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, 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?



Sunday, April 9, 2017

It's Too Late





 
Yupo 20 x 20 cm ink/gouache on paper


TARZAN’S COMMON LAW WIFE

O Jane, where art thou
as the icons of lust
gather on the billboards?

Where were you while summer
wallowed in the shallow end
like a despotic thug, a facilitator

of imperial crime, while others
did all the work?
And you without regrets, playing house

in a tropical tree fort.
The rest of us need love, Jane,
the rest of us need lots of love

O Jane. Meanwhile,
humidity is revising the record books
as far back as 1910. To each his own fetish.

To each his own consolation. We can roll back
the comforters now, open the big bays
for the damp air to circle our lonely thoughts. 




Sunday, April 2, 2017

That's Life




Erde - Earth / ink, gouache, oilpastel, oil stick on cotteon rag paper 20 x 20 cm


SHARK ATTACK

You figure life has no choice but to make us small.
It eats us up, devours love and ambition.
Happiness a table-dancing
demiurge, flashing its tits, shaking its booty
always moving just out of reach.
Makes us want to buy stuff. Watch quiz shows.
Otherwise we would talk poetry
and see in every staircase an Everest—
uttering sonnets and planting flags.
Nothing would ever get done. Ego systems would
back up and the will to power go slack. You wouldn’t
have to stand up in a crowded restaurant while people
eat Rostbraten and Wienerschnitzel and potato salad
and deliver the first and last public oration of your career.
Laying everything out. Policy decisions, a few vital stats, mixed
reviews, tearful self-justification, instances of staggering defeat
leavened somewhat by one tiny victory snatched
from the cold waves of your waiter’s indifference.
You’ve stood your ground, said your piece. Now what?
Your third worst fear is that police
might haul you off to the psych ward of a
crumbling urban hospital. Your second worst fear   
is that a concerned neighbor might ask you to leave.
Your worst fear keeps circling back for another go. 




Sunday, March 19, 2017

Thicket


Dickicht - Thicket 20 x 20 cm gouache/ink/spray paint on paper




BINIARAIX

It is beautiful here in this
unpronounceable place. Have you 
ever wanted to make love to a landscape?

Smoke rising from the orchards  
as shapely and transparent as a negligee
made of sheerest muslin, untouchable,
covering it all but just barely. I want to get hold

of the sunlight that drips off the palm trees here  
and smear it all over your body. How would
you respond? Have me arrested?
Involve me in a fight with your boyfriend? I’ll tell
you my name first, then give you some biographical details….

(Later, in the village tavern) hey, hombre,
I ask the guy sitting next to me at the bar
how do you get that smell around here that is 
so evocative of lemon peel all wrapped up in itself, cloves, cinna-

mon, olive oil, a dab of honey rubbed deeply  
into the succulent flesh of an organic
free-range chicken stuffed with garlic toes
roasting in its own juices?

Usually it comes evenings when the mountain’s
dissolved in shadows, and the crickets swell and roar
and the dogs are barking at other dogs barking
and the cock lies down with the hen.

Can I live here forever, I beg, totally losing it,
can I die here on this beer-stained, saw-dusty spot?
Fortunately he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.