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 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. 

Sunday, March 18, 2018

High at Hyde Park

High Wire Act 100 x 70 cm mixed media on paper


You are something I’d like to climb over.
I guess we could call it “will,” the druthers of your mind
--I’d “ruther” do this, I’d “ruther” not do that--
I’d love to set it like an egg timer.
Listen to it tick—peacefully—while I stir something.
Eggs, sausage, a drop of pancake batter on my finger.

The willows are sighing softly, which is
much better than wheezing noisily.
Any omen that enhances the protocols
of the season and I’m in all the way. You have
said that too. In your better days
when talking was an item on our agenda.

The drunks have left off singing, they’re
just tired now. It’s three in the morning,
you say, and I thank you ( a little solemnly) for the update.
How did it get to be so late so early?
We are moving and standing still at the same time.

Fairly certain physics cannot mathematize this sensation.
Science was not designed for such undertakings, e.g.
Sandrine’s hair color cannot be verified.
The pipes are wheezing, and this is no enhancement.
She’s in the kitchen, fumbling with breakfast. For which she too is not designed.