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, December 18, 2016

On The Other Hand

untitled 40 x 53 cm gouache auf Himalaya Büttenpapier c/o Karin Goeppert


Someone I used to know—don’t
ask who—telling me all the time
isn’t it wonderful to be alive
because the world’s a grand
ball room of inspired
madness and beauty
some of which
decorated with frescoes
from Ghirlandaio’s workshop—
elegant, good looking
players of the day acting out the Life of
the Virgin and the life of St. John the Baptist
in Santa Maria Novella, and in the bay off
the north transept a fresco by Masaccio tries
to figure out perspective for the first time
since antiquity—the Holy Trinity—Mary Mother
of God looking a lot like a therapist
I once knew—and not always a splatter job
by Francis Bacon or David Cronenberg.

I noticed the other day—don’t ask which
one—that somebody’d taken selfies at Auschwitz,
then posted them on Facebook. This qualifies  
as a new development. Far as I know, in pre-social network
days smiley faces were not sewn onto complementary
striped p.j.s. But who am I to judge? Ah, that
famous question. And yet, I’m a certifiably
sentient being. And I know
how to take a Pamplona bull by the horns,
then serve him up with sautéed mushrooms, i.e.,
I’m adaptable; and
as morally “flexible” as the situation
dictates. But selfies
at Auschwitz?  Where the gas chambers
asphyxiated, and the ovens smoked? The mere thought
makes me want to take a shower.
A brain shower, a cerebral bath.

This evening we have nothing better to do than
line up to buy tickets for “Exterminator 2.0”—
I’m wearing a wig and sunglasses—looking a little like
Thomas Jefferson on vacation in Virginia Beach— in case
one of my “friends” walks by, on his way to the Exhibition,
on her way to the Rite of Spring or a lecture on wassuup.
Who isn’t helpless? Someone I don’t know once said that.

Sunday, December 11, 2016


Brumalis (acryl/gouache/wall paint/coffee on canvas) 80 x 80 cm c/o Karin Goeppert


Frog voices bent in starlight.
Trees and bushes in the backyard
magical as a Steven Spielberg
bio-pic about Norman Rockwell
enchanted as the shadows of a sultry
summer night, a young girl falling in love
with a boy whose only love is his skateboard.
A barely audible shift in mood
leads to actions of life-altering consequence.

For all of this to make sense the world must be seen
as essentially sad yet still able to crack us up.
Frogs laughing in the starlight while a French farmer
sharpens his knives. Cleopatra, fat tabby, dancing
with a field mouse. Steven Spielberg sharing a
pipe with Norman Rockwell’s great-grandson
on a wrap-around porch in Fresno, both men bent beneath
the weight of stars yet giggling anyway, 
giggling about nothing at all. 

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Dance Lessons Here, Real Cheap

I got the Blues - Ich hab den Blues 52 x 36 cm c/o Karin Goeppert


You’re on the run, aren’t you? Sit down here
next to me. I have more time than is good
for you but I think you will like me in the end.
Let’s start with a few dances. This one’s called
“Werewolf” and sort of resembles a tango with hair.
And the “Tonic Water Waltz” is for ex-alcoholics
who, as the story has it, are never really “ex”—
the way people who suck on e-ciggys are   
never really “ex,” are dying in fact to go back to
their corrosive old lover’s “Deadly Embrace”—the name,
by the way, of a decidedly  less wholesome dance.    
I’m famous for my “Rumba for Runaways.” This is
a dance of delicate delinquencies, of infractions
that matter only to the…infractor? None of this is easy
but I’m pretty sure you will catch on fast and stay a while
turning barefoot on this scruffy lawn for one of those
glimpses of eternity when everything finally makes sense. 

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Green and Gold

Grün und Gold/Green and Gold 30 x 24 cm mixed media on canvas


It can begin here in this weed-thickened
night. The light of a thousand lamps
bouncing off the canal. The grass is alive—
pungent, spicy—with cannabis and curry sausage.
A girl passes us, talking to herself, jogging
at a safe, conversational pace; another girl
stomps by in motorcycle boots, pale fierce little face
saying nothing, body language however expressing 
FUCK OFF & DIE. Further on is what passes for a theatre
in our district. But no, it’s a café, but no—if we honor
the patron’s preferred nomenclature—it’s a “bistro,”
and why not? Meanwhile I’d better “liaise” or “interface”
with a urinal cake “asap.” Funny, innit (as I stand here,
splashing away), how time of life can be measured
   by states of mind musically speaking.
And even funnier that no composer has ever
thought of that. Consider the stuttering oboe sonata (that 30ish experience
of fear and loathing in the workplace), the chuckle of a bassoon
( easy, resigned humor of late middle age), the squawk
of saxophones ( youthful depravity), and so on. Amazing
the thoughts that come to us through this doily filtered light.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

We Haven't Turned Around



Just thought I’d let you know   
that you have a mind like Time magazine.
It’s always: “on the other hand…
and yet…I’m sure
there’s another side to the story.”
I don’t mean
that in a bad way, but.  
Is it true you’re working
on something in a language
that literally nobody reads or speaks anymore,
sacred texts or whatnot?
A project similar, say, to climbing Goat Fuck
Mountain in Eastern Albania,
a place you can’t find on a map,
probably because it doesn’t exist.
By the way, we missed you
at the party yesterday.
It was the whole block, you know,
but who’s hung up on exclusiveness?
People say you were with someone
who’s dying, offering solace,
compassion, the resources of your charm and wit. Anyone
we know? Anyone we’ll miss?
Did you see the sunset yesterday?
And the day before? A deep golden rusty pink
is how I would describe it.
Gaudy, a pretty mess. Would
no doubt be sticky
if we could touch it.
If there is a God
at least we know  
now what His favorite colors are
and that His taste really sucks.