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 30, 2015

Coming into Focus

Coming into Focus 60 x 60 cm mixed media - available -

                                                                          A lightweight
                                                               manmade fiber chemically classed
                                                                            as nylon.
                                                                                    THE RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARY

After the confusion is packed away—
precipitated by an Erik Rohmer girl  
blessed with the morals of late antiquity, say,
and bitter little pouches beneath
her eyes—and we ship it off like toxic waste
to a needy, cash-poor country
in equatorial Africa, we learn
to stretch our muscles in new ways,
in new words. The garden seems fresher then,
the Philosopher takes his pleasure calmly
and the Poet takes dictation calmly, and we take a break
from the daily idiocy, which sounds like a newspaper
and sometimes is, the colors astoundingly attentive
to our needs, like lovers, like lovers who really love us,
though no one in her right mind could possibly love me
nor you, for that matter, sorry, nor him nor her,
apologies, I mean come on is anyone really lovable
I think Ann Carson admitted in the Paris Review
that she’s a monster, that all of us are monsters
which is exactly what you might expect a classics professor/modernist poet
to say, that is, bronze age fatalism plus Avant-garde
pessimism equals: it doesn’t matter what and how
much we sacrifice to the gods our blue print
is left unaltered, that is, human beings
are excellent at making poems, pictures, bombs
and we can be so so so beautiful
but as far as living life goes, well, we’re pretty much
fuck ups, often getting stuck on issues such as
what would you do if all of your shirts were
made of nylon? There you are, sweating in the high school gym
dancing to ELO, the Bee Gees, almost happy. Everything
glistening, like ice, like a nylon shirt, like a headache
in the south of France—not enough bread, sweetie, or cheese— and I  
hadn’t a sou, and there’s hardly a fate worse than being hungry   
and sou-less in France, and because the old men were smoking their little
cigars in the 2nd class waiting room, laughing, having a hell of a good time. 

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