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, May 14, 2017

Barbarians


Pirouette 50 x 50 cm acryl on canvas by Karin Goeppert



BARBARIANS AT THE GARDEN GATE

In my dream are lines of coke.
In the old fashioned bottles.
Who can resist coke in the old fashioned bottles?
And castle dungeons with wall-to-wall
and big soft pillows plus baby oil  
or one of those Majorcan golf courses complete
with slender girl caddies in Catalonian attire—
but there are huge speakers out of which
ooze the greatest hits of Wham! which makes
me want to track down and punish the deejay—
plus car sickness and enhanced coercion: “If you
don’t shut up we won’t stop for tapas.” In other
words, the perks and ills of civilization. So I depart this dream
and welcome other barbarians, dinner guests,
visiting relatives, bullying past Maginot lines
of good behavior—bilious, looking like shit
after a day long ride, demanding alcohol and salty snacks.
Later, stepping out into the yard to smoke a joint, I’m
hoping for a vision of freedom, but all I can see is the back fence.




Sunday, May 7, 2017

The Greatest

Midnight Stroll ink/gouache on cotton rag paper by Karin Goeppert





HELLAS (2)

I didn’t swallow the fly
and I’m glad. Principle
as much as disgust. And the smell
of pines I will never forget,
like the last words of an old friend,
almost gone, one way or the other,
about what she will never forget.
Temple of Poseidon nothing but
a few chunks of marble embedded in dirt.
Across the gulf
the lemon groves of Galatas
in a grid of irrigation gutters
the mountains behind them
sharp-edged
like unearthed implements
from some epic blood-bath.
Tree-climbing goats.
American students puking over the side of a party boat.
Who wasn’t having fun?
The light told me of white cubic shapes, differing shades of blue,
how shade itself had differing shades of blue
the light in Greece
an authority on many subjects
saturating my glass of bathtub retsina
in the kitchen/living room of our
impoverished landlord & -lady
a fly drowning inside it.
You tried to make me drink it all down
so as not to insult the hospitality of these fine people.
Even then you were a force to reckon with,
implement sometimes—the force—manage a little
but never rule:
years of applied technique
trial and error
most kinks
massaged out
with just enough residual weirdness
to keep things interesting
or a little surprise at breakfast: did she say that?
Hmmm, she’s still got it. 
We were twenty-something
back then. Didn’t know asses from elbows. But
so close to happy it couldn’t help but touch us.




Monday, May 1, 2017

Flashmob



 
Schrecksee 30 x 30 cm acryl/gouache on cotton rag paper by Karin Goeppert


HELLAS (1)

Nervous Greek toilet: delicate
as a maiden aunt’s
belly, hardly able
to keep anything down.
The plumber you sent for
several hours if not
days ago
lured into a card game
at the harbor
finally shows up
with a bag full of excuses
and a few old tools.
And he would say—if he bothered
to explain but certainly not justify
an existence as self-evident
and deserving as his own—
“I am what I am.”
As much Popeye as Zorba,
he scratches his seven day beard.
Almost scratches his balls
before noticing the presence of a female.
Thinks he knows exactly
how to extract what he wants
from what you have.
Your “secretary,” for example.
Turn your back for five seconds
he’s fingering her hemline,
admiring the “material,”
her hands in the air
flapping helplessly
as if trying to dry nail polish.
Human nature or whatever
you want to call it has room
here to stretch,
scratch a musky armpit, sigh,
reach across the table—
a rickety affair, beer coaster
stuck under one wobbly, too short leg—
and grab a few more olives.




Sunday, April 23, 2017

Earth


Earth II 20 x 20 cm mixed media on cotton rag paper



MICKEY, THE NORWEGIAN BABY BOY

                                                                “Life is a combination
                                                                 of magic and pasta.”
                                                                                  FEDERICO FELLINI     

You used to give me lessons in the dark.
Then “Nurse Ratched” (someone’s
mom) switched on the light.
Instant loss of innocence. We have
changed, matured, have a developed sense 
of what we like and dislike. We still like
Chinese food but will it ever taste the same? Sweet
is a bit more sour than it used to be but I don’t
think you even care. Should I be worried? “Take out” is

“To Go,” and I hear chop sticks chiming in the wind.
This is known as recycling. We talk about “La Dolce Vita”
making a comeback of sorts. Fellini. Bunuel. David Lynch.
Like. Like. Usually like. Tend to dislike special effects.
Then real life takes over. Plans have to be made,
Epicurean adjustments, a handful of careful hours.
Everything else has been left to chance. There are
moments of quiet elation. Then real life takes over.
Mickey, the Norwegian baby boy, raises his
tail in delight, scarcely aware of what’s turning him on.  



Saturday, April 22, 2017

Am Freitag, 28.04. beginnt meine Ausstellung bei Peggy Lukac!
Ich würde mich sehr freuen, euch dort ab 17.00 h auf ein Glas Wein und ein paa portugiesische Leckerlis  begrüßen zu können!

Friday next week my exhibition at Peggy Lukac Design starts.
I would be happy if you could drop by!


Monday, April 17, 2017

Save me



 
Sils Maria 60 x 50 cm acryl/oil pastel on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert




KEVIN

                                           “Which way I fly is hell…”

I always thought murder
would be your fate.
Not the serial sort, but rooted
in animal rage. Pitching
legendary fits on your parents’
front lawn, weeping,
facing the crime scene you grew up in.
Fists clenched, arms at your sides,
walking in place, cursing your father’s transgressions.
We only found out later what
he’d been doing to your sisters.
A time of drought and baseball in the street.
Kids waiting for the ice-cream truck.
Barbecue smoke drifting over back fences.
Then you would explode out the front door.
People stood on their porches
as if a parade, all its floats on fire, were passing by.
I almost expected hesitant applause.
Sartre called self-murder an act of bad faith.
Certain experts
in the human condition
claim that it’s a coward’s last act;
others see it as a final
gesture of self-indulgence
(amazing what an array of shallow
fuckwits can come up with) as
as if suicide were an orgy
in an opium den—but what if
stepping out the front door
were the equivalent of soaking
your nerves in acid? What if
traffic signals
issued intolerable
commands? What if the last time
you made love to a woman
she ran a credit check before undressing?
What if the only possibility
to rest easy,
in the end, was never to wake up?