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, October 8, 2017


Floris 56 x 42 cm acrylic on paper

                                                             …you think you’re so clever and classless and free
                                                             But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see.
                                                                  From WORKING CLASS HERO, John Lennon

The King’s daughters made their father a gift of
three Arabian steeds, after which he chopped off
their husbands’ heads—some plot
or other, badly planned, sloppily carried out—
   rain pattering down
on the blood-slicked platform. A concert, banners shaken
by a rowdy spring wind, a procession, the entire
court admiring itself on horseback. Thousands of the unwashed
surging against a wall of palace guards the plumes
of whose helmets a glossy, sticky-looking red. Another royal wedding, another
stiff-limbed cadet, undistinguished but impressively uniformed, marching
to the scaffold of an open carriage, always the same one
the ecstatic multitude, lining the roads, applauding every
procedure: a million flags hanging limply from damp fists.  

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Seeing Things

Sunny Meadow 29,5 x 20,5 cm mixed media on brown paper


Domestic bliss was
not on the agenda.
Seeing through step-father # 1—socio-
pathic flim-flam artist with two
maybe three aliases and five marriages
on his rap sheet—for a few   
fairly adventurous years, then
clean through and right out the other  
side of step-father # 2, witlessly transparent,
arms and legs aggressive animals
not knowing who to hit or kick next; then another life   

later looking at a view from the cliff  
isle of Hydra 
one hot eucalyptus-scented day
swimming off the rocks with
three flight attendants from Quantas
eating feta for the first time ever
investigating the tannic properties of retsina
meeting a girl of such virtue
her skin left burn marks on my finger tips    

See the Acropolis
and die, no, that’s not it, see Naples and drop dead
or at least hallucinate
in a tall narrow alley-way where
squinting accurately I see
a mirage of the Roman empire
in the twenty first-century AD
birds in cages outside tiny windows
pumping out a little street music
and now we’re here
in the midst of a cease fire on the verge of truce
“Jungle Blues” on the turntable
fragrance of orange, of buttered toast and honey, coffee
good strong coffee and there you are old
enemy now nearly my best friend again wrapped up in
turquoise bathrobe smiling into a hand-painted tea cup
planning your day as if all you have ever known is peace. 

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Why don't you talk to me?

Why don't you talk to me? 50 x 50 cm acryl/paper/oil pastel on canvas by Karin Goeppert


Breakfast is served at eight.
There are poppies the color of bright red nail polish.
The swimming pool has a fence around it
so your little ones won’t drown.
Please do not visit La Sabre Rosa: frequented
by right-wing thugs
and professed homophobes
torture and
certain death are on the menu every day.
We are famous for the relative intactness of our heritage sites, and
we have some superb fabrications as well. A good fake trumps
a boringly authentic whatever any day. You can drink our well water.
And pestilence is no longer a threat. Nothing we know of  
stings or bites, or swallows people whole
and spits them out in tatters.  
Try our special sauce. It is low on fatty acids,
so you might live a little longer than average.
Remember: never hesitate to use your pay pal. That’s what he’s there for.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Sunset and Vine

Strawberry Fields (Diptych) 30 x 80 cm- sold


Shuffling across a cobbled courtyard in Baden-Baden,
a blanket draped over his bony, raised-to-the-ears
by a Pre-Raphaelite angel named Steff—
merciful seraph—
a man always in slow-motion collapse,
shit-faced every day of his life yet able to focus
on his confession, philosophy, writerly addiction.
He was becoming who he was all the time.
That’s why he drank. A reason to celebrate.
An ode to order.
& writing was merely drinking
out of the ribbon and tap-tap of a Smith Corona.
Scribbling in the Valley for pennies on the dollar,
his share disbursed to liquor stores & sex-workers
where Hollywood Boulevard closes in on Vine
then misses it by a dog’s hair; this is
where our quest runs out of gas,” baby.”
Take note of skid marks, sprinkle of broken glass.
“It ain’t my accident. I just caused it.”
To wrap things up, a final word from our honored guest:
“It could be worse,” he croaks, guttural as a clogged drain,
popping open a can of brew—I never saw
him uglier or more persuasive—“we could run out of beer.”

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Coffee Break

Coffee Break 40 x 50 cm mixed media on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


What are we looking for
It’s not the cheap wine
Nothing is cheap here
It can’t be the sun of late
too often escorted by clouds
It must be the way the olive trees shiver in the heat

First there were Etruscans
who danced naked and played the double-flute
and had the darkest richest tans in antiquity
Interested in death’s aftermath they entombed each
other in frescoed chambers all over southern Tuscany

The Romans, more interested in killing
than in what happened after, killed the Etruscans
and were themselves killed
by Alaric and his Goths
who sound like a 60’s rock band
sacking the Holiday Inn in Jersey City

And now we’re here
half Goth half Roman
would-be Etruscan
olive trees shivering in the noon tide light
where what we looked for has found us