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, January 10, 2016

Dark Side of the Moon


Gartenfieber II - Gardenfever II - 100 x 80 cm acrylics on canvas by Karin Goeppert




NOTES FOR A NOVEL
                                          I knew one 4th Division Lurp who took
                                          his pills by the fistful, downs from the
                                          left pocket of his tiger suit and ups from
                                          the right, one to cut the trail for him and
                                          the other to send him down it.  
                                                                                  Dispatches, Michael Herr

About the time “Dark Side of The Moon” was released,
the 60s stumbling stoned and drunk into the 70s,
Todd’s— or was it Tim’s?— old man, “Coach,” seemed  
a touch manic if not a nut case—more like  
the pill-popping leader of one of those     
   ruthless, tenacious long-range recon platoons    
in Viet Nam—had become highly critical   
of our jump shots, curve balls, the lack of spin in our spirals,
giving us more shit than we knew what to do with:
about the time Ursula Bergmann, imported hausfrau, flashed her quim
(lovely old word quim, 18th c.: origin unknown) at a
fifteen-year old boy, who later
sat through “Deep Throat” twice, a direct consequence, everyone agreed,
   of premature quim viewing,
the enemy not only among us, but well beyond the age of consent,
stirring at the edges of pool parties and alleyways
behind liquor stores, eager to ambush
any long-standing taboo
that might come wandering down the trail: about the time

Tim’s or Todd’s dad—who, when I think
about it, looked and sounded a lot like the current version
of Ted Nugent— said, “Never trust anyone,”
      while looking up at 
the occupied, territorialized, nationalized sky:
“Now that they’ve taken the moon away…what’s next?...our guns?”



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