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 4, 2018

Honeypot

Honeypot 48 x 63 cm acrylic and charcoal on paper





A TASTE OF HONEY

The title’s somewhat misleading:
A Taste of Honey. Herb Albert
& The Tijuana Brass. On the album
cover a naked girl is buried up to and just
over her nipples in whipped cream.
The beauty of her breasts, sculpted in cream
(which in disillusioning reality was shaving cream)
defies description because it cannot be seen.
Voluptuous contours suggested, not shown.
And imagination hesitating all over the place, not willing
to sound like a personal essay on some porn blog.
Even before puberty I wondered about the physical
impact of a leisurely cuddle beneath that mountain
of magic cream, wanting, like all explorers, adventurers,
seekers, an object whose essence I could never grasp.
Look, she’s licking her finger. Only, where’s the honey?
My guess is that it’s concealed beneath the “whipped cream.”
Meanwhile walnuts shake their skins in the hot breeze.



Sunday, October 21, 2018

I like the Way....


 
Lipstick and Mascara III mixed media on paper 20 x 20 cm




I LIKE THE WAY…

I like the way that shirt fits.
Yes, flannel can look girly.
Where Were You? I looked
not everywhere only in the piazza,
the square, the exquisitely well-lit
Plaza Mayor. I am not ready
to climb over nor under everything
thin, uneven or crooked to find you.
No bridges, no canals in Venice, no buttered
scones or stack of waffles sticky with syrup
consumed non-intellectually in a Berkeley diner
while I speculate about the ins-and-outs of your body.
On the other hand, glad I haven’t met you yet. Me,
that folly on two legs, its tongue hanging out, saying
how do you do, nice to meet you, the pleasure’s all yours.




Sunday, October 14, 2018

Lipstick and Mascara



Lipstick and Mascara II 20 x 20 cm mixed media on paper





TO LIVE LIFE BETWEEN A BREATH

Contrary to expectations Isolda
stopped singing and Tristan froze
in space. The orchestra took industrial
action, walking out in mid-note, and the
conductor dropping his baton broke down
as Berlioz famously did, flinging himself over
the kettle drums, weeping copiously. Tristan says,
“Let’s make a move,” as Isolda slides forward and back
at the same time, seeming to defy physics,
but only in her mind. Smiles are what matter now. Words are
of less weight. Yet each encounter is a story. Narrative
abounds in an instantly bared shoulder; fingers press
yours as she hands you the change. A twitch
of sinew, all the flexed intensities of movement
caught in a web of unwavering attention. The conductor
walks slowly out of the theatre, climbs into a cab.
She’s from Puerto Rico, sits behind the wheel, will listen
to him, will change his life before the evening is over. 




Sunday, October 7, 2018

Take it Easy

Lipstick and Mascara I 20 x 20 cm / with mat 30 x 30 cm (part of a series) available





MOVING

I am moving
like in a painting
or in a movie
to an island
I am moving
some place in a south
where I imagine
anyway sitting beneath
a supple, leafy, dense entity
aggressive roots fingering thickly through
pale earth and sun hammered rock.
“It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford…” no,
we are not in Winslow, Arizona. Turn off the radio.
It is an olive tree.
And it looks classical, with no odor.
Towards a white boob like thing
I am moving and fasten upon
a ripening nipple similar
to a raspberry-strawberry
confection-
ary’s delight. Or is it
the other way around? I just don’t know.
Ovid would say: “Every-
thing looks like something else.”
I can get into that.
I can meet him half
way turning
into something
vaguely intermediate
an “ambiguous thing.”
Fact, everything is something else.
Sometimes you only
need to unravel
your most recent skin
switch addresses
just before you harden into
empty phrases and stiffening smiles.
I can cope with that too.
The wind shapes us all
the sun carves into us
all and sometimes I feel like
a cicada in mid-hurricane
desperately rubbing
my legs together. And
sometimes I feel like a big
cat purring for my supper
amusing a particular
cluster of jaded rich folk
with their fascinators
barely shading the girth
of a Habsburg jawline.




Sunday, September 2, 2018

Black Betty

 
Hasenheide 100 x 120 x 1,5 cm/39.4 x 47.27 x 0.6 in acrylic on canvas




THE CAT’S WHISKERS
                                                    “I never been anyplace I wanted to go.”
                                                                   A woman from Biloxi, Mississippi


After drinking shots all night I
recovered in this cross-roads town
where not a soul noticed my ambivalence.
How could almost no desire
cause envy? I didn’t know how to take
care of myself. I never dressed properly.
I was one of those people who have “issues”
no one’s interested in. And then Kelly-Anne
got out of jail. No one knew if she would
ever come back again. After what she did.
Yet all they could do was roll their eyes and have
another sip of Doctor Pepper: the world stitched together by sin.
I fell right into her corner pocket. Everything fit.
No excitement; sweet calm of the inevitable
as shown in Plato’s Symposium. The movie version.
Everyone said we were designed for each other.
Intelligent design probably not but that
didn’t stop us. She was readymade,
found, too wild for any place but me. I with holes in my
underwear, watching her watch reruns for hours.
On a wager, I ate six hot dogs at Mel’s Place:
I felt like a winner that night, like the cat’s whiskers.
Could you put a little more gravy on those biscuits?