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, July 14, 2013

I'll pick myself up and get back in the race

Warmer Sommerwind on Mallorca - Warm Summer Breeze on Mallorca 39 x 39 cm


Unfortunately I’ve been waiting for so long I’ve for-
   gotten why I’m here, who I’m waiting for. Hopefully not
the dentist or urologist. After those technicians have finished with me
   I can’t look at a pair of rubber gloves without
a shiver starting in the brain then tripping down my spine. I’m in one of those
   situations that remind me for the
   ten-thousandth time that life is
an antechamber in which, all alone, we are waiting, and in the end
   not much happens. Inside our heads, however,
the carnival is on, baby, our options are manifold, myriad, multiple sex partners
   lined up around the block, strangers seeking our autographs,


T.S. Eliot was an anti-Semitic monarchist. Let’s be clear about that. He was
   a snob’s snob. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, later in life
he consorted with Bloomsbury and wore a bowler hat. He was not a nice man. Still, he
   was right on the dot when he wrote, “Most people can only
bear so much reality.” You can’t know such things and stay a nice man.

   On more or less the same, highly interesting
end of the human spectrum (I know…elitist…but…) James Joyce and
   Samuel Beckett (who reportedly was a very nice man) knew that
human beings are pretty much on their own, but this was an idea
   they liked, not only because it validated their pessimism,  

but because it gave them time to carve out of the English language some awesomely
   awesome prose, i.e., why bother socializing when you can write like that?  
Sitting in a Paris kitchen, not a word spoken for the longest time, drinking tea or
   something stronger,
   or something strong in tea,

the air reeking of burnt toast and boot black, and maybe one
   or both is smoking, who knows,
ears turned to those inner voices, an occupational hazard
   as we all know, and which makes putatively “normal” people
believe that writers are dreamy losers, oblivious to the
   world around them, when in fact they notice everything,
which is why they’re tired all the time, until finally one of them, as always, says,
   “Life is awful, isn’t it?”
                                           Two minute Irish smiles.
And the other is right on cue with, “Bloody awful, a fooking waste.
   Why even bother?” To live for the slim chance
that beauty might emerge. That’s worth repeating. To live for the slim chance  
   that beauty might emerge. A pure and perfect tenor voice could move
James Joyce to tears, and a beautiful woman or girl, even if walking down the opposite
   sidewalk, could send Samuel Beckett reeling into an hour of purest rapture.  

Frank Sinatra - That's life

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