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, September 6, 2015

In Transition





 
Mauerblümchen - Wallflower 80 x 100 cm acryl/dispersionsfarbe/ink on canvas

IN TRANSITION

The cable installation dude looks as if he’s been doing push-ups
all of his life. He’s eying your wife steadily,
unabashedly. Given the context, scenario, the looming
event horizon you consider a response. Why not
strangle the fuckwit with one of Cynthia’s
push-up bras? For once a touch of punning poetic justice.
But aggression’s leaking away replaced by a softer,
gentler, more fluidly feminine substance. Headaches keep 
circling back, settling in like sodbusters in the north-east
sector of empty territory once known as your brain. Life loving
sociopaths, charlatans in sharkskin suits, used to lurk there,
replaced now by a midwife, two hairdressers,
a depressed clerk weeping in a broom closet. What’s this all about?
Your analyst has suggested you take up ballet, as if lifting
a fifteen year old girl over your head and sprinting rather
daintily through a bevy of dying swans just might clarify
certain “issues” in your life. Soloists lined up at the barre.
Staring into the mirror, nubile Denise asks you to sit on her 
upright feet, your manly weight needed to bend, reshape, deform.
“I’ll get back to you later,” you say, then lock yourself in a bathroom
stall in which you dig through your “dance” bag, like mom searching
frantically for her lipstick, a clean tissue, so long ago—you’ve taken to crying
in elevators. Must be the music, the sad songs. Those testosterone blues.




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