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 25, 2021

Cigarettes after Sex


Backstage 60 x 60 x 2 cm mixed media on canvas






When about to lose your mind

you could always meditate, or

contact the congregation’s help desk,

bend your priest’s ear, seek mullah or rabbi

or someone else holier than thou.

But most often you just crawl     

off to bed after an apocalypse

of your own confabulation (stubbing your


toe en route or stepping in cat vomit) 

thinking I will never get up again,

not worth it, world’s too cruel, then later

mumbling “thanks, man” to your avatar 

for orange juice and coffee. Something warm

with butter on it. A slightly rank but fluffy robe

rubbing thin skin each time you light a cigarette.


You live through a legendary madeleine   

event in real time when from your    

bedroom window you observe a student nurse

splashing in her own baptismal font

and who, rinsing off with a sea sponge, reminds

you of what your stepmother from North

Carolina always used to say: cleanliness is next to godliness.



Sunday, March 21, 2021

Loveletter to an Etruscan

Loveletter to an Etruscan 40x30x0.1 cm - drawing overlayed with wax





                                                                   for Joyce and Virginia

She liked watching William Buckley

on channel 9, though all she

understood of his

Etonian stutter rap was, i.e.: she’d say

i.e., I love you princess, i.e., I’ll kill

you in a heartbeat, dude, i.e., I can blow you  

off the face of this earth with my

pot-smoking charisma, etc., in other words

a petty thief, for if you

left something out small enough

to fit in her pocket

it was gone, i.e., pilfered, i.e., ripped off, etc.

striding through summer barefoot

teaching boys how to paint their toenails

blowing fiercely on wet wrigglers fiercely

the way she battled her über-American girlfriend—white Levi jacket,

tight jeans, perfect sunglasses—with whom she was

shacked up the July of her twentieth year, they fit like

foot in glove, hoof and mouth, proof that opposites don’t

so much attract as collide going really fast

down a dirt road lined with cyclotron

water melons and rag weed

like two particles, one in Copenhagen

the other in an alternate universe

going i.e i.e. i.e. in other words

                 blow you off the face of this earth with my Smith & Wesson charisma, etc.



Sunday, February 21, 2021

On Folly


Sizzle 100 x 70 cm - acrylic, ink, oil pastel on paper







Everything is folly but folly itself

said Leopardi. Like the time


we were unembarrassedly   

hauled up the slopes of Everest

by grunting Sherpas. Being led


by a courtesan/tourist guide 

into the antique shadows of a Naples slum  

was a trip, took us way back in time, but what if


what if Byron hadn’t swum

the Hellespont, hadn’t been bitten by a malarial insect

in defense of Greek liberty? And what if


the commander of the 101st Airborne hadn’t admonished

the Germans surrounding Bastogne to more or less   

fuck off when they demanded that he give up?  


Sloppy Suzy loading up a borrowed pickup for one

more midnight move, process servers, neighbors, a lover’s last grasp

evaded, eluded, escaped, whatever


damn she’s pretty, isn’t she, eating red licorice for breakfast.   



Sunday, January 31, 2021

Youth is an Illness that time soon cures


Caramel Sundae 100 x 80 x 2 cm - mixed media on canvas






The young are screwing everything up.

They look so damn good when they’re doing it.

Actually they have no power and are drastically feckless.

Only they don’t seem to notice, which gives the skinny jerks an edge.


The young are a weird arctic mirage

lacking empathy and awareness of just how precarious life is.

I try to convince them they’re gonna crash into a road block  

of failure and disappointment. And not only once. Eyes empty of exper-


ience glaze over. A girl who doesn’t need make-up after a night out

dancing to monotonous electronic music, reaches for her phone

with one hand, a bag of vegan chips in the other, writes

some boy she barely knows yeah okay...


A young guy sits down next to me. He’s not wearing anything on top. Stomach

so smooth and flat he doesn’t even need a six-pack. Doesn’t even need to

go to the gym. Why sweat for a couple of hours only to take a shower

with old dudes torturing themselves to look like me? I say to him: you’re young


for five minutes then someone else takes your place. Meanwhile don’t trust anyone   

over thirty. Better hope you die before you get old, etc. He’s not listening, stares at his phone.

Some girl he barely knows writes: yeah okay I’ll fuck you. Is he surprised?

Relieved? Ecstatic? Not even. Smirking, he takes a selfie, saunters off to the beach.



Sunday, January 3, 2021




Hotspot 120 x 100 x 1.8 cm - mixed media on canvas






It seems always when I head down the stairs

Frau B. wants to come out of her

apartment at the same time but closes

her door just before I get there,

waiting until I pass. She’s well into her seventies,

her voice rich with dialect and a warm creamy finish,

hair the color of permafrost, face pale as snow-powdered ice.


Adding insult to injury I meet someone at a party

who’s read Umberto Eco’s doctoral thesis on

medieval aesthetics, Aristotle filtered through a hugely

drunk Aquinas. I try to back out but recognize too late

though that it’s I who have read the book and seem to be floating

away from myself like a doomed, somewhat boring astronaut

cut free from a space station for exiled book nerds. A dream

or am I surprised by the strangeness of my own reading


split off from myself like the time I smoked Killer Weed

in the army and was arguing with a facet of me that was

standing outside the barracks on bits of broken glass.

Frau B. plays Mary Had A Little Lamb or Jingle Bells (depending on

the season) on what sounds like the song flute I faked

playing in the sixth grade. Finally an explanation

for why she avoids me presents itself: I’m just too damn old for her.

Just as Aristotle was too old for Aquinas was too old for Umberto

Eco and yet that didn’t hinder them, why should it hinder me?