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, January 19, 2014

La Dolce Vita

Blaue Briese - Blue Breeze 28,5 x 38,5 cm


Being in Italy is a sensuous project
requiring intelligence and good taste.
Failing those qualities, money, or at
least a facsimile thereof, helps a lot.
In these parts appetite is a feeling,
a deep emotion fraught with musical content. 
Thus lunch today is a concerto for rose-tinted
thinly sliced veal in a shallow pool of olive oil
accented with anarchic squirts of lemon. But first
an overture because after two glasses of vino rosso
della casa lunch has become operatic: ravioli delicately
packed with minced whatever, cooked in butter,
draped with fragile flakes of sage. Dolce and coffee 
follow. A nearly depleted credit card
struggles to pay for all of this.
Not a drop of free grappa, however, despite   
a shitload of bravos and bravas dispensed
by two sincerely satisfied customers. Nonetheless,
we lurch happily into sunlight, the heroic streets
belonging to us. But this a lie. My “roots” are on
the other side of water, digging ever deeper in sub-soil
I don’t know anymore, slippery, metamorphic,
vaguely fraudulent. Memory seems like another
word for self-deception. Or as Wyndam Lewis more
or less put it: “Roots? What are we, bushes and
trees…or men?” On the other hand, that asshole
of a genius did praise Hitler. Still, I don’t feel like 
a vegetable or fruit, or even a tall noble
redwood on some wind-warped bluff
lording over the Pacific. I am a
sated animal who laughably assumes 
he’s sui generis, roughly, pulling his load 
of fear and guilt and perfunctory self-loathing
but on his way to admire how Andrea Del Sarto
painted hands, and Raphael, the sweetness of mother and child.    

Corelli - Concerto grosso opus 6 No. 8
Trevor Pinnock and the English Concert

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