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, August 28, 2016


Nordwand (North Face) 30 x 40 cm gouache on paper by Karin Goeppert

                                                      In the myth that inspires Schulz’s writings
                                                      individuality is a type of theatrical display,
                                                      in which matter assumes a temporary role—
                                                      a human, a cockroach—and moves on.
                                                                                   John Gray

Who knows
maybe we are machines
but today I feel like an animal.
No need for an oil change, or spare
parts found in an old shed in some
grease monkey’s disused back yard.
The sensations I feel are of being
swollen up slightly in parts and sweaty all over,
loose-limbed, a tingling impatience. I might even   
be on the cusp of a sustained bout of warm-
blooded well-being. Like the hawk I once saw
mounted atop a hyperventilating
pigeon. Of course I could as easily  
be the pigeon in this scenario, slowly lifting
off in a predator’s talons. Or the silver fox some skeptics    
don’t believe I encountered one winter   
day in a city park but I did. I don’t have a chip
on my shoulder so much as a diving board, an
observation platform on Mars. It might take some time
to snap out of it. Then back to the tax return,
weekend shopping list, an evening of Sibelius.
Until then however what I really need
and I mean yesterday is something
physical to occur and as expe-
ditiously as possible. Someone to drop a
piece of meat on my plate—an incredible
Venetian girl, say, in a dirndl as the meat dropper, a diploma
in Primal Poetry framed and mounted, alas, on a wall
of her boyfriend’s mixed martial arts dojo
just above his rolled-up yoga mat, one of those
it just ain’t gonna happen situations, etc.
What does a machine snack on at three in the morning,
slit-eyed in the fridge light, claws of anxiety
gently tearing its psyche into edible bits, tomorrow
already today? Does it prefer
Matisse to Picasso? Proust to Joyce? Although not a vibrator
has it ever touched its lover with a vibrating hand?
Has it ever felt the pain of her absence? I mean become the pain,
so that its chest (or equivalent) is like the floor at Grand Central, 8 am?

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