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 25, 2013

"How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?"

Bad Hair Day 23 x 18 cm


Let’s face it—as you look into the mirror at that
mask you’re saddled with—beauty is more compelling
than truth. Nobody will pay you a thousand bucks

an hour to stand on a soap box in the park and recite
all of your great ideas. And who really gives a shit? Not even you at times.                                                                                                
If you were pretty enough, people would stop, at least pretend to listen, goofy

unguarded smiles on their lust encumbered faces. A well-dressed
fastidious little man from a modeling agency just might
slip you his card. You wouldn’t have to be obnoxiously

smart anymore. As if anyone cared who invented stream-of-consciousness.
It exists, we more or less enjoy it, some of us fish deeply in its shallows. Basta.
All I know about Wittgenstein, by the way, is that he had funny hair. It sort of leaned to one side.

At some European film festival, Natalie Portman, obviously
blown away by all the fuss, is demure in the swift explosions of light,
Bardot, Jean Seberg hawking the Herald Tribune, Sissy at the drug store

in Nashville sucking a straw, unaware of her magic, Romy Schneider
looking like a Greek goddess in a black and white publicity photo from the 50s.
Goethe and Schiller side by side, practically hand in hand, always the same age,

and if not beautiful then at least heroic, noble, which is nearly as good, it lasts longer,
and still the classic targets of shit-dropping birds. If Goethe was right, then
“Youth is a disease that time cures.” Substitute beauty for youth, and we can call it a day.

American Gigolo - Call me, by Blondie

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Vanity, thy name be ....

Franken - Franconia 48,5 x 38,5 cm


It’s not that I have anything against work, per se,
but what I need is a patron not some Vice-President
   for fuck all 
pulling my chain whenever he feels like it. There’s a character somewhere    
   in Henry James, I think, who claims that he  
does not entertain ideas, ideas entertain him. Now that’s a position I can
still get into. But the issue before us, as the chairman of some
   highly self-important panel might pronounce,
is financial and not ontological or even epistemological
and phenomenology is just a picture in your own mind 
   of what constitutes the “really” real
which apparently is unknowable and I can do better than that:
   what would it take to receive living
expenses plus a simple comfy old house, with a courtyard
and beautiful tiles and Moroccan pillows all over the place
and a flat, spacious roof on which to sleep nights during the hot months
   and this located in a palm
   olive grove within sauntering
distance of the medina or acropolis? I’m not so much
philosophical as complicatedly blown away by the physical
   world and most of its moving parts. Still, I think some foundation
could plausibly make me Dean of Poetry in Absentia
   at the Library of Alexandria, or appoint me
Secretary General of the Union of Disaffected Aesthetes,
College of Arts & Letters,
                                           University of California, Berkeley
whose principle duty would be to write a yearly essay on the state of his Sensibility.
   Let me swim around in a think tank
all barnacled with concepts, clichés, marching orders, systems
   of tightly organized, internally concocted   
delirium. If you required more I could easily offer you
a re-write of the Classical Tradition and even a few of its
more amusing offshoots, my version, for instance, of the long lost
dialogues of Socrates after the orgy, or even confessions  
   of the Buddha before he went straight.
Open your blinds, that’s me in the street,
   waving and waiting for the sun
to warm my blood, inspired as ever,
                                                      as swift as Sugar Ray in his prime.

Carly Simon - You're so vain

Sunday, August 11, 2013


Mallorca - Majorcan Forest 48 x 34 cm

                                                         Berlin, Winter, 2011

A few things I miss about America:
the breadth of its roads. The depth of its oceans. And that
we Americans call aubergines egg plants. Which seems to follow
some surrealist/Da Da dictum on the pairing of technically dissimilar
objects…or something big like that.

Americans today wouldn’t vote for anyone with whom
they couldn’t sit down and drink a beer and share a few
laughs at the expense of, say, whole land masses
and selected cross-sections of society.
                                                     Or a glass of exquisitely rounded
if slightly oak-heavy Napa(68%)-Sonoma(32%)chardonnay
at the Café Mediterenee, Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley, Ca. 94716

A German wouldn’t drink a beer with anyone whom he hadn’t known
   for at least three years.
Nor play tennis with his boss. And would outright reject the proposition
that egg and plant could be equal parts of anything. Even nominally.

Except perhaps as an omelette. With cheese. And a touch of garlic.
Exquisite with a glass of Napa-Sonoma chardonnay, etc.

An American would play tennis with his boss, but probably
not sleep with the man’s wife. Unless she asked him to.

A German or Swiss or Austrian might sleep with his boss’s wife
but would never consider having a beer with him.

Europeans would find it culturally impossible to play a
game of one-on-one basketball with president Obama: protocol, etc.

More than a few Europeans however would love to play one-on-one
B-ball with George Clooney. Then expect to sleep with
him afterwards. Or at least eat an exquisite omelette
on a terrace(with view and ample shade)of his Como palazzo.

I don’t know anyone, European or American, who’d want
to sleep with Sylvio Berlusconi. Except for a few thousand
seventeen-year olds with urgent liquidity issues.

Or drink a beer with him.

Americans find almost nothing culturally impossible.
Which is another thing I almost miss.

Philip Glass - Opening Glassworks

Sunday, August 4, 2013

When magic was still in the air...

Auferstehung - Resurrection 27,5 x 23 cm

nach/after Piero della Francesco


History isn’t the music coming through our window—
Led Zep working out some Hobbit-derived obsession  
antiquarian in its own quirky way—and history  
isn’t the lilac-hued romance that Karin, warm as a muffin
beneath her feather-stuffed covers, is reading right now,
a story fraught with murder and pestilence and courtly intrigues
and troubadours singing rapturously of love and such matters
(that many of these wandering poets were gay didn’t
stop them from knowing what the girls might want to hear)
and it may not even be those gorgeous frescoes by Ghirlandaio
climbing the interior walls of a white-faced gothic church close to     
the train station in Florence, which are as close as we can ever
get to boarding a time-machine and actually visiting
the Quattrocentro, if minus the putrid odors
and public hangings—it is the art that survives, is all that’s left
of rumors of rumors and various vague confabulations
neatly reduced to the scholarly gossip of specialists
hoisting cocktails at academic festivals—try to
remember that even if you remember not to forget history, you’re doomed
to repeat it in some weird way. And so what if it’s “bunk,”  
as Henry Ford stupidly put it? We seekers of the olden days—another Henry (James)
called us “passionate pilgrims”—seem to need its tattered raiment, its half-forgotten song. 

Ramble on - Led Zeppeling