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, September 29, 2013


Die alte Tür - The old Door 33 x 28,5 cm


I know someone who sucks lemons twice a day. After which
he licks salt, then slams back a shot of tequila.
Could be, however, that he sucks the lemon after he drinks.

Schools of thought on what comes first are popping up on
   college campuses all over the country: lemon or salt?
He grits his teeth, then repeats the procedure. Whatever that is exactly.
Until an uncommon lucidity permeates his entire being.  

He once told me an interesting story. A diner on the outskirts of Texarkana.
Roughly adjacent to a 24 hour Marine Corps Recruitment Depot.
A waitress denounced for smuggling tiny shots of espresso into day old refills.

She wasn’t so much run out of town as deported to Berkeley.
After a brief interlude as a free-lance theorist in the English Department   
she joined the Gnostics in Santa Fe. This is what happens when normality is thwarted.

Out there they can drink all the arabica they want to. Or is it limes that he sucks? 

Light my Fire - The Doors

Sunday, September 1, 2013


Sturm über Kloster-Sulz - Storm in Kloster-Sulz 38,5 x 28,5 cm


You cannot really dance to Bach or Bartok
and, for reasons of decorum and such, probably shouldn’t 
but once or twice a year we pump up the volume on Grand Funk
Railroad’s “American Band” and dance patriotically across   
the badly warped complaining floors of our Berlin apartment. And
I do have an urge, irrational because impossible to satisfy, for a Chicago
Steak n’ Cheese sandwich plastered with mustard and primed with pickle
   and which, oozing over its edges,
is pierced through the heart with a three-inch tooth pick.
But wait. I’m not finished. I would like
to purchase this culinary masterpiece from a window on Columbus Avenue,
Little Italy, San Francisco, USA and eat it while drifting through
the fog of a July evening.
I want to stand in the parking lot outside Pete’s in Berkeley
on a Saturday morning
and listen in on the conversation of coffee-sipping
anthropology professors and hung-over poets who are no where
in residence, and so please forgive me Peoria (which is ubiquitous) and Tupulo, 
Miss. (hey, Elvis!) and Bulldog, Alabama home to some of the meanest
                       motherfuckers in the Confederacy but above all
Killgore, Texas(O Janice, where art thou in our moment of need, which is always?) in fact
anywhere in Texas, hardscrabble as it gets, and Oklahoma too and gosh darn
   Arkansas as well,  
for wanting to do these most un-American of real things.   

Bach - Cello Suite No. 1 - Prelude
Mischa Maisky