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.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

We wish all of you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Fiesole 14 x 19,5 cm - 5,5 x 7,7''


Ute, our landlady, is afflicted with
just enough craziness to make me
want to keep my distance—
but there is none. There are olive trees
and pine forests and some drop dead
lovely and untamed-looking chestnut trees.
You can hear the wild boar snuffling at two
in the morning helping themselves to weird
Ute’s vegetable patch. But there’s no distance to speak of.

Ute’s come to press magic feathers and beads
against my bronchitis, hold my hand, and chant something
medicinal. Maybe she isn’t crazy, she means well, she’s
eccentric. Maybe she won’t kill us in the
dead of night, slice and dice our bodies,
hang us out to dry somewhere in the garden
then store us in jars with her jams, peppers, and olives.

We’ll see. Most evenings I read Schopenhauer in a
deeply carved throne-like African chair crowned
with the pipe-smoking head of a village elder.
Weary of the German’s pessimism, no matter
how much I agree with it(look, if life isn’t
one long suffering road trip, etc.), I light 
my own small pipe, also made in Africa.
I then bless the valley below me with an improvised
slightly stoned gesture of acceptance, because
at this moment anyway, life is just too good not to.

Ute, dressed in threadbare sacred gown of
faded purple festooned with scattered moons, ex-
ploding stars and Zoroastrian charms, is crossing the dried
out lawn on bare feet. She’s bearing a cup
of peppery hot chocolate. If I could fly away
I’d alight and perch on the black tower
of Larciano, some hundred yards down
from us, and observe her from a safe distance
where, just beneath me, a wedding party would unveil its bride.

Philip Glass - The Kiss

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