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, September 25, 2016

What came next

Calluna 1 42 x 56 cm acryl/dispersion color/oil pastel on paper

                                             Bright gods and Tuscan…
                                             … and the clouds bowe over the lake.
                                                                   Ezra Pound, from CANTO III

Getting tired of the city, rats playing
In the garbage, the self-conscious rudeness
of  people trying too hard to be ugly. In my writing
I’d like to put gods in the trees and nymphs, etc., but
down in the basement, where the pit bull is chained,
a handful of maenads are smoking crystal. Hopelessly urban.  
Meanwhile in Italy Poggio still makes wine in his frescoed villa
near the river Arno as if there were no modern world
or post-modern or any which way you prefer to   
label what seems to be happening right now. I’m thinking of
doing a reboot that will have me walking through a vineyard
of my own.  Wearing a straw hat and baggy white linen suit.
It’s too bad the thin gurgling of water in the cistern has to
remind me that everything is running out. Bills are due. Hammock’s broken.
In the deep cool shadows of the front porch Karin
is painting my state of mind. It’s part of a
series, each picture a little bit better than the last. I break
into a two-step, attempt a pirouette. I hear paint hitting canvas.  

Sunday, September 18, 2016


Montis 50 x 65 cm gouache/dispersion colour/oil pastel on paper by Karin Goeppert


The hero’s about ready to ford a
knee-deep stream—but just before he    
gets wet an annoying crone all bent and ugly
and with a voice that would make nails on a chalkboard
sound like an aria by Maria Callas
doesn’t ask but insists that he piggy back her  
across along with his magic sword and enchanted
jock strap which, at a pivotal point in the story,
he will convert into a sling, load a stone in the strap’s
roomy pouch, slay a monster blocking the mouth of a cave
in whose dark and dank reaches antiquity’s equivalent
of a Victoria’s Secrets model will be waiting between a
rock and hard place to be rescued by this young stud
who’s scheduled to take back his ailing father’s kingdom
from disloyal and exceedingly nasty army officers, etc.
most of which has been brought to you by the annoying crone
who on the other side of the stream turns into a
dazzling god or goddess who says how fortunate you are
young fellow for you have passed the test and
here, take this magic ring, put it on the finger of Selina
captive in the monster’s cave, for later she will bear you three children
one of whom will marry a real estate mogul from New York
with designs on your throne—go with your instincts,
kid, which, as we know, will get you every time.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Are you alone?

Eiswand - Icewall 100 x 80 cm mixed media (acryl/oil/oil pastel/coffee) on canvas by Karin Goeppert


She’s looking for someone with hair, a large
tanned expanse of carpeted muscle. Add to that   
an offhand sadism, a weakness for exotic weaponry, should be    
a subtle cheat in games of chance and skill,
but no conscience in the Shakespearean
sense, no consciousness, which supposedly makes
cowards of us all, only a mechanical perfection required;

should speak a few languages, and have
an elegant, almost hypnotically persuasive way
with high level personnel in Mexican resorts,
the lowly also known to smile, if grudgingly, out of fear
because he makes everyone feel a little uncomfortable.
He would say: If it works, do it: If I do it, it works.
Marcel Proust peering through a keyhole. Millions clicking
their mouse. Fast forward, says Mistuh Kurtz, it don’t mean nuthin.

Sunday, August 28, 2016


Nordwand (North Face) 30 x 40 cm gouache on paper by Karin Goeppert

                                                      In the myth that inspires Schulz’s writings
                                                      individuality is a type of theatrical display,
                                                      in which matter assumes a temporary role—
                                                      a human, a cockroach—and moves on.
                                                                                   John Gray

Who knows
maybe we are machines
but today I feel like an animal.
No need for an oil change, or spare
parts found in an old shed in some
grease monkey’s disused back yard.
The sensations I feel are of being
swollen up slightly in parts and sweaty all over,
loose-limbed, a tingling impatience. I might even   
be on the cusp of a sustained bout of warm-
blooded well-being. Like the hawk I once saw
mounted atop a hyperventilating
pigeon. Of course I could as easily  
be the pigeon in this scenario, slowly lifting
off in a predator’s talons. Or the silver fox some skeptics    
don’t believe I encountered one winter   
day in a city park but I did. I don’t have a chip
on my shoulder so much as a diving board, an
observation platform on Mars. It might take some time
to snap out of it. Then back to the tax return,
weekend shopping list, an evening of Sibelius.
Until then however what I really need
and I mean yesterday is something
physical to occur and as expe-
ditiously as possible. Someone to drop a
piece of meat on my plate—an incredible
Venetian girl, say, in a dirndl as the meat dropper, a diploma
in Primal Poetry framed and mounted, alas, on a wall
of her boyfriend’s mixed martial arts dojo
just above his rolled-up yoga mat, one of those
it just ain’t gonna happen situations, etc.
What does a machine snack on at three in the morning,
slit-eyed in the fridge light, claws of anxiety
gently tearing its psyche into edible bits, tomorrow
already today? Does it prefer
Matisse to Picasso? Proust to Joyce? Although not a vibrator
has it ever touched its lover with a vibrating hand?
Has it ever felt the pain of her absence? I mean become the pain,
so that its chest (or equivalent) is like the floor at Grand Central, 8 am?

Sunday, August 21, 2016


Lawine - Avalanche 100 x 80 cm mixed media with coffee on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


He once aspired to be assistant Secretary-of-State
for Caribbean Affairs, and then he aspired
to the post of cultural attache´ in one of those
glittering gulf states famous for its opulent shopping
malls and jewel-encrusted mosque. And now
he spends his days in the bars of Tapioca Bay, Florida.
We end up on a park bench, near the
Confederate equestrian statue
whose head was stolen by frat boys in the 80’s—never
recovered; people still talk about it—position ourselves
beneath a shabby palm tree and eat the cool flesh of a mango. Slowly.
Wonder briefly about the symbolic use of a headless statue in this poem.
Then stop wondering: inconsequence dines on our spirits,  
like that razor beaked vulture, whatever her name is—
she might be German—tearing out the liver
of some Greek politician, eating it, then repeating the process,
further proof that everything sort of recurs. We are lost again
in the precincts of a fun-haunted tableau. Cuban dancers are lining up.
Girls with legs up to here. While an old man smiles at his trumpet.