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, April 28, 2013

Rock N' Roll

Wird dieser Winter jemals aufhören - Will this winter ever stop 28,5 x 49,5 cm Acryl on wooden board


They say that a woman can be “won” 
through displays of expertise and passion.
Don’t try to market yourself, they say;
sell a life-style or an art form instead.
Better, try to sell both as one, and one as you.
My choice would be Rock n’ Roll. Only you 
can’t explain R&R. What kind of dialectic—
the kind that sounds like Pete Townshend
smashing his guitar against
Keith Moon’s drum-kit—
what kind of dialectic is that?
Badly slurred speech wrapped in a 
hangover; little ash piles of brain cells left behind
the trashed hotel rooms of a continent.
Confused, wracked with passion, red-eyed,
unzipped, crawling across a fire-proof carpet
in some nameless motel on the edge of Omaha
trying to make it to the rumor of
a chlorinated water-hole somewhere between
these plaster walls and the parking lot. And yet
to this day the Fair Grounds of Iowa beckon to us. The glory
of back-to-back dates in Peoria, in Duluth, the “Riot House” in full orgy.
What can you say about concerts at which some fans wear ear plugs?

Led Zeppelin - Immigrant Song (February 27, 1972) Sydney Showground

Sunday, April 21, 2013


Rot Gelb Grün - Red Yellow Green 28,5 x 43,5 cm


The absurdity of his beauty,
nature’s most flamboyant transvestite.
Probably an earlier version of himself
was a terrible dresser, a manic number-crunching    
nerd now paying with interest for the bad karma of  
bad taste, pointlessly gorgeous
like one of those would-be movie stars who
end up doing commercials, underwear or lingerie ads,
or low level sit-com work as the neighborhood knock-out,
brainless but nice, a running joke that chews gum. These days
the Spanish peacock has plenty of competition:
beneath its folkloric needlework every peasant blouse
is set to burst into a duet of chocolate colored nipples.
Unfortunately a bunch of chunky, sheepish Midwesterners
are insulting a silence of heat haze and wheat chaff, their
air-cooled bus—about the shape and color of Moby Dick,
                                                                     the whale, of course, not the book—
blocking a view of field workers making hay
while the Spanish Peacock lifts his skirts and lets loose  
with as haunting a cry of despair as ever heard in these parts. 

 Rodrigo - Concierto de Aranjuez
Guitar: John Williams
BBC Proms 2005

Saturday, April 13, 2013


Chamisso-Platz 39 x 29 cm


Guess what comes from this place? Here follows the Birth of Pesto:
fresh basil and olive oil plus garlic crushed with a pestle
in a deep narrow bowl and
mixed with pasta then sprinkled with old parmesan,
on the table a fiasco of Vino Rosso di Toscana,
not a fine wine but a very robust one, yes, a muscular robust
wine of the earth rather than of the air—which is
doggerel a semi-poetic wine dealer might recite—
the stucco façade of the ancient farm house 
peeled back in places
to reveal
its original brick sub-structure,
decay does wonders for some buildings,
fireflies bobbing and weaving above the lawn
on hot summer evenings, sun-drunk boxers, the thickness of trees
and ivy hanging
heavily as if held there  
by the dark yellow and purpling light. Sometimes 
it’s hard to believe that we are a part of all this gorgeous stuff,

we sit back and try to be satisfied
with our good fortune but it feels like
television somehow, a story
belonging to someone else,
though in a way similar to us,
an actor mired in middle-age, say, walking 
through a cool, high ceilinged room
forgetting his lines, tripped up by a carpet,
knocking over an expensive vase, spooking the cat, and thinking perhaps
that decay doesn’t do wonders for most people, not in this life.

*Finale Ligure is a small town on the Italian Riviera.


 Vivaldi's Concerto No.2 in G minor "Summer" 3rd Movement
 Nigel Kennedy performs "a la Citadelle", 2005, France
with the Polish Chamber Orchestra

Saturday, April 6, 2013


Marrakech 40 x 30 cm


Through the gate comes a donkey pulling a cart of
   God Knows What
a man with two green monkeys, a trio of petit
   bourgeois French women, temporary henna
doodles on their forearms and wrists and here comes William Burroughs
   riding in on the breath of his latest fix mere seconds
before noticing he’s, like, in the wrong medina, man
   smell of cumin, smell of chili powder, of sweat and horse dung
smell of dried mud and rotting fruit, musky incense drifting
   into a sweetish subterranean odor of human excrement
Paul Bowles on the roof top of the Hotel de Paris
   firing up his trusty hash pipe
several decapitated heads rolling across La Place like bowling balls
   in a shopping mall suburb of Ft. Worth, of Atlanta
   sound of bare hands on the skins of Saharan drums
oui, madame, what I have here in my hand—a fat writhing lizard— 
   is that rarest of aphrodisiacs—it works!
   a smell of hash, of wood smoke, of roasting meat     pink walls
everywhere, rose, ochre with reddish tints and pale orange, layers of peeling adobe
carpets pungent soaps shiny baubles snake skins the residue of a thousand espressos
   yes please guten tag come in bon jour bitte have some tea you
insult me with that price, hah hah, but still we are friends, non? oui? I have five children
a glee club from North Dakota moves cautiously through the portals of Club Med
   little boys calling out after them     
where you from? where you go? what you want?

* Djemaa el Fna, known as "La Place", is a large square at the edge of the medina of Marrakech.

Jimmy Page/Robert Plant - The truth explodes
Performing in Marrakech's Djemaa el Fna