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, February 23, 2014

Women at Work

Früchte - Fruit 18,5 x 24,5 cm Oilsticks

After having read Maryann Didriksen's blog post on oil sticks I thought it might be something for me to try out. After some searching around I was able to find them here in Berlin. It was an exhiting experience to paint with them and to my absolute delight I was even able to work in oil pastels and soft pastels.  It is a great way to get away from painting too tightly.

Nachdem ich Maryann Didriksen's blog post über Ölsticks gelesen habe wollte ich diese auch ausprobieren. Nach einigem Suchen hab ich sie tatsächlich hier in Berlin gefunden. Es war wirklich eine aufregende Erfahrug mit ihnen zu Malen und zu meinem Entzücken konnte ich sogar mit meinen Ölpastell und den Pastellkreiden in die Ölfarbe malen.


The women won’t walk through
the olive trees alone. There are
soldiers down there with nothing to do.
It’s the same in every war. The women’s
noses twitching at the stink of strange men,
at the very thought of that stink. They harvest 
what they can from orchards and from gardens 
in forest clearings, picking clean the larders
of busted up farm houses. Sometimes one or
two of them hoards a piece of meat for a
child’s baptism, pagan festival, some prophet’s
birthday. The truly starving will eat anything,
doesn’t matter what, even each other. The Irish have
known hunger, the Russians at Leningrad, Ukraine, 
millions under Mao. Where do you stop? The village baker
is either dead or off killing someone, and so the  
women bake their own bread. You can smell it  
some mornings in the narrow lanes of the old town.
At the bottom of the olives is a small beach.
The children play down there when the soldiers are gone.
You can hear their voices blending with the wind. The sound of peace. 

Robert Schumann 3rd Symphony "Die Rheinische" 4th Movement
Conducted by Zoe Zeniodi  - Frost Symphony Orchestra

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Vintage Jazz

Rote Bäume - Red Trees 28,5 x 38,5 cm

Firenze - Florenz - Florence c/o Karin Goeppert


They are lined up in a traffic jam
where the border used to be, an army
in retreat, trunks of sedans, backs of
station wagons, open donkey carts,
wheelbarrows, rusty forklifts, loaded with cases of
Chianti, Bardolino, Frascati, Brunello di Montalcino,
schnapps from South Tyrol, Prosecco from Vicenza.
Liquid for lucubrations, fodder for midnight bull sessions.
We are talking the language of ecstasy—nose, tannins,  
hints of vanilla, suggestion of smoky nightfall. Life
   stretching out before us
like sunset over the vines of Languedoc, of Tuscany,
staining the slopes of Kaiserstuhl a dusky pink. A local   
wine merchant, half charlatan, half priest, half inebriated,
one who says fuck retsina, man, spurn vinho verde, avoid
anything Austrian, pours a Pinot Noir from the Napa Valley, a Cab  
Sauv from the African cape. Nothing is sacred, a Frenchman might  
mutter. But there’s a raspy, deep-felt “amen” over by the dark  
hued Zinfandels, the sassy blond Chardonnays. A sob of gratitude.  

And what goes better with wine than some jazz?

Jeff Beck and Tal Wilkenfeld
Crossroads Festival 2007

Sunday, February 9, 2014

I am still here

Abenddämmerung Luberon - Nightfall Luberon Oil pastel 38,5 x 28,5 cm
Thank you for the image, Marie-France Oosterhof


Okay, where’s the list? The day’s deeds
need a story-board at least, a rough script.
Won’t do a thing otherwise. Even

read the obituaries: scumbag scion
of family billions kicks at 82—in his sleep!
Never worked a proverbial day, etc.

Still, who would want to agonize over
what claret to drink, or have fits when some neo-
phyte fucks up cigar etiquette? What about tie knots?

I don’t know a Windsor from a Waterloo though
it’s time to water plants then spray them while I whisper
Bob Marley to a big ole nasty rasta-fern shedding

crispy bits of itself all over the carpet. Now it’s time    
to read Dante to the cats: they lap 
   up the lush vernac-
ular of Tuscany as if it were a bowl of cream. Beg the neigh-

bor for an onion. Gag on his apathy: don’t care what I need
it for? What kind of sauce I’ll  turn into an oil slick?
The windows are next. But I don’t think so. Nothing out

there to see anyway. And they’re not even on my list. Oh Christ
just got a glimpse of the hollow man, treading past his
darkened reflection, dust rag in hand, looking for that fatal flaw.

2 Wicky - Hooverphonic

Sunday, February 2, 2014


Frühlingsgefühle - Spring Fever 59 x 59 cm


Miss Barolo—name rich
in tannins and sweet astringencies—
taught us sex education. Mr. Bertolini,
English Department, semi-twirling one half
of his handlebar mustache, large areas
of his paisley shirt damp with sweat, admired her
across the ping-pong table    
in the faculty lounge. He almost always let her win.
And she knew it. And she refused to be moved by his chivalry.
Our head librarian, meantime, Mr.
I don’t remember exactly, virginal, pear-shaped,  
did a convincing imitation
of A.E. Houseman’s thousand yard stare. Some people
went without sex and nobody seemed to notice.
There were other diversions. Collecting back issues, say,
of Architectural Digest, re-reading “A Shropshire Lad,” building monolithic
chess pieces. They kept their hands to themselves. Even Miss Barolo,
as ripe and ready to taste as any woman Mr. Bertolini had ever known,
a legend in sandals, in form-loving sun dresses, kept her distance. 

Diana Krall - Temptation