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, March 29, 2015

Ausstellung - Exhibition

Ich möchte Sie gerne zu meiner Vernissage am 18.04. in Berlin einladen. Wenn Sie Zeit und Lust haben - kommen Sie doch vorbei, ich würde mich sehr freuen!

If you happen to be in Berlin on April 18 I would be happy to welcome you at my vernissage.

Sunday, March 22, 2015


Sommerfeld - Summerfield 38,5x28,5 cm pastel/watercolour


      You know that feeling
in February when you can’t remember
how you felt in June or the sweet
and sour sort of tropical languor of July,
the sweat and bitchery of it all, how you’ve
forgotten that too, concupiscent interactions,
slow nights of drinking beer on
a sidewalk outside the old elementary school, even the thought
of inadvertently touching a stranger’s slippery skin
an absolute no go, and now here’s a perfect day  
dream reminiscent of a cartoon in the 
New Yorker or Playboy, circa 1970s, in which some poor
slob’s crawling toward a mirage of breasts and palm
leaves, a very tall drink chilling out on a poolside table
next to the girl, girls, many girls everywhere
each as compliant as a politician at a fund raiser
and that’s you, dude, you’re the one sipping gin tonic
in this insipid little fantasy when outside ice crunches
beneath strangers’ boots—in March no less. Tiny violets,
premature, fragile as infants, smothered in a bed of instant snow,
radiator dead, hot water thing busted: can summer be far behind?

Sunday, March 8, 2015

The Window

Das Fenster - The Window 60 x 60 cm oil painting by Karin Goeppert


The plots of dreams are tedious. I prefer the salient detail:
a party of nuns, say, munching grapes in a snow storm;
   or “Butterball Turkey” uttered repeatedly,
the way it sounds better than it tastes.

Which isn’t like butter at all.
Such attractive little deceptions worked into the weave.
Dreams are not really a phase of sleep, if you think about it,

but a form of sacred reflection, and if you believe that 
   you will believe anything, which a lot of people do. So you’re
awake and reaching for that thing to read, write, grabbing for
the girl who’s dreaming: if those kids don’t quiet down I’ll kill ‘em,

   and who wakes up to say
it’s Sunday morning, for Christ’s sake, take your hands off me.
Now outside the world is all radio, and there’s that recurring phrase
yet again: “Learn chess from 3-time U.S. champ!”  O what price self-improvement.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

The Perils of Globalization

Sehnsucht nach Stille - Longing for Silence 38,5 x 48,5 cm pastel by Karin Goeppert


I’ve read in the Wall Street Journal 
recently that ever increasing chunks of me
are being outsourced to a number of
service providers situated somewhere
in the Nile Delta. A suburb of Calcutta. Even a
cave in a Pakistani tribal area inhabited by
white-clad religious enthusiasts (to put it mildly)
is equipped with components taken from yours truly.
I was wondering about the sudden weight loss. If anyone
knows where missing parts (departments, entire divisions)
can be located please contact me ASAP. You can
find me at the game arcade “dining” on sloppy Joes.
Just step inside and give a holler. If there’s
no answer to my name, however, have the
decency to leave at once, remembering
I never existed anyway, and that you, under the spell
of rapacious, inexplicable appetite, will soon be
slumped in a corner, near a row of exploding  
video games, eating a chili-dog, licking your fingers, knowing
that you’re soon going to need a shot of Fernet-Branca
or some baking powder in water, anything to ease that burning
overstuffed feeling. That burden of self. Happens every time.