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 6, 2018

With or Without You

Spring Sessions IV 70 x 50 x 1,5 cm acrylic/spray paint on canvas

                                                    for Oliver

Absconding angel who giveth blood once a month,
adores blue cheese on English muffin, leaves trail
of hairpins and edible bookmarks in the bed sheets,
trace of Chanel. Predictably opaque: hot coal
one second, piece of ice the next. There’s no way back.

It’s hard to believe that there’s another day.
Tomorrow, yesterday. Doesn’t matter. Any day but today.
Funny that you never visited the ruined temple
with its view of the gulf. But there’s no way back.

Poking around outside a wind starts up.
One of those talking winds, always bitching.
Scirocco, Meltemi, Santa Anna, the frigging
Mistral itself. She’s a breeze with a famous name.
And she has blown you off for ever. There’s no way back.

You feel like a figure dissolving in a sand storm.
Light sticking its fingers through the cracks
in your mind, but don’t worry, it’s still there, your mind,
more or less. There’s no way back, the wind says,
and it’s not, I repeat, not another day, though someday it might be.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Black Rain

Spring Sessions III 50 x 70 cm acrylic/spraypaint on paper


Black rain drilling little holes
clean through self-esteem on this
totally fucked January twilit
day making us feel at least                                 
50 % dumber and uglier than we
do in summer. Half the world is online, the
other half dreaming of the right content—  
it might be naked wet bodies smacking
into each other, or tea ceremony demo
by a Japanese monk. Lady de Winter
offers you a toxic joint. You refuse but
sadly, with reluctance, a touch resentful
of your own rejection of reckless liberty. Has courage   
shriveled up and crawled back to its itsy-bitsy cubicle
or is sound judgement making a half-assed comeback?
And how much of this means anything
or fits in the plan as such? There is
one crucial indisputable but subliminal
suspicion: that no one, anywhere, at anytime
gives a damn if Earth’s daughter returns or not.
It’s as if my physician, shaking his head, says
I have great news for you, Kenneth, but I couldn’t care less.

Sunday, April 8, 2018

Spring Sessions

Spring Sessions II 50 x 70 cm mixed media on craft paper


The air is thinner than expected.
But the views are a spectacle.

How we got this high is a secret.
Some information is better left unshared.

Everyone’s eyes seem peeled for the other.
All the floors are carpeted. The wallpaper has stories.

Wagon wheels, cacti, Indian warriors and their
taciturn squaws. The quintessential medicine

man in a child’s room. Muse of chaos his wife.
Muse of chaos? I think it was the medicine

made me say that. I’m not sure that would
play well at a dinner party in midtown

Manhattan or even Brooklyn. And the suburbs
would look on dumbfounded. I’m more or less convinced

our neighbors wouldn’t want us here. People being suspicious.
Their eyes always peeled. Suspicious or

totally indifferent. Sometimes I’d prefer suspicious. At least
someone’s paying attention then. These days people
are so many things. Whatever these days are. You peel them
like every other one. Then wait for the water to boil

suspiciously. Not too much information please. Not here. Not now.  

Sunday, March 25, 2018


Spring Sessions I 70 x 50 cm mixed media on paper


                                                              And what about women? He asks. Yes,
                                                               I think to myself, what about women?
                                                                                                Jack Gilbert

I like to watch them on TV.
She moves languidly across a suburban lawn.
Running shorts, tank top, hair in a twist;
she stretches a little, then jogs into the light.
I love to watch Jessica Jones thoroughly kick  
the sorry asses of some ugly rugby players  
who are trying to mess her up.
Who would want to hurt her, even if they could?
That meta-cool black leather jacket. Messy raven-wing hair.
Lips like some hybrid delicacy (grapefruit spliced
with strawberry perhaps) harvested every
fourth autumn in paradise. Why do I feel like a total idiot?
Soon I’ll be comparing her to a summer’s day. Only she can’t
hear me. She’s on Netflix. In the goofy hope
of a little eye contact I’m standing on the wrong side
of a body guard’s folded arms. She can’t even see me.
Had I not been born male, I’d be a girl with a thing
for flannel shirts and the martial arts, playing
softball in Berkeley and lusting after Kristen Stewart.
An asshole I know once said, “You’re pussy-whipped, dude.”
Oh really? I just like the way their minds play, “bro,” and how they
feel my pain, seem a little sad, even while they inflict it.