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, December 8, 2013

Margie walking to Deya

Auf dem Weg nach Deya - On the way to Deya 38,5 x 28,5 cm





MARGIE

Yes, Margie, Roanoke is in Virginia, and a wall of blue mountains
forms a backdrop in the rain and there’s an airport too
mainly for transit flights between G.I. towns
like Fayetteville and Columbus and a few other camouflaged enclaves
and thence to somewhat better known destinations. Once when
passing through on my way to I don’t know where and
   just enough of a “cherry” to be wearing
the uniform when on leave or TDY, I was cornered by a short, young woman
in flowing hippie drag who tried to sell me a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita
or some kindred scripture—I wasn’t up on Hindu mythology—and I 
was ready to blow her off when she told me I looked handsome in uniform—  
   what could I do but give her
a couple of bucks, and thus end up incongruously with a book from whose 
cover a multi-limbed deity with blue skin smiled out at the material world? 
When she moved almost dancingly away I noticed 
   a fairly well-disguised limp. She might have been
wearing bells around her ankles. It’s even possible I heard
their tinkling, vaguely mystical music, not at all like that of an ice-cream truck,   
two or three blocks away, on a summer afternoon, and you
   skip-skipping into the house for money. It was your club foot that made you
skip-skip instead of run-run. And the girl’s limp made me remember that foot, Marge,
                             and how you treated it
the way a loving mother treats her afflicted child, with affection and subdued pain.
Not at all how Josef Goebbels felt about his club foot, or Oedipus about his,
as they swung their burdens into the darker shades
                                                             of history and myth, and became them. 





Arvo Pärt - Collage sur Bach

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