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, December 18, 2016

On The Other Hand


untitled 40 x 53 cm gouache auf Himalaya Büttenpapier c/o Karin Goeppert





ON THE OTHER HAND

Someone I used to know—don’t
ask who—telling me all the time
isn’t it wonderful to be alive
because the world’s a grand
ball room of inspired
madness and beauty
some of which
decorated with frescoes
from Ghirlandaio’s workshop—
elegant, good looking
players of the day acting out the Life of
the Virgin and the life of St. John the Baptist
in Santa Maria Novella, and in the bay off
the north transept a fresco by Masaccio tries
to figure out perspective for the first time
since antiquity—the Holy Trinity—Mary Mother
of God looking a lot like a therapist
I once knew—and not always a splatter job
by Francis Bacon or David Cronenberg.

I noticed the other day—don’t ask which
one—that somebody’d taken selfies at Auschwitz,
then posted them on Facebook. This qualifies  
as a new development. Far as I know, in pre-social network
days smiley faces were not sewn onto complementary
striped p.j.s. But who am I to judge? Ah, that
famous question. And yet, I’m a certifiably
sentient being. And I know
how to take a Pamplona bull by the horns,
then serve him up with sautéed mushrooms, i.e.,
I’m adaptable; and
as morally “flexible” as the situation
dictates. But selfies
at Auschwitz?  Where the gas chambers
asphyxiated, and the ovens smoked? The mere thought
makes me want to take a shower.
A brain shower, a cerebral bath.

This evening we have nothing better to do than
line up to buy tickets for “Exterminator 2.0”—
I’m wearing a wig and sunglasses—looking a little like
Thomas Jefferson on vacation in Virginia Beach— in case
one of my “friends” walks by, on his way to the Exhibition,
on her way to the Rite of Spring or a lecture on wassuup.
Who isn’t helpless? Someone I don’t know once said that.






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