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.

Thursday, December 24, 2015


Wir wünschen Euch ein schönes, geruhsames Weihnachtsfest und einen guten Rutsch ins Neue Jahr!
Danke, dass Ihr unserem kleinen blog die Treue gehalten habt.
Kens Gedicht "Gone" ist für all diejenigen, die auch dieses Jahr jemanden verloren haben.

Mit den besten Grüßen
Karin und Ken

We wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Ken's poem "Gone" is for everyone who has lost someone this year.
Thank you for following our little blog.

Best wishes,
Karin and Ken

Daphne 38,5 x 28,5 cm Pastell/pastel

How different are we? I mean from each other.
I know if I sit down next to you I will
think of something to say. Not the

weather, perhaps, so much as Climate—
heavy with electrical storms and tsunamis
and other bad omens—will be our theme.

When did I learn to read the map of your moods? Any time now  
I’ll be listening for that excited breathing that leads up to
an elaborate statement about life on earth. Such as

your notion that if all human error—Right Wing wackiness, for example,
or a double-header on some stinking sweat-pot of a summer day in NYC,
speculation of any sort about mind-body, or the perverse

maneuvers of schizoid sub-atomic particles, etc.—were eliminated
we’d lose something of our humanity, which might not be
too bad. Or very boring. Or just not possible.

Your whims were little eruptions, not always pleasant
but strangely sustaining. Or maybe I’m making all of this up.
At the end, which always seems so abrupt, there are only

a handful of particles left behind. Each in the singular.
The last word. The harsh whisper. The plea that can only be ignored.
The sight of your back moving away like a sail, like this poem. Gone.

Monday, December 21, 2015

Happy Hour

untitled 40 x 30 cm Aquarell/Acryl/Dispersionsfarbe/Kohle


Looking for a little inspiration
in asphalt melting August,
the more unlikely the better, we attended
happy hour at the Sheraton Palace, beer a buck fifty  
a pop and free chicken wings in barbecue sauce. Debs and their
penguin suited dates; a few politicians for rent. Holt asking, “So,
what are your dreams?” Karin wanting to be a writer. Brad wanting
to be smart, smarter, smartest. “Albigensians or Alsatians. Jesus, Brad,
who cares?” I complained, not wanting to want anything, but lazy
that season, thus unable to do the hard work of being nothing. Soon
I was rapt with my own vision of make believe. Imagination  
an easy, graceful girl till she meets the critic who lives upstairs,   
then the fighting never stops; broken promises; threats of abandonment, etc.  
What about that first draft of a novel suicidally consigned to flames
in a rusty barrel, vacant lot, Providence, Rhode Island, pleasantly surprised
homeless people huddling up for some free heat? Or Byron
burning Shelly’s corpse on an Italian beach? Not exactly  
the same thing but what about that? Do you have an opinion, a theory?
Not in the mood to answer questions, afflicted with the munchies     
we stopped for breakfast at a diner on the outskirts. We were 
implausibly young. I can’t remember our faces. Nevertheless, nevertheless.

Sunday, December 13, 2015


Weststrand - Westbeach 50 x 70 cm acryl on cotton canvas by Karin Goeppert


& then she left you.
The drift of formal decline,
structural flaws, cumulative neglect,
You had been enjoying a modicum of fame
& no matter how undeserved, you savored it.
Always away on lecture tours, addressing
enthusiastic corporate execs, fund managers, even sending
into conniption fits of self-satisfied glee
                                                  the bristling cohorts of private equity.
You were taking self-improvement to unheard of lows.
I just didn’t want you to come home
while I was tying my shoe laces, that’s all, Sylvie—lovely,
lovely, and a wonderful cook—having absorbed most of my tension,
making coffee now. By the way, can you pay me back that
hundred bucks you still owe me & return my putting iron, a number
three, surely gone to rust by now in a damp corner of your garage?
Thanks for everything. Yours truly…me.