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, 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.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

It's the end of the World

Orange meets Black 80 x 80 cm acryl on canvas by Karin Goeppert

Because there is so much black in this work it was very hard to photograph it. I had help to reproduce it by my very good friend Alan Constant, photographer from San Francisco. Please have a look at his wonderful photographs:

Aufgrund des hohen Schwarzanteils war es sehr schwierig, diese Arbeit zu fotografieren. Hilfe hatte ich hier von meinem sehr guten Freund Alan Constant, ein Fotograf aus San Francisco. Hier kann man einen Blick auf seine wirklich schönen Fotografien werfen:


There are people who know how the world works
can explain the physics of an interface connecting the

viewer to a digitally enhanced module in a robot’s  
brain just before it cleans your toilet or what       

eternal recurrence really means or why our favorite café
in Oakland was called “The Edible Complex,” but

not why half the room emptied when we “crossed swords”
like a pirate’s flag but instead of skull n’ bones a smiley face

awesome the things that keep coming back   maybe it’s from
the joke of the month club but are you really writing

the sequel to “Forrest Gump”  shouldn’t there be a used-up content
clause in the universal contract stipulating enough is enough

and I’ve also heard that Forrest will win the first Nobel prize for
empathy   there’s something tacky about rehashing

faux innocence reimagined as a glitch in the left hemisphere of
the pre-frontal cortex and yet at least you are not remaking

the end of the world as we know it there’s plenty to be afraid of
but do we have to like it?  

Sunday, August 7, 2016

Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends

Abendsee - Eveninglake 19,5 x 29,5 cm acryl/coffee on watercolour paper c/o Karin Goeppert

                                       Want to make us happy? Give us something to obsess on.

I know someone who collects mail boxes. Rural routes, Missouri.
Lock it up.

A woman, an acquaintance of mine, who scours
East-central Europe for Soviet era sex manuals—
a joint venture I’m in the midst, the mist, the miasma
of reconsidering.
Pull it back.

And there are some haunters of public libraries
who, forgetting to eat, faint over back issues
of Cahiers d’ Cinema or New Poetics, Volume XXIII.
Show it off.

A desire to acquire scratchy fuzzy echoes of music/
oral epics last heard live in a small corner of the Persian empire—
lock it up—

in a dead language, no less, preserved on thread-bare tape
   in an Austin, Texas vault.
Lock it up. Pull it back. Show it off. Lock it up. Defend it
to the death, if need be, against all those who couldn’t care less.  

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Mr Miller dreams of his Mistress

Mr Miller dreams of his Mistress 100 x 80 cm acryl on canvas by Karin Goeppert

                                                                        In a buckthorn hedge, I saw a family of long
                                                                        tailed tits. The white-headed, Scandinavian kind.
                                                                                                                 Nell Zink
Striving for some kind of symmetry
that falls apart in his battered old hands
he starts to cry, slowly. It’s not my fault.
Some forces are too strong to argue with.
Order is to chaos what destiny is to chance, etc.
Even the wind concedes this point as it devours our sail.
The other night I have this weird dream about a blind date.
The lamb with garlic in lemon sauce looks delicious
yet has the texture and taste of sandpaper.
The wine’s an insult: bouquet of hay soaked in acid rain.
And my date’s talk, well, it’s brilliant enough, I guess,
but she resembles a fledgling Richard Nixon, maybe a niece
or cousin, and I fear she might start shaking her  
incipient jowls, give a backward preview of No, I am not a liar
and you won’t have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore,
then offer a final pathetic wave from Marine One, etc.
And if she has to shave her pits, legs, privates twice a day
the way Dick had to shave his famous face, she isn’t talking.
While in line for a frozen yogurt as follow-up to my kraut-dog
the other day (as if trying to prove that indigestion’s a categorical   
imperative) I got to thinking about Decline and Fall…of people.
That it really is a closed system. And that all our fears and nightmares
wander in drunk and deluded, coming off some dreadful meds,
a waste of energy. It is maturity—gradual refinement— that matters:
a pinot noir that feels like silk and tastes like paradise:
Charlie Parker and Miles Davis jamming as the hour turns blue.

Sunday, July 24, 2016


Downtown 30 x 22,5 cm ink/watercolour/graphite on paper c/o Karin Goeppert


Things spread—germs, people’s opinions,
beer bellies, you name it—
because it’s so hot around here.

Thin sheen of sweat on a working girl’s skin, for instance,
some kind of tense perfume
coming off it, dirty feet shapely in embroidered thongs.

The growth, you can’t believe it, just
keeps coming on, everything from moss
to palmetto to the idea behind a melody.

It would seem that the whole point
of darkness is shouldered into a heap
of syncopated rhythms.

Imagine someone coming along,
scooping them up
in his ditty bag and, walking out the door,

dumping its contents into the water supply.
Odd but happy feelings occur.
Friends start

talking fluent saxophone, eyes red,
blessed with cool and cannabis.
   You question them.
But all you get are tired smiles straight from Birdland.

*Legend or truth, I can’t say, but the term Jazz apparently evolved out
of “jass,” short for jasmine, the preferred scent worn by the prostitutes of
Storyville, New Orleans, birth place of a great American music tradition.
Birdland, of course, a famous jazz club in New York City.