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, October 30, 2016

Confessions of a Poet and an Artist

Calluna 80 x 100 cm acryl/dispersion color/oilpastel on canvas by Karin Goeppert


God and I are not always on the same page.
We beg to differ, quibble over this and that.
When I’ve had a little too much Idolatry—
the Red label, not the White or Black—
I’m ready to bitch-slap the world, railing away
like a wannabe stand-up comic in front of
an open mike: scratch the surface of a poet
you find a lay priest hungry for a chuckle.
Meantime God’s earthly sales reps waver  
between crises of faith and joyful slaughter of the infidel—
take your pick—while a few slip into some
dim edifice of sin, whorehouse or men’s room
of a Detroit bus station—take your pick—only to
come out the other end holier-than-thou than ever.
Altars heaped with shreds of ozone and Brazilian
T-bone steaks and still there’s cancer and every kind of slavery.  
And yet—you can write me up if you want to—and yet, God’s wife
is absolutely gorgeous. I‘ve always liked the wives of major deities.
When they are witty, and don’t force me to say grace before supper.

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Pity and Terror

untitled 34 x 16,5 cm gouache/oil pastel


Closing my eyes
I manage to hit the ball anyway,
slide into first, pull a groin
muscle, limp away to scattered,
mildly ironic applause—an off-duty
cheerleader offers me a
pastiche of smile/frown plus
a touch of desire/disgust overlap—
some girls are really good at that look—
but windows of opportunity being
sometimes microscopic if not mythic
she just as quickly takes it back;
I’m hanging from a cross
between Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas—
it’s all fake but it hurts anyway—
while Stanly Kubrick stands in front of us—
he’s highly pissed off, by the way, frustrated,  
every inch the Unappeasable Maestro;
a trailer
in Kentucky
flickers softly in swamp light,
a woman emerging through the door,
one enormous body part following the other—
she’s holding one of the hounds
of hell by its collar—in her other hand
a sawed-off shotgun—I give her
the pizza I’m delivering
then float off on fumes of crystal meth; you
told me you saw a stranger, a girl
in her twenties, twice in one day
when you were
in Frankfurt—the first time after a showing
of Schindler’s List—she was sitting on the curb
out front, cry-heaving with grief—and the second
time in a techno club, her slender, sweaty body
changing color constantly under strobe lights—
this is how we get through, this is how
we deport pain and sorrow to a back lot
knowing they will return and not caring—
but you never told me
why you were in Frankfurt just then
or never seem to get what you need from life.