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, July 23, 2017

Modern Love





Swimming Lessons 40 x 50 cm acryl on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


BERLINALIA

I’m out hunter
gathering food, would settle for a
KFC in this neighborhood where
Arab men smoke water pipes in front
of their second-hand furniture stores.
At a table by himself a hipster
whose beard—
wanton, almost obscene growth—
makes me want to ask
how dare you eat coleslaw given
that catchall face hair of yours?
It took Berlin five years
to figure out it would need
five more years to finish its
new airport. They’re still working
on the math: airport’s still not done.
And yet the trees, ornate, intricate,
several shades of green in damp hot
July plus opulent semi-classical facades
of early twentieth-century houses
have to make me stop and smile.
And there’s our neighbor
setting out for nocturnal explorations
of Doper Park. Supplies obviously running low.
Good citizen of Kreuzberg
helping out the local economy.
That David Bowie and Iggy Pop used to live
around the corner is vaguely cool. Less so are the dozen
versions of Sally Bowles I’ve side-stepped over the years.
I think one Liza Minneli was plenty.
Americans here tend to adopt eccentricities
that will not let them go. Dude
from Ohio likes to wear a kilt
a lapse in taste I sort of hope returns
to haunt him in later years. Attractive
young English teacher dressed as a cliché
in clinging, short-skirted, blatantly whorish black,
brandishes vintage cigarette holder
and tries to be witty. I think it’s time
to head for the lakes & mountains. Italy’s singing something
voluptuous & sweet while Greece raises its goaty voice. Switzerland
has arranged all we need, even a desire
for the clink of cow bells or the sight of
tightly braided golden hair. A break from
full body tattoos fat nose rings gargantuan beards
creased by smug smiles the sneers of belligerent bus drivers.
It’s time
to get out.
It’s time to get
out. It’s
time to get out.
But we always come back.





Sunday, July 2, 2017

Interlunar Rendevous



Interlunar Rendevous 80 x 80 cm mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert





THE PERILS OF PLEASURE RELOADED

What does dürum mean, Mister Answer Man?
Well, Tiny Curious One, it means
a Turkish tortilla filled with thin slices of kebab,
onions, tomatoes, crisp lettuce, a garlic
herbal sauce, its trip south occasionally
facilitated by streams of cold beer. What’s
heartburn and garlic-scented breath measured
against such a delicious combo of ingredients?
It’s time to gather the right equipment and substances,
just me and a glass of some toxic brew, thoughts
not at all rigorous after a couple of bong hits, ears   
tuned-in to the correct channel as I make out
through static and buzz, not only an exquisite
piece by Portishead, but the sound of a young woman’s voice
muttering something but nothing I want to hear
while she fidgets and searches through her bag  
for a way out, answering my “where do you live?” with  
“exactly three hours from Louisiana,” and I have to admire
if grudgingly and with some regret and rising resentment
the way she indicates who knows we’ll see but I have my doubts
with a shoulder shrug, barely fighting back a yawn, hatching
the exit strategy I am fated to be a victim of.




Sunday, June 4, 2017

Layla in Cincinnati



 
Pentecost 80 x 100 x 4.5 mixed media on canvas by Karin Goeppert

CINCINNATI SPLEEN

So what do you, like, want from life? This from
a gum-chewing girl, eyes switching off just as I
register her pointless question—
life doesn’t take requests—

still I wouldn’t mind languishing awhile
beneath the weight of a half dozen essential questions, preferably
in a garden, Calabria or California, either would do, olive grove out back
thunderstorms in late summer, in the evening

so that it’s cool enough to sleep
ants everywhere in the aftermath of rain
like all over that severed hand in “Andalusian Dog” and
a young woman attempting to console the poor thing

although, in hindsight, maybe there weren’t any ants—
I’m always in search of
a perfect image which I can then haul around
for ever like an ill-advised tattoo, a motto, I try

to explain all of this to a girl whose name—
she chews gum like she really means it—
whose name, whatever her name
is and who wishes, just like me, that she was anywhere but here.




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.