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.

Saturday, October 26, 2013


Herbstlich - Atumnal 30 x 20 cm


Maternity leave, sick leave, annual leave, an extended
leave of absence (sounds like a corporate coup d’ etat,
the quiet extermination, say, of a corner-office exec-
utive rat) planes leaving airports only to arrive at
other, nearly identical airports, children

on the verge of leaving home the first time
and so many people we know or don’t know, on the way   
out as well, some permanently, while others leap straight  
into the arms of some astonished Bayadere

on leave from the corps d’ ballet of a “major” company,
and that leaves Ingrid Bergman leaving Humphrey Bogart
at the end of Casablanca blah-blah, or is it he
who leaves her by staying behind with Claude Raines
though it’s hard to believe there are still
people alive who give a shit this way or that,

Nixon leaving the White House aboard
Marine One, a standard departure/arrival technology,
   was pretty weird
and there are the leaves of a maple dining-room table
opening onto a sumptuous view of melted gorgonzola
   on fresh spinach leaves  
and the only leaves outside right now are those leaves clogging
the drain of my balcony—I almost wrote the “brain” of my
balcony—and I once saw the tender mimosa

blossoms of Marrakech which aren’t leaves at all, but I don’t care,  
somewhere in a canary yellow courtyard near the  
souks, the rug market I think, an orange tree in its   
exact dusty middle, and wish I’d never had to leave,
escorted through graceful old age by fawning servants,
obedient wives, and one tender if toothless household pet.

Verdi - Requiem Dies Irae e Tuba Mirum

Sunday, October 6, 2013


Blick von Deya - Deya-Vista 28,5 x 38,5 cm


It’s good work if you can get it—
that’s what a skeptic might say—but it doesn’t
pay the rent, my friend, it’s all perks, a jazz quartet
in the lobby of a hipster hotel in lower Manhattan
playing the coolest of Brubeck and Miles
and Charles Mingus too, yes, Charles himself. Sometimes love is
fried scampi with pinot grigio—ah, my love, we adore delicious
food, middle-age entering its Major Phase in silk dressing gown  
as a paunchy, grandly decayed author dictating to his assistant
the Great Unreadable Cookbook—goat cheese
spread on slices of sour dough bread warming us 
up, “as it were,” for wild boar stuffed with rum soaked plums.
Love is Olivia Hussey in Zeffirelli’s “Romeo and Juliet,” she with eyelashes
like wings shadowing cheekbone and dimple. Even though I
detested the “school dance” and all it stood for—one nation under
teenage stupidity, with liberty and justice for no one else    
but dumb-assed jocks, of course, and the girls who     
jerked them off in Mustangs, Firebirds, on front porch swings—
I would have taken Olivia to the Junior Prom: so there she is
spreading ripples of dismay and desire and astonishment
at the freshness of her beauty, her iambic pentameter   
otherness. I hear a sprinkler sputter-stutter into life, a basket-
ball pounding in the driveway, “Whole lotta Love” ripping through
my open bedroom window. The world’s going nuts, but this time it’s not so bad.    

Glory Box - Portishead