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 23, 2017


Earth II 20 x 20 cm mixed media on cotton rag paper


                                                                “Life is a combination
                                                                 of magic and pasta.”
                                                                                  FEDERICO FELLINI     

You used to give me lessons in the dark.
Then “Nurse Ratched” (someone’s
mom) switched on the light.
Instant loss of innocence. We have
changed, matured, have a developed sense 
of what we like and dislike. We still like
Chinese food but will it ever taste the same? Sweet
is a bit more sour than it used to be but I don’t
think you even care. Should I be worried? “Take out” is

“To Go,” and I hear chop sticks chiming in the wind.
This is known as recycling. We talk about “La Dolce Vita”
making a comeback of sorts. Fellini. Bunuel. David Lynch.
Like. Like. Usually like. Tend to dislike special effects.
Then real life takes over. Plans have to be made,
Epicurean adjustments, a handful of careful hours.
Everything else has been left to chance. There are
moments of quiet elation. Then real life takes over.
Mickey, the Norwegian baby boy, raises his
tail in delight, scarcely aware of what’s turning him on.  

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Am Freitag, 28.04. beginnt meine Ausstellung bei Peggy Lukac!
Ich würde mich sehr freuen, euch dort ab 17.00 h auf ein Glas Wein und ein paa portugiesische Leckerlis  begrüßen zu können!

Friday next week my exhibition at Peggy Lukac Design starts.
I would be happy if you could drop by!

Monday, April 17, 2017

Save me

Sils Maria 60 x 50 cm acryl/oil pastel on canvas c/o Karin Goeppert


                                           “Which way I fly is hell…”

I always thought murder
would be your fate.
Not the serial sort, but rooted
in animal rage. Pitching
legendary fits on your parents’
front lawn, weeping,
facing the crime scene you grew up in.
Fists clenched, arms at your sides,
walking in place, cursing your father’s transgressions.
We only found out later what
he’d been doing to your sisters.
A time of drought and baseball in the street.
Kids waiting for the ice-cream truck.
Barbecue smoke drifting over back fences.
Then you would explode out the front door.
People stood on their porches
as if a parade, all its floats on fire, were passing by.
I almost expected hesitant applause.
Sartre called self-murder an act of bad faith.
Certain experts
in the human condition
claim that it’s a coward’s last act;
others see it as a final
gesture of self-indulgence
(amazing what an array of shallow
fuckwits can come up with) as
as if suicide were an orgy
in an opium den—but what if
stepping out the front door
were the equivalent of soaking
your nerves in acid? What if
traffic signals
issued intolerable
commands? What if the last time
you made love to a woman
she ran a credit check before undressing?
What if the only possibility
to rest easy,
in the end, was never to wake up?

Sunday, April 9, 2017

It's Too Late

Yupo 20 x 20 cm ink/gouache on paper


O Jane, where art thou
as the icons of lust
gather on the billboards?

Where were you while summer
wallowed in the shallow end
like a despotic thug, a facilitator

of imperial crime, while others
did all the work?
And you without regrets, playing house

in a tropical tree fort.
The rest of us need love, Jane,
the rest of us need lots of love

O Jane. Meanwhile,
humidity is revising the record books
as far back as 1910. To each his own fetish.

To each his own consolation. We can roll back
the comforters now, open the big bays
for the damp air to circle our lonely thoughts. 

Sunday, April 2, 2017

That's Life

Erde - Earth / ink, gouache, oilpastel, oil stick on cotteon rag paper 20 x 20 cm


You figure life has no choice but to make us small.
It eats us up, devours love and ambition.
Happiness a table-dancing
demiurge, flashing its tits, shaking its booty
always moving just out of reach.
Makes us want to buy stuff. Watch quiz shows.
Otherwise we would talk poetry
and see in every staircase an Everest—
uttering sonnets and planting flags.
Nothing would ever get done. Ego systems would
back up and the will to power go slack. You wouldn’t
have to stand up in a crowded restaurant while people
eat Rostbraten and Wienerschnitzel and potato salad
and deliver the first and last public oration of your career.
Laying everything out. Policy decisions, a few vital stats, mixed
reviews, tearful self-justification, instances of staggering defeat
leavened somewhat by one tiny victory snatched
from the cold waves of your waiter’s indifference.
You’ve stood your ground, said your piece. Now what?
Your third worst fear is that police
might haul you off to the psych ward of a
crumbling urban hospital. Your second worst fear   
is that a concerned neighbor might ask you to leave.
Your worst fear keeps circling back for another go.