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, July 15, 2018

Walk on the Wild Side


Red Triptych 40 x 120 cm mixed media on self-stretched canvas c/o Karin Goeppert




THE PROMISE

Let’s assume it was Oscar Night
and that she was totally without clothes
posing for a selfie on a red, toe
cosseting carpet. You would think the
King of Bushair had just offered her
a bag of musk. Later, beneath a peacock
feathered canopy, she lays out a novel version
of the Four Noble Truths as an eight-fold
path to post-industrial post-Freudian postman
bent over, scratching his butt, ready to deliver
final notice to anyone who has exceeded
their allotted time. You who are menacingly stupid—
he’d like to say—should know your place
or at least the address. What’s wrong with you people?
Just look how the sky shifts from bluish tinge
to rash pink to the Velvet Underground
station in London, a dozen pinpricks hanging out
on a hot night fitting tighter than a hawk’s hood
the texture, moody turnovers and smoky switchbacks
of what, for the moment anyway, we call life. Need I
go on? For your sake, dear reader, I won’t. I’ll leave you
with a promise of peace, a little elegance and a good joke  
shared with someone okay plus the rare instant 
the King of Bushair offers us two bags of musk. 




Sunday, June 10, 2018

Tropical Heat



 
Tropical Rain 40 x 50 cm acrylic/oil pastel on paper



ILIAD

Weirdness draped over the family tree.
All the way down to the roots is my guess.
The Confederate general sipping tea
in his frilly parlor, handing his sword through
the window to the Union commander waiting
for it on the front porch. I wouldn’t be surprised
if he was whistling Dixie. Buffing his nails on gray wool.
The second cousin who thought her poodle
could understand 342 English words. Paternal
grandmother who kept a ragamuffin pooch
bound and gagged beneath her escritoire. For like twelve years.
Her son who wept every time he heard a 1915 recording
of Caruso singing an aria from La Boheme. Frank O’ Hara
once wrote that pissing in the wind on a New York City fire
escape was the male equivalent of a good cry. But Frank
would never have taught me, as dad did, how to disable
a man with a solar plexus sucker punch so devastating
if it fails to destroy your opponent you had better run.
He cultivated his own garden, got high on part of its yield,
choking back the burning weed, reading “The Day Of The Jackal,”
dipping into the “Iliad,” while In the middle of his garage floor a heap
of birds poached from some farmer’s land in the bitter hour just after dawn.




Sunday, June 3, 2018

She came with Flowers in her Arms



 
She came with Flowers in her Arms 46,5 x 62 cm mixed media on paper




HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT

There are three interestingly feral  
angels sauntering up a suburban street,
flapping their Caravaggio pigeon wings,
clawing the air with dirty fingernails, and the
first one says, “Honey, get your big fat booty    
outta my face,” and the second one says, “Knock knock….”
and a nervous housewife, staring
out her kitchen window at the third angel
a hunk worthy of daytime TV she thinks
oh yum, calls the SWAT team anyway.
Three angels screaming BITCH! all the
way to the holding tank.
Basta, says the judge, you’re going down.
In a year, if they survive incarceration,
one of them will be selling mobile phones 
out the back of his vintage Toyota.
The other two, like you and me, saying nothing
or blathering incoherently, are barely managing
the daily shit storm. Are comparing tattoos in a motel room
for fun and profit. Nothing is against their religion anymore.
Even the people we think of as good, or at least ethical,
rare and tender, their innocence buckling
under the weight of soul-altering cocktails,
stare in wonder at what their words have wrought. 




Sunday, May 6, 2018

With or Without You



Spring Sessions IV 70 x 50 x 1,5 cm acrylic/spray paint on canvas





DESERTION
                                          
                                                    for Oliver

Absconding angel who giveth blood once a month,
adores blue cheese on English muffin, leaves trail
of hairpins and edible bookmarks in the bed sheets,
trace of Chanel. Predictably opaque: hot coal
one second, piece of ice the next. There’s no way back.

It’s hard to believe that there’s another day.
Tomorrow, yesterday. Doesn’t matter. Any day but today.
Funny that you never visited the ruined temple
with its view of the gulf. But there’s no way back.

Poking around outside a wind starts up.
One of those talking winds, always bitching.
Scirocco, Meltemi, Santa Anna, the frigging
Mistral itself. She’s a breeze with a famous name.
And she has blown you off for ever. There’s no way back.

You feel like a figure dissolving in a sand storm.
Light sticking its fingers through the cracks
in your mind, but don’t worry, it’s still there, your mind,
more or less. There’s no way back, the wind says,
and it’s not, I repeat, not another day, though someday it might be.



Sunday, April 15, 2018

Black Rain



Spring Sessions III 50 x 70 cm acrylic/spraypaint on paper






BLACK RAIN (PERSEPHONE)

Black rain drilling little holes
clean through self-esteem on this
totally fucked January twilit
day making us feel at least                                 
50 % dumber and uglier than we
do in summer. Half the world is online, the
other half dreaming of the right content—  
it might be naked wet bodies smacking
into each other, or tea ceremony demo
by a Japanese monk. Lady de Winter
offers you a toxic joint. You refuse but
sadly, with reluctance, a touch resentful
of your own rejection of reckless liberty. Has courage   
shriveled up and crawled back to its itsy-bitsy cubicle
or is sound judgement making a half-assed comeback?
And how much of this means anything
or fits in the plan as such? There is
one crucial indisputable but subliminal
suspicion: that no one, anywhere, at anytime
gives a damn if Earth’s daughter returns or not.
It’s as if my physician, shaking his head, says
I have great news for you, Kenneth, but I couldn’t care less.