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, February 28, 2016

My Earlier Life as a Vampire

Blauer Spaziergang - Blue Walk 38,5 x 48,5 cm pastel by Karin Goeppert


The first girl whose throat
I had designs on was one
of our baby sitters. Her plump
pale neck was studded with pretty moles.

So whenever she blushed or flushed
I felt like an oil man scratching the
sand at the edge of an oasis, simply dying
to sink my drill into that rich lode. Yes, there were

teeth marks, but I swear, your honor, I
drew not one drop of her sweet blood.
Being older now, deeply mired in middle-age, I’m over
all that, and yet…I’d go for Anne Hathaway

in a pulse beat when she plays amorous Jane Austen  
long alabaster throat exposed in gowns plunging perilously
or as Meryl Streep’s factotum (deeply V-necked sweaters)
or fetchingly short-haired Liv Tyler (all lips, eyes, but mainly neck)

in a Robert Altman flick set in the South. Ethics? I’m a connoisseur
not a philosopher—well, not really—philosophy has its attractions—
or some philosophers, anyway—the vandals, the belligerents—
and I probably won’t get a stake in the heart

so much as a classic spike heel, or its contemporary cousin
the muddy cleat of her soccer shoe. But not even that
will happen. I’ve retired. I’ll have to be satisfied with scrambled
eggs flame-thrown with tabasco, reading Nietzsche till dawn burns through my curtains.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Rosario in Gardenfever

Gartenfieber III - Gardenfever III acryl on canvas 100 x 80 cm


                                                Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye…
                                                             The uncontrollable mystery of the bestial floor.
                                                                           from THE MAGI, W.B. Yeats

I see them even now
in the green light of laptops and tablets
spread sheets scrolling down their pale faces
wasted on caffeine, lips thin and dry and chapped, never
satisfied, oh yeah, that’s them, always wanting what I
don’t want to give them, like junior vampires in search of
a little fresh plasma. Gray or blue suits not quite fitting properly,
handed down, it would seem, from an equally geeky sibling
who’s worked his way up to partner by now, grasping the ins
and outs of VAT far better than he will ever grasp 
the constantly mutating needs of his wife
and who, in fact, is on the verge of leaving him for a
bar tender from Montenegro—but that’s
another story; and the women,
nerdy, snorting, with strangely sour breath,
some of them unconsciously cute
packed hard-bodied in their pin-stripe suits, stealing
from the fourth floor kitchen fridge, and without a twinge of remorse,
half of some stranger’s turkey sandwich. In the Zone finally, eyes
unraveled in cold, unflinching stare, she finds again and again
in the turbulence of ingeniously fudged figures
those controllable mysteries of the bestial executive floor.