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, February 16, 2020

Just the two of us

Just the two of us - acrylic on canvas - 120 x 120 x 2 cm (47.24 x 47.24 x 0.78 in) c/o Karin Goeppert





PACKAGE TOUR

Another warm 
day in Sorrento
a couple of decades ago.
Followed by another. There were precisely
fourteen in total. Slow days
of alcoholic contemplation, out by the pool
drinking Tears of Christ, the cheapest
wine available, grapes grown on the slopes of Vesuvius.
Maybe a thousand
olive trees, I wouldn’t lie. And a Roman
bath with squirting phallic graffiti
all over its ruined walls. “Italians,”
my wife said, “apparently really love dick.”
We began to see cocks everywhere—in chalk
on brick walls, spray painted, even in
what seemed to be toothpaste—
Amalfi, Positano, later in Naples. Such over
compensation understandable
perhaps in a psychic matriarchy, the realm of Mama Mia.

“Despised and rejected,”
said the Dutch art
historian—quoting from Handel’s Messiah—
a reluctantly gay man
recently dumped by a long-time lover;
embarrassed by his life
he couldn’t stop talking about it.
We travelled over to Ravello
with him one day—he gleefully
clapping his hands, hoping we’d
bump into Gore Vidal
buying tomatoes and prosciutto crudo—
where he downed three beers
in thirty-minutes flat
then wobbled off to the bus
and waited for us there. Sadness
nearly geographic in its magnitude.
Death Valley, the Empty Quarter.
We knew him precisely fourteen days.
Breakfast and dinner included.  With a partial sea view.  




Sunday, January 26, 2020

Don't Fear the Reaper


 
Love 50 x 40 acrylic on canvas


KALI IN SUBURBIA

I adore afternoons that feel like a lazy saxophone
solo, it’s hot, we’re all eating shrimp. A fat uncle
smoking a Cuban cigar, everything’s great
till someone says Have you heard the one about…

Live dangerously is my motto.
I love stumbling
giddy and laughing out my
lover’s backdoor, half naked,
headlights illuminating family portraits.

You feel uneasy with me at times, don’t you?
That’s because I destroy evil in all its
guises. I can smell it the way you can smell
pheromones, opportunity, a whiff of high quality weed
coming from your child’s untidy bedroom.

If you really knew me you wouldn’t
want me standing like a pile of toxic
debris in a corner of your cocktail party.
But what you don’t know is that I would
be a perfect maid-of-honor or witness at
your Vegas wedding, posting everything on Instagram.

Still, you don’t know me, not really, or yourself,
or how much your frat boy brat was drinking
before he slipped out with the car keys
that evening that ended so badly. 




Sunday, January 5, 2020

Magenta's Lips


 
Autumn Rose 100 x 70 cm - acrylic on paper



LIPS

I’m trying to teach her the Genitive.
Words form slowly between the
suspiciously puffy lips of this powerful  
woman ruffling her cape. Her red cape.
There is an intimation of super powers.
I’m trying to teach her the Dative.
Her lips are absurdly bountiful.
Bountiful as America. American lips.
They are real, hyperreal, surreal. She says.  
I tend to believe her. Maybe she
grew up near a nuclear power station.
Or a toxic waste processing plant located behind leaky walls.
Aesthetically mutated by gradual disaster?
I’m trying, I swear, to teach her.
She only learns what she wants to learn.
They’re all
coming of age now, a pessimistic optimism
bubbling up and down a scale I can’t keep up with, still dressed
in flip flops and leggings and Ray-Bans even though
more than a few are turning forty next month, slurping
coffee, checking
their phones, indestructible, I mean
partially impermeable.




Sunday, December 15, 2019

Can't Imagine


 
untitled 24 x 18 cm collage, acrylic on linen board




CAN’T IMAGINE

Can’t imagine being addicted to cough syrup.
   Or living near an abandoned overpass in Topeka.
Can’t imagine fathoming the somber pleasure
   of a modulated cynicism
even as it rises like morning fog in Southern Bavaria.
   Or not listening to Portishead or J.S. Bach
or Charles Mingus or watching Rose Lavelle score
   against Holland in the World Cup from like four
   teen different camera angles and in slow motion.
categorically I cannot imagine reading a word by Dan White.
   I could imagine though doing dynamic yoga
   in a country where the humidity is roughly 90%
and people talk earnestly about animus and anima
   and colonic irrigation while sweat drips from their nipples—
but I’m sure I would hate it.
Attending a sermon at a megachurch in suburban Houston
   would be an enormity I couldn’t possibly imagine. Ditto going
to a Republican convention at any time but especially
   if Clint Eastwood was there saying stupid things.
   Can’t imagine eating Brussels sprouts. Or climbing Annapurna.
But walking numbly through a shopping mall on Black Friday
   in Tupelo, Mississippi would really take the cake—
which I couldn’t imagine eating or having not even
   if offered by someone of exceptional imagination. 



Sunday, November 17, 2019

All that Jazz

Pliny Said 30 x 24 cm - collage on canvas






MORE OF THE SAME

“I’ve always tried to take
the most interesting path,”
an academic poet tried to explain,
“Hoping by doing so that I’d become
a path others might choose to follow.” Everything
we do is gesture, I wanted to add. But didn’t.
There’s so much explaining going on. Once,
my father-in-law, and in High German, no
less, said, “Have a seat, I want to tell you
all about the key to my success in life.” I knew
then I would need another drink, and later
the majority share of a joint. Most of us
are like brothers and sisters, twins, who don’t like     
each other. Angry siblings fighting over scraps of food  
and love, our mothers and fathers failing to notice.
If I’m a puzzle to myself, just imagine what you are to me.