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, February 23, 2013

When the levee breaks

Zerstörung der Pilzfabrik - Destruction of the Mushroom Factory 20 x 30 cm


A great turbulence runs up and down the body,

fakes right, turns left, then skips past the exit.

We are told by white-coated lab rats

that all this fuss and uproar and poetry is nothing more  

than a carnival of biological fact. Still, music is more

poignant now, metaphors spring up like mushrooms,

a warm wind, rising to the occasion, is like

a hot damp whisper in my ear

conveying all kinds of interesting information.

It’s Botticelli time. The lawn scattered with new flowers.   

I step outside in order to see what the trees are up to, extract

from their arbitrary free-style maneuvers some sense of structure

as if the dry foothills, platinum-colored, rolling down to the Pacific,

as if the heat-thickened odors of crushed sage and eucalyptus leaf

were following a script, a cosmic blue-print, which I don’t buy for a second.

                                                                                               Sweat drying on my back  

and shoulders feels like a second skin, one size too small, too tight:

                                                                                                                   there’s a clamor

of bird song, a rustle in the undergrowth: then the animals stop breathing.

*When the “Fault”(an underground trench that runs the length of California) goes into its ultimate full-tilt boogey mode, anyone who finds himself near that particular epicenter is in for an exciting time indeed. It’s not exactly like falling in love, but it will rock your world.   

Led Zeppelin - When the levee breaks 

Friday, February 15, 2013

Strange people

Blood Reign 50 x 23 cm


A tallish girl hair lifting as she spreads olive oil
on a mosquito bite in this hurricane of light
the branches of an oleander bush in front of some bungalows
hung with bikini bottoms—no sign of tops anywhere—
one of the actual bottoms they barely conceal  
under the shower inside and the girl of course she’s  
singing and the thin-voiced cicada is singing right back.

The Big Baby Blue, a vast yacht mounted by a helicopter,
is tied up in the harbor, a woman moving around on deck  
and decked-out in a turquoise bathrobe is
playing the role of prophetic concubine. Drastically
hung-over will she hang herself after making a 
vatic statement? Or maybe she’ll reveal her new
boob-job and we, sipping our coffee, might even have
the courtesy to say, “fascinating, darling,” and softly applaud.

Life is good, it even permits one to walk around in a bathrobe
before people like us, jaded, postmodern tourists, who watch her    
the way intellectuals schlep through a suburban shopping mall    
when they should be reading Proust or Hegel, or at least Hemingway—
pretty much, in other words, with zero degree of commitment —
building word bridges to Erehwon and actually being paid to do so. 

Led Zeppelin - The Rover 

Sunday, February 10, 2013

California Dreaming

Palm 40 x 50 cm


There are at least three climate zones here. As the fog
   cools espresso
scented mornings in Tiburon, in eucalyptus-rich Berkeley,
everything grayish and sweet, a few miles away in Contra Costa
County a freshly washed pair of jeans dries in just thirty minutes
   of unhindered sunshine. About thirty-miles more inland,
in even hotter Livermore Valley, where physicians and shrinks maintain
   tax shelter “farms,”
the zinfandel grape—known as “Primitivo”
   in the Abruzzi and Puglia—flourishes, while the slower
   growth of pinot noir and chardonnay
is managed in cooler, foggier Napa-Sonoma. In winter
chains of bright green hills look like Ireland and Wales though by July
   as bleached and dry platinum and incendiary
as any plain in Cervantes. We swim in pools of chlorinated water
   usually a neighbor’s because only neighbors have swimming pools
the ocean too cold up here in the North for sustained immersion.
In what we call winter—okay, stop laughing—we soak in redwood hot tubs
   talking about what ever
passes through our badly singed synapses. Many of us, even the natives—
   a fatigued sunburned lot who meet
   once a year in Oxnard for chipped beef on toast—
have trouble remembering the state flower, bird, motto, lapses that
   may have more to do with chronic herbal abuse than indifference.
Maybe I’m a regional poet after all, though I detest the genre: aren’t we so great,
   it seems to say, aren’t we so lovely posing in our provincial pig sties,
that warm stupid feeling a child has just after wetting the bed.
Still, it’s not easy getting entirely away from where it all began, poet
   of a dream state. A state of dreams
that really does believe it resides in paradise but only sometimes:
   when there isn’t a serial killer
making the rounds, adding body parts to his collection, when
the earth is steady as she goes, no hillside stranger in my lap,
   no half a school on my roof,
when the governor doesn’t wear cowboy boots at a press conference….
I would prefer not to say anything more about it.
   It might run away then, this state of mind,
to a space where the sun is less ambitious, where regional identity
 is not an issue of wine & cheese,
the nebulous Zen message or the nose job
but of God, guns, abstinence and unwanted pregnancies.

 The Mamas and the Papas - California Dreamin'

Sunday, February 3, 2013


Verwurzelt - Rooted 23 x 30,5 cm


One day it must have been the other
day I was talking to a guy in a bar
harsh daylight outside, inside as dark
as a mine shaft with neon beer logos 
lighting the way to alcoholic oblivion
and I was trying to remember Ingmar Bergman’s
camera man, his name, not the grace
and intelligence of his artistry, only his name,
when I by the way asked this guy what he did for a living.
Just passing through, he answered, just drifting by.
Well, right-on to that, I said, and we bumped fists softly.

Sven something, I said, slapping the bar.
He’s the camera guy.
The Swedes have contributed
mightily to this country, the man whose
name I didn’t know said. Let’s not
forget the Irish, I countered, gentle but firm,
their unerring sense of music and unprecedented mastery
of what is essentially the language of their oppressors.
A strangely aborted wet sound filled the air as the barman
tried to soak up some spilt beer with a dry sponge.
So much of what we say, the man said, is inconsequential.

That’s why people everywhere prefer to dream.
Just outside the Pottery
Barn in Vermont, or the Cheese factory
in Wisconsin, or the Edible Complex in Oakland, they’re all dreaming.
On a flight between LAX and Houston two manic-talking
bloated business dudes, each taking a breath, pausing  
to observe the finely articulated bottom and hips of a passing stewardess,
are dreaming too, even when they’re wide awake at 30,000 feet up.  

 3rd movement, New World Sypmphony by Antonin Dvorak
conducted by Herbert von Karajan