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, May 31, 2014

Flow Chart

Flow Chart 60 x 80 cm - acryl on board


Which is a good place for anyone
to be--it’s so hot--beneath the trees, dozing
in some dreamless void of foliage and dirt,
dealers pacing the shadows
and grinning full of hope.
A raw whiff of garlic something
or other from Bardolino’s open kitchen
window reeks of the good life,
a fishing village, say, in southern Italy
animal eyed people with white smiles
gesticulating all over the place.
The pink domes under which they seem to live.
Limestone, olives, a fiasco of counterfeit
Chianti and lots of time to drink it.

Go on tell us one more time how summer
can only mean Pink Floyd live in the Stadt-
park, Hamburg, you and I drinking beer
on our new balcony, eating take-out
chicken curry, getting off on all that
lunatic music for free. I think
the primroses were a dusty pink—you like to say—
the lilacs just about kaput. So was it summer,
or late spring? The sun flaming out behind the trees.
The music clear as a fount.

Pink Floyd - Time

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Forest Reflections

Waldgeschmack - Forest Flavour 60 x 80 cm mixed media on multi media board


At first you reminded
me of someone I should avoid.
Someone rough or merely

too energetic, like three power plants
hooked up to a weapon of mass destruction.

In the evening pale glitter
luster of frozen sequins
and morning dress as somber as
a priest’s raiment. Ten thousand days

till spring till spring till fucking spring.

Let me ease your troubled mind
a shrink said to me from his peeling stoop,
sounding like the lyric of a Simon and Garfunkel song.

Standing up straight, he looked better,
cleaner, more qualified. All of a sudden!
But he still wore that wild blond afro.

Nonetheless, I was intrigued.
Never had I had pigeon pie before.
I slowly began to connect it up

to an ethnic identity thing. An “issue.”
Her eyes were full of that challenge. I cracked through its crust.

Hips. Thighs. Breasts. Hair. Of child-
bearing breadth. A slight twitch of muscle
beneath downy skin. Present but not
overly insistent, the tips of which seeking air
however and lips. Every day a good one.

I knew he was in trouble when he started tap dancing.
I knew I was in trouble because he looked just like Fred Astaire.
Look, Fred, I said, I’ve never been much of a fan.

Likewise, he said, but my name’s Gene, asshole, not Fred.

Winter is a drained snow cone.
Spring is pollen dusted jogging shoes.
Summer is sweat. All the time.
Fall is just a variation on autumn.

Shards of pigeon pie. Pinot Grigio spilled in her lap.
Outside the trees whisper to each other, peer
through the window, gossip fitfully.

Wind clutches at us all. Yokes common misunderstandings together.
Who should repair the light switch? Flash the stones?
Take me to the shore is all I ask. A place to bask, soak, dissolve.

Simon and Garfunkel

Sunday, May 18, 2014

A Few Things That Make Life Worth Living

Fluchtversuch - Trying to Escape 33 x 39 cm Acryl on wooden board


A fugue multiplying its diversions,
changing its mind all the time but never forgetting
what it wants to sing. The pictures of which it cannot
be said where form stops and color begins.

The sexy woman suggesting with a glance
that she might easily
eat us for breakfast lunch and dinner
followed by espresso, a warm brandy
and—some clichés should not be resisted—a French cigarette.

Please check:
a) platinum light glancing off the splendid palms of Mallorca,
b) a plate of tapas, white wine, beneath an old plane tree,
c) a lingering, lazy kiss at dusk,
d) all of the above.

Let’s do it again.
Only different this time: viewing the Brancacci Chapel
while slightly high; a crowd free morning  
spent with certain mosaics in Athens; a hot dog heaped  
with sauerkraut, eaten in Central Park, yes, that’s it,
only this time followed by a schnapps chaser
which is known in some parts as “ burping the baby.”

The speechless stare that becometh blind oration.

Die Grosse Fuge - Beethoven
NDR Sinfonie-Orchester
Christoph von Dohnányi, conductor

Saturday, May 10, 2014

La Grange in Buddha Land

Tulpen - Tulips 35 x 30 cm - Soft Pastel and acrylics on cotton/linen primed with fine sand gesso


Do you remember how later that evening
the hot winds chafed us, how meditation
was so boring we fell asleep? All that time
trying to think about nothing. My knees hurt.
What exactly or not exactly were we doing
in loose garments, sandals, soft-spoken, humble?
Monks were kicking coconuts on the beach
and all I wanted to do was put my fist through a wall:
there is no “I”, they say, just a dream of self, some stickers—
“been there, done that” — on a steamer trunk, nothing inside
was what they asked us to meditate on. Plenum void.
Who was this nothing meditating on nothingness?
No one would say. They only smiled.
Mornings we swept the palm leaves into piles
of platonic perfection—concentrate! No task is unimportant!—
raked sand, swept out the kitchen, the afternoons smoky with
fires the monks and a few bored guests had ignited  
at the water’s edge; we listened to the soft waves—
sotto voce, semi-subliminal—waited for 
the magic to kick in. Way deep into the night I was almost sure
we had bodies, my love, but not a soul between us. 

La Grange - ZZ Top

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Waiting for Thunder

Warten auf Donner - Waiting for Thunder 50 x 70 cm


I can barely conceal my contempt, boredom,
and a creeping self-pity not so much
shameless as triumphant. Dinner guests I’ve known,
I feel, since the latter days of the Roman Empire
are partly responsible for this. The air is thunder
heavy and the thermometer’s about to have a heart attack
and I have a strange need to break out in archaic verse
O Iseult, shave thy body of excess hair/ And toss
thy pelt upon the soft evening air, etc.
Even violence seems an option as I 
wait for that perfect implement of destruction
to find its way into my hands. It’s eighty-degrees
in the bed room. The world has forgotten how to breathe.
The cats are door mats made of fur. Clouds pressing down 
so close there’s no oxygen left. If rain does come, I swear  
I just might blossom. Talk about Flowers of Evil! Then you,
Iseult, will have no choice   
but to stick me into a leaky   
Moroccan vase the color of Saharan sand and inside which 
I will cool my toes, dreaming of windy, sane mornings in September. 

 Leider hat uns Blogger gestern einen Strich durch die Rechnung gemacht und wir konnten unseren post nur "leer" veröffentlichen. Bitte entschuldigt!

Sorry for the empty posts yesterday. Blogger was unable to send it out correctly.

The Rolling Stones - Gimme Shelter