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, July 17, 2016

Italian Movie

3 Gefässe 2 - 3 Vessels 2 42 x 56 cm Dispersionsfarbe/Tinte - wallpaint/ink/acrylic medium c/o Karin Goeppert


Right now dreaming my way around
a hot room perfumed by bunches of lilies
stuffed into a score of vases and earthen-ware pots
under a baroque rotunda in the Tuscan countryside.
A young woman with a beautiful bare back
playing a piece by J.S. Bach(from BWV 988) on a grand piano
which looks as if it’s been given a coat of lip gloss
just before the performance.  
Her family’s lumped together in a cheering section of sorts, i.e.,
clap or die seems to be the message.
Everyone applauds enthusiastically so no one gets hurt.

Now I am inside the head of an older man
in the audience, an aristocrat from the look of him,
silk tie, sumptuous shark-skin jacket, cheekbones
bespeaking generations of selective breeding. As him, I am beginning
to swell with an inexplicable sense of my own entitlement and
self-importance all out of proportion with what I’ve accomplished
in life and am admiring the girl soloist’s long olive-hued
dimpled back with its faint scatter of pretty moles and delicate  
articulation of finely inlaid muscle during the fugue, and in my thoughts
she’s naked, bound hand and foot to the lowered piano lid
upon which I am having my lordly way with her, enacting the
Tuscan version of droit de seigneur. The woman sitting next to me
is probably my wife, eyes closed, chins resting on a pearl necklace,

dreaming of dinner parties and snoring softly. Cherubs are chasing

amazingly fat nymphs across the ceiling, which reminds an American girl
   sitting in the audience(unable to fully fathom her jabberwockian
Marketing Studies (sic?) majorette soul, I cannot be her)
of a shopping mall in Iowa. The cherubs are beefy football players
from the high school, and the fabulously fat nymphs could be
any local girls over the age of sixteen. She’s pretty much ripped
on a bottle of Vino Santo(16% alc.) which she shared with her
boy friend before the concert began. Picking through the contents of her mind
   I come across a jumble of Victoria’s
Secret under things and shoes and more shoes and a basketball gym dance
after which she lost her virginity and now I witness a fit of  
pique over a rather large zit that dominates her chin
(damn those Italian desserts!)  
plus the echo of a student who earlier mentioned
the state of something called “Italian Cinema.”
   “What,” she might have asked,
“is an Italian movie? Would that be something with Sylvester Stallone in it?
Or, like, one of those boring ancient “Godfather” type flicks that my
dad thinks are s-o-o-o awesome?” She has no idea of course that she’s nothing
beneath the frescoes above her and the frescoes nothing beneath Tuscan sky.
And what of our lovely soloist?
Whose string, as it were, did she pull to get here
this stifling lily-sweet evening, and I hope she never stops.  

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