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, July 5, 2015

So what?

Der Duft des Sommers - The Scent of Summer 3 x 10 x 10 cm - acryl/shellack ink on canvas - available!


There’s jazz in the courtyard, moonlight espresso, grandma
issuing dire warnings in archaic dialect, grandpa
sneaking off to the boiler room, to conspire with tobacco.

The streets are without porn.
Bump and grind if you can find it, yes, but no porn.
A manhole hissing fiercely nearby. Kids playing stickball, but gingerly,

for it is Sunday, and they are wearing their best.
Plague germinating on rotting hulks in Sythian ports,
sailing on to Naples and Palermo, devastating Rome,

depopulating Florence, shutting down theatres in London.
Peasant and lord scarfing raw garlic and, as if longing
for their bacterial beginnings, washing neither bodies nor garments,

a mad flurry of Ostrogoths or Visigoths
spilling over city walls, smashing monasteries, no one bathing
for hundreds of years, Donald Trump always

coming back to take more, castor oil, chemo therapy
which just kills you more slowly than cancer, it seems,
public executions family reunions Hitler and his Huns

Bush #2 and his version thereof, chronology a side issue at best—

   shit just keeps happening—
until: a shriveled, oily hot dog in a soft bun at Woolworth’s
on a Saturday afternoon, circa 1968, Concord, California

one hundred degrees outside, not much cooler inside,
the air salty and dark, an odor of rancid butter
coming from the pop corn maker, add to that a

purloined copy of “Ring” magazine,
George Chuvalo and Buster Mathis
pounding each other on its front cover,

snug and damp beneath t-shirt and jeans, and I feel
well-fed, with half my “dog” in hand, and as cunning as a gangster:
thus progress makes its belated appearance in human affairs.

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