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.

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