous.
There was another guy who when on the phone
always said, “my name’s Cap. Like baseball cap.”
And that was about it from Cap, except once on the roof
when I was holding forth on the Pointlessness of Life and an
earthquake hit. Cap was off in a corner eating his daily bagel.
The building shrugged its shoulders. Slowly. Cap appeared calm,
even a little bored, as if he’d been listening to
my peroration on existential dread. “Don’t worry,”
he commented in a deep, hollow, accidently cynical
voice, “it’ll be over before you know it.” 

Sunday, December 16, 2018

About a dark, dark forest and the YouTube Wars

Schwarzwald - Black Forest 70 x 100 cm / 27.6 x 39.4 in - acrylic on brown Craft paper


First we should dress them:
Sam the rationalist in a lab coat,
one suitable for meditation in caves
and day hikes in the Sierras. And panel discussions.

I can’t say whether Jordan would look better in velvet
robes with astrological symbols
and Jungian archetypes on their sleeves
but I’m convinced he’d go for it in a heartbeat.

Sam can’t seem to grasp that most people are
dumb and/or incurious. That they are seeking
not the “truth” but an interesting shopping
mall to hang out in: the kids are bored
and hungry and hot, and Jade wants a new pair of shoes
badly. And what do you want? Do you know what you want, sir?

Sam wants to fill the Void with fact based values.
Jordan, with mythological archetypes, and God.
How else do you stop people
pillaging liquor stores, raping each other,
stealing all that isn’t nailed down or guarded by “security professionals?”

Sam is never emotional unless you call being annoyed emotional.
Mildly annoyed. Jordan can weep in an instant. Surrogate daddy
to millions of 25-to-30 year old boys who are not getting enough.
Enough pussy. Enough respect.
Bongs and skateboards must be wrested from
their flailing, immature hands, sordid instruments of masturbation.

Sam gives a sheesh-can-you-believe-this-shit smile.
He does not believe it. He cannot believe it.
Jordan extends a crossed leg and pulls up a sock made of silk.
Audiences everywhere already know who they “like.” 

Sunday, November 25, 2018

Walking with Franz

Walking with Franz 100 x 80 x 4,5 cm / 39.4 x 31.5 x 1.8 in acrylic/soft pastel on canvas+

                                           “He is terribly afraid of dying
                                           because he hasn’t yet lived.”
                                                                       FRANZ KAFKA

The other night I dreamed
I was lost in a forest somewhere,
one of those sandy, piney affairs
one usually stumbles across then through
in the skinhead wastes of Brandenburg,
home of concertos,
home of French-speaking Prussian
emperors, homeland of the potato. The light is veiled
white and moist with sun surge
and we are all beginning to sweat a little.
Somewhere up ahead there’s a girl
and soon she’s walking right by us, wordless,
because the Prussians, unlike the Bavarians and Swabians,
never greet strangers when they’re out for a hike.
They walk right past you like you’re mist or smoke.
Soon, there’s a guy I’ve never seen before in front of us.
Pale, dressed in a pair of rumpled PJ’s, he looks bad.
He says, “You’d better change your priorities,” as if
we were in the middle of a conversation about life choices.
I feel like asking him, “Got any tips?”
But I know what he means, because this is a dream
and dreams are nothing if not indecipherable
and at the same time somehow obvious.
I choose sarcasm anyway:
“What do I owe you for this sage advice?”
“Everything,” he says, “that you have ever thought. Plus
whatever inborn rhythm and grace you might possess.
All the opportunities you’ve never exploited
because you were weak, or too tired, or unsure of yourself.
And all the dreams you’ve ever had of my wife I want out
of your head. Forever.” And now he looks really sad
as he raises his eyes and says: “And time. Just a little more time.”

Sunday, November 18, 2018

This is not (my) America - No

Good Friday 25 x 19 cm mixed media on paper

The Trial 25 x 19 cm mixed media on paper


The ones who came before us were
from lyrically named locations where the cheese smelled
strong and where the ladies didn’t always  
shave their underarms and hardly ever their legs
and where the common folk were hungry
most of the time except on feast days,
our ancestors having descended since then
upon someone else’s homeland with its streams
and rivers teeming with trout and other fish
and aboriginal skinny dippers   
whom we killed along with everything else that moved—
the habit of which is still with us, a great release apparently
for some of our more pent up citizens—
and measured out the land, the strongest
always getting more, naturally, though we were as ravenous 
in the end as at the beginning and always  
looking for a good deal and if we could get laid
in the bargain, then, hell yeah, more power to us—
beautiful and wild we continue to seduce who
ever catches our eye. Not unlike Bowie’s
Ziggy, we can “lick ‘em with a smile.” Every day the “Others”
push back and at the same time beg for more. “They
should know better,” utters a wised-up gnome, while his muse,
super cute but a bit of a scold, corn colored hair, freckles
and a slightly Asian cast to her eyes, peeks through her fingers. 

Sunday, November 4, 2018


Honeypot 48 x 63 cm acrylic and charcoal on paper


The title’s somewhat misleading:
A Taste of Honey. Herb Albert
& The Tijuana Brass. On the album
cover a naked girl is buried up to and just
over her nipples in whipped cream.
The beauty of her breasts, sculpted in cream
(which in disillusioning reality was shaving cream)
defies description because it cannot be seen.
Voluptuous contours suggested, not shown.
And imagination hesitating all over the place, not willing
to sound like a personal essay on some porn blog.
Even before puberty I wondered about the physical
impact of a leisurely cuddle beneath that mountain
of magic cream, wanting, like all explorers, adventurers,
seekers, an object whose essence I could never grasp.
Look, she’s licking her finger. Only, where’s the honey?
My guess is that it’s concealed beneath the “whipped cream.”
Meanwhile walnuts shake their skins in the hot breeze.