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, February 11, 2018

Look me in the Eye

Look me in the Eye 100 x 80 cm acrylic on canvas


are stored in family vaults
in Naples, Italy, in New Orleans—set afloat on some holy
river in South Asia—scattered over a bay in California—
scattered on the floor of a forest in Germany, a gum
wrapper shining through the ashes—but they’re
among us too.

Twisting the neck
of a pepper mill—dead—giving correct change—deader— 
that figment in the mirror—deadest.

You ask a few corpses to drop by
for an evening of civilized decomposition.
Zombies line up, board the boat, cross the river to be with you.

You’re taste keeps evolving
giving you hope that nothing will stop.
That you will grow out of yourself
into other selves perpetually
and onward without end
eternity waiting just for you:

which may turn out to be one of your favorite
fantasies featuring a vision of temple dancers
drifting home after the night shift;
row after row
of languid palms on either side of the street
leaning back in a damp breeze
and dreaming of hurricanes—dead certain—to come.

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Selling Out

Carola 48 x 49,5 cm pastel on cotton


is a bummer for
the 70’s era pop-rock super-gods
—their latest
release turning gold even before
it hits the stores, cute little Stevie
on the cover, all big eyed and blond—so
they take revenge on their own success.
Their next album pushes past the
limits of the listenable; the critics kill it….
Bill Clinton sold, and sold again. Except for an abbrevi-
ated era when he seemed to believe  
in something French: Liberte’, Egalite’, Fraternite’—
like a fortune cookie’s prophecy folded into
a triangulated croissant
then dropped, like an orphan, on Wall Street’s door step.
Mick and David sold out
long before Angie caught them
comparing schlongs in a suite
at the Waldorf. Or did I just
make that up? Maybe it wasn’t
the Waldorf. I don’t know, maybe it was their
guitar collections they were comparing.
What does selling out mean in the worlds
of pop music, and politics,
and even religion? It’s 1375, say, and I give
my priest a cow and a couple of odorous goats
for a good word in God’s ear. Meanwhile
the sun has turned us into bones.
Bleached out, broken, scattered across the sands
until, that is, Georgia O’Keeffe
spirit-in-residence on her own Ghost Ranch,
gathers us up, places us on a shelf
with a few other bony relics. Used to take a long
time to get old. I was thirty-five at least ten years—
I thought!—and now every two or three months
little bits of me chip away. I’d sell out in a heartbeat
to slow down the rot. It’s so easy to go Faustian.
End Of Season Sale. Everything Absolutely Must Go!

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Contemplate This

Abstract Meadow 21 x 29.7 pastel on paper c/o Karin Goeppert


I’m trying to be a better person.
I really want to improve.
I usually only eat meat that’s been
coddled from “stable to table.”
I renounce violence at least
three times a week. Still,
I almost regret not deconstructing
my wife’s first boyfriend’s distinctly sagging
inexplicably self-satisfied face
when he dropped by for dinner
during the Great Heat Wave of 2011—
deconstruction, yeah, that’s it, between dessert
and a lovely espresso with a splash of grappa in
it would have literally hit the spot.

Therapeutically minded
I contemplate various forms
of domestic plant life. The slightly
nodding fronds are reassuringly mute
yet an orchid’s pale creamy petals
as pale and creamy as sauce
over one of those pigs, roasted now,
who, if you believe the PR department
died happy—and over Swabian pasta—
make me think of W. eating and talking
talking and eating
and all I want to do
is disable his point of view.

The world is made of ten-thousand opinions.
Whose logic isn’t exhausting? At the same time
the trees are ecstatic with birds, their
give-and-take mercifully indecipherable.
Swirling flocks of swallows
soaring and dipping in Cairo
doing somersaults in Athens, in Berlin
and there I go again—just can’t stop dropping those names.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

The mountains, The mountains

The scary Climb 40 x 30 cm mixed media on paper


What can you say about mountains?
That you can’t fit them into a phone? But, look, you can.
When I’m on top of one of
them I’m a little high because I’m short
of oxygen after the climb and take huge
gulps of air to compensate, a pulmonary phenomenon  
Brad Pitt coolly elucidates in “Fight Club.”  
I’m inspirationally
high…sometimes. Other times I’m somewhat numb, a little
detached, wondering what kind of beer I’ll have with
my schnitzel when we’re gemütlich and sleepy in town. And
I’m wondering but it’s no wonder they put cheese on everything
in the Gasthäuser; emmentaler, greyerzer; bells clanking
lethargically when the cows lick their muddy hides, their
tongues, great pink saliva laced slabs, reaching out, touching you,
like an old commercial for long distance phone calls.
Some of the higher peaks here look like
they’ve been in a fight, are gorgeously deformed.
Others have grass growing on steeply slanting faces, softening,
but still irredeemably aloof. They will not be walked upon.
Music to accompany these writhing piles of rock shouldn’t be Wagner
or Strauss. I would prefer the Miles Davis of “Kind of Blue”
or something tense but quiet by Charles Mingus. Water breathing   
out cold air as it falls; music so cool it almost can’t be bothered.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Art and Poetry for several occasions

Maremma 40 x 50 cm ink/ashes on canvas


If only there was botox
for the brain. Unsightly bulges
and crevices flattened and filled. The limbic
system tightened up. No more hard feelings,
no jitterbugging hesitations. A constant cool front
moving in; you chill; you bop. Anything goes
and we’re loving it. Like writers who
are heartlessly literal: we call a
fish a fish. Squirming on the hook,
it’s still a fish, isn’t it?  
That’s life, as Sinatra sang. You bend over
to pick up a cheese burger and trigger a booby trap.
That was life.
Speaking of booby traps: touch a girl’s
knee, you’re out of a job. Then you remember
Nietzsche, what he wrote about the debilitating
effects of power on intelligence. Nailed that one.
No, life is a rum commercial in 1989. That’s what we want.
But who knows how many takes it took to get it right?
Anyone out there privy to that info?
When a very young whore, I mean young— so young
she reminds you of somebody’s baby sister
the night of her junior prom—staggers out
of her pimp’s Hummer, in Prague maybe
or Warsaw no less, she’s still a whore, isn’t she? Her bruises
are predictable, even banal. Still, you wince, you wince
and try to forget that you’re a bit of a softy after all; maybe  
have a sister somewhere. Still, this is the world. This is how
the world plays its game. But the red, that red,
no matter its—contextual relevance?—belongs inside.