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, January 26, 2020

Don't Fear the Reaper


 
Love 50 x 40 acrylic on canvas


KALI IN SUBURBIA

I adore afternoons that feel like a lazy saxophone
solo, it’s hot, we’re all eating shrimp. A fat uncle
smoking a Cuban cigar, everything’s great
till someone says Have you heard the one about…

Live dangerously is my motto.
I love stumbling
giddy and laughing out my
lover’s backdoor, half naked,
headlights illuminating family portraits.

You feel uneasy with me at times, don’t you?
That’s because I destroy evil in all its
guises. I can smell it the way you can smell
pheromones, opportunity, a whiff of high quality weed
coming from your child’s untidy bedroom.

If you really knew me you wouldn’t
want me standing like a pile of toxic
debris in a corner of your cocktail party.
But what you don’t know is that I would
be a perfect maid-of-honor or witness at
your Vegas wedding, posting everything on Instagram.

Still, you don’t know me, not really, or yourself,
or how much your frat boy brat was drinking
before he slipped out with the car keys
that evening that ended so badly. 




Sunday, January 5, 2020

Magenta's Lips


 
Autumn Rose 100 x 70 cm - acrylic on paper



LIPS

I’m trying to teach her the Genitive.
Words form slowly between the
suspiciously puffy lips of this powerful  
woman ruffling her cape. Her red cape.
There is an intimation of super powers.
I’m trying to teach her the Dative.
Her lips are absurdly bountiful.
Bountiful as America. American lips.
They are real, hyperreal, surreal. She says.  
I tend to believe her. Maybe she
grew up near a nuclear power station.
Or a toxic waste processing plant located behind leaky walls.
Aesthetically mutated by gradual disaster?
I’m trying, I swear, to teach her.
She only learns what she wants to learn.
They’re all
coming of age now, a pessimistic optimism
bubbling up and down a scale I can’t keep up with, still dressed
in flip flops and leggings and Ray-Bans even though
more than a few are turning forty next month, slurping
coffee, checking
their phones, indestructible, I mean
partially impermeable.