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, October 6, 2013

L O V E

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





LOVE

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

No comments:

Post a Comment