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, July 28, 2013


38 Celsius - 100.4 Fahrenheit 18 x 40 cm


O girls of Iowa, of Idaho and Nebraska,
sliding your thunder thighs through the wheat
fields of Ohio and Indiana, girl gods,
gaudy girls in an Ezra Pound
poem about big girls of the Big Ten
going out for a drive
on a humid Illinois afternoon, coming back   
five-minutes later toting bags of glazed doughnuts,
O Nancy and Sissy, Shawn and Peggy Sue
on a heedless plunge into a cataract of
empty calories, wheezing over your eats
like antique Hoovers
while we admire the Pillsbury  
tuck n’ roll of your Swedish,
of your Polish and German skin.
Lean management is like a slogan stuck to
an anorexic’s bumper,
right between banana split
and Christmas turkey, each x-ed out
with a double slash of red magic marker.
Cut the fat off everything essential
and you’re asking for trouble. Who says
our girls can be trained to go without? Someone in a dim factory
is transforming, just for them, animal fat into an edible chip.
Their mission is to ingest it. TV’s on, the remote’s ready.
Farewell lean management, au Revoir vegetable pudding.

Smooth - Santana feat. Rob Thomas

Sunday, July 14, 2013

I'll pick myself up and get back in the race

Warmer Sommerwind on Mallorca - Warm Summer Breeze on Mallorca 39 x 39 cm


Unfortunately I’ve been waiting for so long I’ve for-
   gotten why I’m here, who I’m waiting for. Hopefully not
the dentist or urologist. After those technicians have finished with me
   I can’t look at a pair of rubber gloves without
a shiver starting in the brain then tripping down my spine. I’m in one of those
   situations that remind me for the
   ten-thousandth time that life is
an antechamber in which, all alone, we are waiting, and in the end
   not much happens. Inside our heads, however,
the carnival is on, baby, our options are manifold, myriad, multiple sex partners
   lined up around the block, strangers seeking our autographs,


T.S. Eliot was an anti-Semitic monarchist. Let’s be clear about that. He was
   a snob’s snob. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, later in life
he consorted with Bloomsbury and wore a bowler hat. He was not a nice man. Still, he
   was right on the dot when he wrote, “Most people can only
bear so much reality.” You can’t know such things and stay a nice man.

   On more or less the same, highly interesting
end of the human spectrum (I know…elitist…but…) James Joyce and
   Samuel Beckett (who reportedly was a very nice man) knew that
human beings are pretty much on their own, but this was an idea
   they liked, not only because it validated their pessimism,  

but because it gave them time to carve out of the English language some awesomely
   awesome prose, i.e., why bother socializing when you can write like that?  
Sitting in a Paris kitchen, not a word spoken for the longest time, drinking tea or
   something stronger,
   or something strong in tea,

the air reeking of burnt toast and boot black, and maybe one
   or both is smoking, who knows,
ears turned to those inner voices, an occupational hazard
   as we all know, and which makes putatively “normal” people
believe that writers are dreamy losers, oblivious to the
   world around them, when in fact they notice everything,
which is why they’re tired all the time, until finally one of them, as always, says,
   “Life is awful, isn’t it?”
                                           Two minute Irish smiles.
And the other is right on cue with, “Bloody awful, a fooking waste.
   Why even bother?” To live for the slim chance
that beauty might emerge. That’s worth repeating. To live for the slim chance  
   that beauty might emerge. A pure and perfect tenor voice could move
James Joyce to tears, and a beautiful woman or girl, even if walking down the opposite
   sidewalk, could send Samuel Beckett reeling into an hour of purest rapture.  

Frank Sinatra - That's life

Sunday, July 7, 2013


Schmerz - Pain 29,5 x 21 cm


I’ll take a slab of roast veal in olive oil
per favore with some lemon and rosemary
sprinkled on; and did I mention the vino rosso
something alla magnifico whatever

guaranteed to the hilt of its coat of arms
while on a windy Etruscan hillside
in the midst of several self-abusive hallucinations
cavorting among themselves near the dappled compost

heap, I, or someone like me, enthroned upon an African chair,
spot a tall naked girl, vibrantly unreal, her skin
all honey and olives in the white light as she saunters across
the desiccated grass. But she’s not your run of the mill
   pagan apparition. No.

In fact, it’s not difficult to imagine her
with a rolled up Elle or Vogue in her fist
swaying fiercely in the middle of a sagging bed
smashing against the white washed walls
   of our cheap pensione
the whining succubi of Italian night.


Portishead - Sour Times
Roseland New York