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, October 25, 2015


Parade 39,5 x 49,5 cm acryl/scratchmarks on linen


Just when I thought I
had you pegged
pigeon holed
identified in the
line up
you pirouette
out the door into a new life.
You pointed out   
that a preposition should not
bring up the rear of a sentence
right before what the Brits call a “full stop.”
Which is what you did. You stopped fully.
Or sprinkling cheese over the beans
as they simmered
cutting the onions and tomatoes
filling the wraps with all of it. And sour cream.
And a handful of regrets. And a
half-baked philosophy of life.
And a bunch of questions tied off at the top
we’d rather keep uncooked, rotting at the back of the fridge.
I felt like an army standing at parade rest beneath the trees
and yet at peace
with our warlike natures.
All of those ingenious transitions
into other ways of being different
I would never have thought of without you.

Sunday, October 18, 2015

In the dark, dark Forest

Im dunklen, dunken Wald - In the dark, dark Forest 30 x 24 cm - Pastell


Showing up on our back doorstep
unannounced, those proverbial excursionists, incognito
most of the time and always in a hurry to move on:
old Clyde was kind and compassionate and suffered
accordingly and your sister’s friend Eva preferred the
moral high ground, and Tommy Solo
was curious about everything and kept a secret notebook.
The espresso machine squirted and the cigarettes came out.
They couldn’t resist a good story.   

Once upon a miserable moment I walked, hobbled,
almost crawled one hundred plus miles in three days
from Poison Ivy, Virginia to Richmond, the state capitol,
its airport, seated on the tarmac with parachute
on and about 60 pounds of equipment—knife, tank killer,
semi-automatic rifle, garrote, brass knuckles, Mexican grass, and other
paraphernalia of the killing trade—strapped and taped to my body.
The trooper sitting next to me started to cry very slowly and quietly to himself:
 an eclipse from which no man could avert his eyes.