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, November 22, 2020

Basic Black


Basic Black 70 x 50 x 1.8 cm - acrylic on canvas



W. T. F.


For about a half-hour once on a Venetian bridge

I felt like I was dying—no, not

dying, feeling lost in myself,

standing under a thousand pounds

of unnamable Dread. So I wasn’t on

one of those Death in Venice trips,

I merely felt that nothing mattered. But I don’t know why.

I’ve seen the denizens of a shopping mall in Oxnard.

I’ve seen a puddle of blood and the syringe that formed it

on a subway platform in Berlin. Not a shudder. But in Venice,

that ultimate Disneyland for aesthetes? I mean, what the fuck?

I don’t know why but I smoked for the first time

in my life on the steps in front of the train station

people lunging by on their way to Florence or Milan

or Munich, Pink Floyd playing on someone’s “ghetto

blaster”—it was the summer of “The Wall.”

And I still don’t know why

I was laughing uncontrollably while standing

in line outside a movie theatre in Pleasant Hill,

California, the heat crushing even children to silence.

Intoxicated by all that life force rushing without

hesitation or purpose through my 23 year old body,

finding it hilarious, I guess, to wait in 100 degree heat

for Indiana Jones to defeat the Third Reich. I didn’t even like Harrison Ford.




Sunday, November 1, 2020

30 Licks


30 Licks 80 x 80 x 1,8 cm - mixed media on canvas






Lately I prefer experience

portioned out like chicken nuggets,

i.e., in manageable chunks. Do not super-

size our life, I say, winking sarcastically

while shaving a last few stubborn hairs. 

I know some smallish towns that have

one of everything. Or two or three

or six. It’s always a question of appetite.

   Three miniscule pizzerias, say, 

   squeezed into

a baroque piazza’s mid-sized space. We know a woman

who maximizes all offers. She can leave

a salad bar in ruins. Or a man’s heart though

swearing she only wanted his penis. All You Can Eat

becoming I Can Eat All Of You. It’s possible to be

addicted to anything. Even desirable.

The third season of Madmen.  

Someone’s ridiculously attractive if sort of

scary smile. Because it is scary, because it seems

to promise more meaning than we can tolerate. Riding really

fast down a mountain side on a piece of technology

that will never go fast enough. Until it’s riding you.

Until it’s wrapped neatly around your neck. 



Sunday, October 18, 2020

Sex on the beach


Peacock Alley 80 x 80 x 2 cm - mixed media on canvas






The word wonderful describes

being on the slow boat from

Athens to the islands. Her sleeping head

in my lap, eyelids trembling. Just yesterday

in London we were fighting. Got on/ off an airplane.

Boarded a big old rust bucket listing to starboard.

Souvlaki & bread. Plastic cup of Nescafe.

& presto we’re embedded in some magic.


On the boat I was reading

that a couple thousand years ago

men did the shopping & didn’t wear underpants

Socrates downloading his classic pick-up line

on a young man, “Where can I

find the Good & the Beautiful

my son?” & even getting directions there. Found them

near the Agora, spread out in the sun by an olive tree

learning the rules of logic while watching two oily  

adolescents wrestle in the dust. After, to the bath house.


Out where the blue of

water meets the blue of land

Athens destroyed the Persian fleet.


I think about Fate and Flux. But the Beautiful Goods intrude:

red sneakers, soft khaki shorts, tank-top enhanced assets.


A bird goes Ithaca! Ithaca! Ithaca! Then lifts off,

dropping a turd and three feathers. An omen?


Ships burning in the distance

are in truth pine trees enflamed by a brush fire.


Ten minutes from the skeletal, elegant temple of Apollo

was a cocktail called “Sex on the Beach.”


I still remember how that tasted.



Sunday, September 20, 2020

John Updike in Bermudas

Spinster 100 x 80 x 2 cm - mixed media on linen canvas




THE 4th


It’s the 4th, as it always is

this time of year, even the police

peaceful today handing out ice-cream to

graceful multi-hued children who have never

known public strangulation; for whom pepper spray

is something you squirt on your salad.


All trees are impressive here, really

big, excellent timber. There are no snipers in the branches.

And yet what if the wind fell through their leaves

then went ripping down the sidewalk  

blowing roughly one-third of Kansas

and a hefty chunk of Missouri off the map,

threatening Arkansas and impressive swaths

of Oklahoma with utter devastation? What would we do then?


I don’t know about you, but I would pour

another drink; let someone else deal with it. I gave

at the home office ha-ha. There’s plenty on my plate e.g.

“Next Door Liz” has just flashed me. Or am I hallucinating? Nope,

she gives an encore: up with the sun dress—no panties—

then down again. Another perilous day in the bush, my dear Livingston.  

Yo, Liz. Wassup? Such exuberance reminds me

of the 60’s. Depravity in the burbs redux; John

Updike in Bermuda shorts. True, Stockholm refused

to give him the Big One, but he did have fabulous legs.




Sunday, September 6, 2020


Abtrünnig - Renegade 100 x 70 cm - mixed media on craft paper


A woman approaches you
through the rain.
Dragging shaky fingers 
down her wet hair.
Doesn’t seem to know umbrellas exist.
clear through your eyes
all the way to the back of your skull:
you ask yourself what she sees
up there if not lust and wonderment?
Very predictable. Still, the
critics love it, and the people clap.
There’s a scene in “The Year of Living Dangerously”
when Sigourney Weaver moves zombie
like through the Jakarta monsoon
toward an unsuspecting Mel Gibson.
She seems stoned on a self-concocted
chemical substance, i.e., transcendent.
And you know
they will crash through a road block, escape to the highlands,
that the rebels will end up
crushed by the dictator’s army.
And you know
none of this will matter
as much as that woman

Sunday, August 16, 2020

Who wants to rule the world?

50 x 50 - mixed media and collage on canvas - available!

By age 23 not a word of Jane
Austen had entered my brain. I was waiting
for some girl’s olive-textured laughter
to rise up through the orange trees of Cordoba.

There was no girl. With olive-textured anything.

I might recognize that earlier me approaching
but I’d hesitate to ask what’s up. I kind of know already.
Sullen and unappreciative, he’d probably want
to know what’s coming his way, what little disasters to
dive head-first into, what pleasures to miss by a pubic hair.   

Just kidding.

Maybe I’d tell him about Kiera Knightley’s
smile in “Pride and Prejudice,” the way
it splashes its light all over
Mr. Darcy’s miserable, besotted face.

Or that travelling in Europe on twenty-bucks a
day is like subsisting on bread sticks and tap water
in the world’s largest gourmet food court. I remember him
stealing croissants just delivered to a café in Avignon.

He knows what’s going on. Hunger sharpens awareness.
Glass of sherry, a few olives. I think he’s
hoping I’ll buy him dinner. Cordoba, Andalucia,
Spain, Europe, the World. His understanding of it all
limited to the occasional stoned intuition, plus a mild case
of Dunning-Kruger effect. We make fleeting eye-contact,
trying hard not to love each other too much.