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.

Monday, July 14, 2014


Ghosts - 60 x 80 cm acryl on canvas

Sometimes I see one
or two of them, coming literally
out of nowhere but doing quite
ordinary things like, as is routine
here in Berlin, dancing around dog
shit on the sidewalk, a seriocomic
ballet of evasion, or pretending
to contemplate a shop window.
Then I’ll spot the giveaway: this one’s
missing the tension that once gave life
to Eva’s face, or the damp sheen of awareness
in her eyes; and that particular pseudo-apparition’s 
wearing shoes that Jonathan, whose sense of style was not
so much acute as World Historical, wouldn’t be caught
dead in. They usually arrive with a grip on
my heart and lungs, can’t catch my breath, feel like there’s
a balloon in there gradually expanding. A real ghost
doesn’t haunt the streets of Berlin, but lives in the mortal soul, is
an indelible moment such as when my grandmother reached
out to me through a fog of terminal morphine,
the door of her hospital room
open, I, seventeen-years old,
standing in the corridor as I turned away,
too sad and frightened to touch her,
too utterly abandoned to say good-bye.

Requiem by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Herbert von Karajan conducts The Wiener Philarmoniker

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Passing World

untitled (acrylic/ink) 42 x 56 cm by Karin Goeppert


                                For Jack Gilbert

Wrestling with austerities
in thorny, bare spaces. Smooth and
congenial as cactus, you cast yourself out.
All the crimes of a life—did you ever
injure a man, damage a woman?—you presented
quietly, in dry image, no obvious shame, rhetoric
not too richly seasoned, just a sprinkle 
of rosemary or sage on a lamb chop.
You talked to God but didn’t believe in Him.
You blamed the Devil for spreading pain
then thanked Him for Palladian moonlight,
for roasted goat meat on a mountainside   
in Greece. Romantic, Modernist, Individualist.
Experts said that you were the end of all these things:
what a luxury not being post whatever: being just
an inch before the after. Pleasure you damned faintly   
for not lasting long enough, for demanding renewal,      
and yet you delighted in appetite. And suffering
was as much to be enjoyed as the texture
of a woman’s skin, as the aroma of ripe tomatoes   
in Umbrian summer. Beaten on by the sun and by the wind, in    
exile even at home, feral hearted, you were wary of comfort,   
of growing mild in old age: you need not have worried about that. 

Remember Shakti
John McLaughlin/Zakir Hussain and guests