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 15, 2017

Vacation in the Tropics


Vacation in the Tropics - Urlaub in den Tropen 36 x 48 cm mixed media on paper





LIFE IS A BEACH
                                    
First, an unconventional
colloquial statement
what the fuck is this shit
(watch your language, girl)
as the wind just about tears
your head off, bleak Baltic
sandbar shreds and tatters
of foam sliced finer by the cutting
edge of a force seven son of a
beach, yes, a beach, eaten alive by flux & reflux
everything the same & not
the same unlike Lesbos where in light
that penetrated and pealed back the phenomenal
world there was nothing underneath and
everything stayed unique, unambiguous, loads of sand
three miles long, more or less bare of people
the sea a liquefaction of quiet blue silk
a pair of immoderately attractive
lesbians a few yards from us
across a dirt road where they rented
a nice little house, every morning the more fem of the two
stomping off to the bakery in high
heels & mini skirt & in a huff
her tall boyishly butch elegantly dark lover stretched out
in bed reading a magazine, smoking a doob
on Mykonos Paradise Beach was a visit to the zoo
here a penis, there a breast, white powdery sand
filtering thorough fingers, filling the cracks, killing us
a clichéd metaphor but useful
think of hour glasses and sandy windswept sundials, etc.
in the hotel bar a PowerPoint
teaser on the efficacy of mass delusion
had us begging for more, voting for less
the idea of progress creates trust in the future   makes
credit (growth) possible   speaking of Australia
when I was ten or eleven I wondered who 
would win in a fight a great white or a killer 
whale and then I saw a human
so big space made room for him
while he preened like a model
like a priest who relishes
the contradictions of his faith.  
If you believe in my beach, I’ll believe in yours.




Sunday, January 8, 2017

Stars and Stripes



Stars and Stripes 30 x 40 cm gouache/oil pastel/charcoal on paper



A BAG OF POTATO CHIPS

A voice in my head lobbied against it—
the voice of bad conscience it
was sometimes and voice of good news
other times, voice of my wife full-time
it was a relatively short voice that
seemed to think it was tall—but I jumped anyway,
slamming my knee against an outcrop
of porous stone. I ask you to imagine physical
agony as a location, a spot on the map,  
that’s where I was ( Pain City, Ohio, sounds about right,
shops preening with leather and steel devices,   
unyielding plastic, ferocious dildos, bull whips, etc.), and I’m
hobbling down the mountain side, hungry as a bear, thinking only
about the rolled up bag of potato
chips, contents half-eaten, on the passenger seat of our filthy little Fiat.
Down before the shadows could catch us up
the voice said “Boy, you should never jump in the mountains,”
threatening to report me to her grandfather, severe pedagogue
   of the alpine heights, a short man
who also seemed to think he was tall. I could only
answer with crunching noises, having just
shoved a handful of chips into my mouth.
Barbecue-flavored, if I’m right, with just a hint of cheese.




Sunday, December 18, 2016

On The Other Hand


untitled 40 x 53 cm gouache auf Himalaya Büttenpapier c/o Karin Goeppert





ON THE OTHER HAND

Someone I used to know—don’t
ask who—telling me all the time
isn’t it wonderful to be alive
because the world’s a grand
ball room of inspired
madness and beauty
some of which
decorated with frescoes
from Ghirlandaio’s workshop—
elegant, good looking
players of the day acting out the Life of
the Virgin and the life of St. John the Baptist
in Santa Maria Novella, and in the bay off
the north transept a fresco by Masaccio tries
to figure out perspective for the first time
since antiquity—the Holy Trinity—Mary Mother
of God looking a lot like a therapist
I once knew—and not always a splatter job
by Francis Bacon or David Cronenberg.

I noticed the other day—don’t ask which
one—that somebody’d taken selfies at Auschwitz,
then posted them on Facebook. This qualifies  
as a new development. Far as I know, in pre-social network
days smiley faces were not sewn onto complementary
striped p.j.s. But who am I to judge? Ah, that
famous question. And yet, I’m a certifiably
sentient being. And I know
how to take a Pamplona bull by the horns,
then serve him up with sautéed mushrooms, i.e.,
I’m adaptable; and
as morally “flexible” as the situation
dictates. But selfies
at Auschwitz?  Where the gas chambers
asphyxiated, and the ovens smoked? The mere thought
makes me want to take a shower.
A brain shower, a cerebral bath.

This evening we have nothing better to do than
line up to buy tickets for “Exterminator 2.0”—
I’m wearing a wig and sunglasses—looking a little like
Thomas Jefferson on vacation in Virginia Beach— in case
one of my “friends” walks by, on his way to the Exhibition,
on her way to the Rite of Spring or a lecture on wassuup.
Who isn’t helpless? Someone I don’t know once said that.






Sunday, December 11, 2016

Overture


Brumalis (acryl/gouache/wall paint/coffee on canvas) 80 x 80 cm c/o Karin Goeppert






GIDDY UP

Frog voices bent in starlight.
Trees and bushes in the backyard
magical as a Steven Spielberg
bio-pic about Norman Rockwell
enchanted as the shadows of a sultry
summer night, a young girl falling in love
with a boy whose only love is his skateboard.
A barely audible shift in mood
leads to actions of life-altering consequence.

For all of this to make sense the world must be seen
as essentially sad yet still able to crack us up.
Frogs laughing in the starlight while a French farmer
sharpens his knives. Cleopatra, fat tabby, dancing
with a field mouse. Steven Spielberg sharing a
pipe with Norman Rockwell’s great-grandson
on a wrap-around porch in Fresno, both men bent beneath
the weight of stars yet giggling anyway, 
giggling about nothing at all. 





Sunday, December 4, 2016

Dance Lessons Here, Real Cheap



 
I got the Blues - Ich hab den Blues 52 x 36 cm c/o Karin Goeppert



DANCE LESSONS HERE, REAL CHEAP

You’re on the run, aren’t you? Sit down here
next to me. I have more time than is good
for you but I think you will like me in the end.
Let’s start with a few dances. This one’s called
“Werewolf” and sort of resembles a tango with hair.
And the “Tonic Water Waltz” is for ex-alcoholics
who, as the story has it, are never really “ex”—
the way people who suck on e-ciggys are   
never really “ex,” are dying in fact to go back to
their corrosive old lover’s “Deadly Embrace”—the name,
by the way, of a decidedly  less wholesome dance.    
I’m famous for my “Rumba for Runaways.” This is
a dance of delicate delinquencies, of infractions
that matter only to the…infractor? None of this is easy
but I’m pretty sure you will catch on fast and stay a while
turning barefoot on this scruffy lawn for one of those
glimpses of eternity when everything finally makes sense.