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, April 24, 2016

Anybody? Out there somewhere?

Brennendes Feld - Burning Field 30 x 25 cm acryl on canvas


Call it a road trip, if you prefer,
we’re passing through Iowa now,
Illinois or Indiana, I’m not sure which,
the infamous fat lands anyway
spread out like an ample woman on the sofa
watching Oprah and daytime reality
a small town in the corner of a corn field
and that is where two lovely girls
are dancing barefoot on a dirty carpet
in the lobby of the local massage parlor—
something on the radio by the Doobie Brothers—
but by the time all of this has registered
we’re in Santa Cruz dabbling in hands-on  
surf board technology, smoking reefer beneath
the boardwalk roller coaster, yet suffering 
wave envy whenever we think of L.A. The police
ask a few questions, then literally throw us out of town. There’s
a brawl in Tijuana, a chair used as a club,
a number of busted cue-sticks.  At some point
we are strolling through a Tuscan hill town, the ramparts of which
just before sunset emit that warm golden
light of freshly baked bread; later we eat wild boar
and drink a jug of Vino Rustico; and we wonder, yes we do, how we
got here, together, still alive, smiling through broken teeth.  

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Send me no doctor

Continental Drift 25 x 30 cm acryl painting by Karin Goeppert


Yesterday, for example, saw a woman
whose face went back and forth
between fear and bewilderment.
I’ll never know her troubles,
I thought. And what could I offer, if I did?
“Sex,” whispered the male imperative, psychopathically
serene as ever. Then enlightened self-interest slash good manners     
kicked in with: “Don’t stare, it’s rude. Mind your own business.”
When I looked at her again, she was smiling, on the verge of laughter.                                           
                                        And what’s up with the 
man who camps out in the park most nights? I’ll never
get close enough to figure him out. An exchange   
of words though might be like slithering face-up under
miles of barbed wire. No way out. However if you    
are living in a park, psychology no doubt’s been stripped
down to finding shelter, a bite to eat. But what about those
potentially reflective moments when he’s smoking 
a cigarette beneath his favorite tree? For his sake I hope
he mainly thinks about supply issues. Where his next 
smoke is coming from. Bottle of lager. And not cause & effect.
                                            One bright June day last year 
I spotted a pretty girl seated atop a stack of pallets on a Berlin  
sidewalk. A fashionable boulevard. And there she was eating 
from a carton of strawberries with the abandon of a voluptuary,
a libertine of fruit. But slowly, with care, every bite deeply
enjoyed, as if nothing else in the world mattered. I couldn’t stop looking.

Sunday, April 3, 2016

I put a spell on you

On the Road (Adventure Trip Series) 56 x 42 cm - mixed media


                                                                         “Gudrun lay wide awake,
                                                           destroyed into perfect consciousness.”
                                                                                  D.H. Lawrence, “Women in Love.”                      

It was her body that carried you off like an ambulance.
Left you feeling hollow and full at the same time,  
the heat of your nerves maxed out, melting down
the mind to its ultimate core—not like Gudrun,
but rebirthed in imperfect unconsciousness—a long look
deep into his eyes got it started. The body’s embellishments,
its choreography and subterranean fragrance
did the rest.
For the first time in your life you move through
the world as if a malign deity had her hands around your heart,
squeezing until the pressure’s intolerable,
necessary, a beautiful anfractuous annihilation. In 
such a moment you are not the subject of this poem, you  
are the poem. Sonata of raw need; thousand page 
suburban blockbuster; break-dance of the reckless heart.