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, August 31, 2014

In Praise of Decadence

State of Mind II 40 x 20 cm


The table dancers are on their way
and the musicians are puffing on 
a spliff behind the gazebo( as the Beatles
once did a few minutes before their performance
at the Royal Albert Hall for the Royal Albert Family
going onstage royally stoned, and I guess
their music was quite easy to play
because if you have ever been royally stoned, well,
sometimes walking, sometimes talking, sometimes merely
existing can be really hard) as if gazebos
were designed for that purpose
which we know isn’t the case but then why not
a Parisian post-modern philosopher of urban legend
might ask: seriousness is just too Teutonic: given
the state of our Zeitgeist, holding out for tragicomic
would be excessive. Feel free therefore
to partake of the foie gras, and from the wine
breathing its last, go ahead, have a sip
before it slips away into this dark perfumed night.
I’m sure you have spotted the girls whose
eyes are violet-hued in this light—
like a squadron of Scottish witches they are—
shall we rescue them?
From boredom, I mean. We don’t fight over females
the way we used to. And that’s too bad. For isn’t life,
like a peach or a girl’s thigh, less sweet without the bruise? 

Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie

Sunday, August 24, 2014


The last Bunch 56 x 42 cm pastel painting by Karin Goeppert


This is light you can live in,
warmish, the color of northern ale,
emerging from the sweat bath of
July and early August, here in
the German speaking tropics, but as dry now
as a martini by Noel Coward. Berlin is not just in
but is a rain forest. Sinuses finally unblocked; a
beaker of sweet morning air before coffee and eggs. 
Season of not exactly mellow fruitfulness—we live in
a city of four-million after all—I’m walking in your midst
through the park with its moldy whiff—I can smell again!—
of mushroom and hash on suddenly cool air. Cyclist
shivering in t-shirt, Jogger with blue legs. Some people
just need a little more transition, okay? A few Muslim women,
in the open yet discreetly concealed, gathering pine cones,
plucking some really juicy ones from tree limbs: pine cone soup?
You love the cold months, nature gnarled and empty,  
nestled on the couch in candlelight, that’s you, a “cuppa”
Yorkshire Gold, the working woman’s brew, at your elbow.
Open cook book against blanketed knees. Cat turning
in slow, semi-conscious circle back to where he started from.
Streetlights on at four PM. Cold of morning staying the whole damn day.  

Vivaldi's 4 Seasons - Autumn
Julia Fischer, violin

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Inner Pig Dog

In einem gelben Wald - In a yellow Wood 40 x 40 cm acryl painting by Karin Goeppert


which means “inner pig dog” in good English.
Now, everybody has an inner pig dog
and this creature is a mongrel breed
part couch potato, part psychopath,
part sexual pervert, part greedy slob
of abysmally disgusting, insatiable appetites,
selfish, let’s everyone down, always late—
fucker’s never there when you need him— 
doesn’t replace the TP roll, has desires so dark
it would be better not to shine a light on them.
When it wags its barbed tail and snorts and scratches
at your insides you might be tempted to open up
and let the inner pig dog out for a romp. A child has
dropped a banknote on the sidewalk in front of you
and hasn’t noticed and your IPD is salivating at the
thought of all the curry sausages with French fries
soaked in sauce you can buy with the child’s money, 
the porn videos, case of beer, terminally stupid tabloid  
you roll up and stick in your back pocket, the riveting
conversation with a tattooed bar slut after toasting
in a sun studio cylinder for twenty minutes coming
out the color of a Florida orange. We all have
those primary IPD moments in our lives: such as the time
I was boxing Roy Slicker in his back yard; poor Roy, helpless,
more a pusher than a puncher, came in swinging with all
the ferocity of a girl scout insisting you buy her cookies,
eyes closed, exposed, and I slammed the side
of his head with a haymaker of a counter-punch
even though I could have just danced away. Worse,
I’d pretended I was in trouble, leaning
back against a tree trunk, seeming to
cover up, thus inviting his futile attack.
Somewhere hot, the Demiurge, talent scout
in love with unfair fights, exploitation, all the imbalances
and excesses hard-wired into violent turbulent life,
put a pencil tip to his lips, chuckled, then made an entry
in his Black Ledger. I was on the team now, rising in the depth chart.
Meanwhile, I bent over Roy and fanned him with the Chronicle
sports section, worried, but not knowing my first K.O. was also my last.  

Black Dog - Led Zeppelin

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Baby Sitters in September

September 50 x 40 cm mixed media painting by Karin Goeppert


Getting someone last second to give a twelve minute speech on
“construction engineering issues with special regard
to Stalinist era high-rise housing in East Berlin”—impossible.
Maybe you remember (or probably don’t)
Gerald R. Ford? When Nixon was going down
in flames his idea of preemptive revenge
on an ungrateful nation was to replace his corrupt
Vice-President (the wonderful Spiro T. Agnew)
with mediocre “Gerry” Ford (i.e., Nixon’s successor), a man
who became famous for losing his footing—
tripping over the trains of fine ladies’ gowns
at state receptions. Stepping out of Air Force One
while waving at the adoring masses and not stumbling
at the same time was a considerable feat for Gerry. Apparent
physical ineptitude became his signature, his prop, his claim
to a personal style, like Roosevelt’s smile, Clinton’s cigar.
Still, if you keep
recent presidential history in mind, he didn’t do a bad job—
sub-zero expectations and no daddy hang-ups.

So, the next time you’re looking for a baby sitter
(as hard to find as construction engineers)
you might do worse than a tattooed girl
with tongue stud, red eyes, chronic sniffles. Behind
that blank gaze—which isn’t even a gaze, which isn’t even  
an empty stare on a subway platform at midnight—
so alienating that she looks indeed like she’s from
another planet—and beneath a voice flattened by tons
of post-modern urban nihilism—
affection just might be waiting its last chance,
responsibility and good citizenship their renaissance.
And standing next to her, a lump
of pierced boy-meat, a moving pattern
of crystal meth ticks, is breathing through his mouth.
Drastically pint-sized, wiry as a garrote,
is he not an Eagle Scout incognito?

Beethoven's Third Symphony, 4th movement
Danmarks Radio SymfoniOrkestret - Fabio Luisi

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Hoping for Rain

Ich mag den Regen - I like the Rain 42 x 56 cm mixed media painting by Karin Goeppert


Couldn’t care less about the Duke of Aragon’s
barbed scepter. But you do like the crumbling   
bits of old barns, or the stone cold cellar of an abbey,   
moldy bottles of a local vintage stored there  
for decades, undrinkable, the grapes in these parts   
turning sour well before middle-age sets in. At the agri-  
cultural festival there’s talk of manure and goose liver,
the famous scene in “Madame Bovary”
in which Madame B. is romanced 
by Rudolfo while outside a politician    
gives a speech that, with Bach-like precision,  
mirrors a lover’s empty words. I’m getting tired, maybe 
we should lie down for a while. Lunch was heavy
going and the wine strong. Children are running
races through the barley and rye. Say what you like,
some day they too will have to rest. People say
that a Greco or a Goya is stashed away in a back chamber
of the ducal palace, but no one has the energy to look for it. 

Julia Fischer plays various Bach pieces