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, November 13, 2016

Y e s



 
he asked me 30 x 24 cm acryl on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert



IS IT THEM, OR AM I JUST PARANOID?

Sometimes they look at me as if I were an alien. Like I might
nip off a few choice body parts, remove one or two vital
organs without spilling a drop of blood, then send it all
off to be examined by a Higher Intelligence.

I think they overrate themselves. Some of them are nearly
exquisite, true, but I don’t think anyone of more than
middling intelligence would find them worthy of study.
One could imagine, though barely, the diversions of a field trip—
as it were—but as objects of scholarly desire? I don’t think so.

Last week during dictation one girl must have thought
it was vampire hour. She thrust a crucifix the size of two
large fork tines in my face and muttered some heart-felt if
rudimentary Latin formula. The hysteria began to spread.

Another girl—a blond from Argentina, not averse to tangoing
into glass twenty or so minutes late—tried to rub a sliver of garlic
over one of my paper cuts. I was forced to punish her. I won’t
reveal how, but you can trust me, it will have no lasting effect on her behavior.

During lunch the girls started hammering together a scaffold.
At least they’ve learned something in wood shop. Besides,
they prefer hanging to burning. Fire ordinance? I have to
admire them. They’ve figured out the system. If you play
by the “rules,” you can get away with anything.

Who will write my epitaph? My wife for sure not. I peel back a
layer of bread. Mustard. Lots of it. She knows I detest the stuff.
Or was it my untrustworthy daughter? Or one of her pointlessly
malicious school friends? She has so many of late.




No comments:

Post a Comment