A poem by Loren Kellen, from Bruce Blacher
Much has been said about Loren… and all is true and so much more…
This summer I had a birthday and Loren gave me one of his cement faces that are strewn around his yard. This face was broken into many pieces and came to me as a puzzle to put together.
The following is what Loren wrote to accompany the gift:
Life is a Puzzle
Sometimes life is hard
w/ rough edges.
Sometimes the pieces
are all in a jumble.
This way, that.
No direction known
Lay them in your
Let them be over
Plant some seeds.
They’ll meet your
I love you
This 1961 poem by Claes Oldenburg and Emmet Williams was found, typewritten and weathered, among Loren’s papers.
I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself. (more…)
by nathan anderson
Gallant … oaks of deliberate wisdom… all quirky limbed…dropping acorns.
Inspiring… fiery maples blazing… breathtaking… sweet sap running.
Trixter… winds twirling soaring…freedom…wildhair …kite flying.
Celebrating… every moment..people and earth moving.
Lake Superior…sparkles magic… knowing blue eyes…playful otters.
Love… always forward… generous… trusting… embracing… true… UNCONDITIONAL LOVE!
Blessed is our world for Loren Kellen
by Peter Henry
Seven hundred moons in Loren’s eyes,
Ten thousand years, one hundred ways wise.
Yellow Medicine County and the Kellen farm bore this bearded child,
A maker of masks, master of dances–archetypical man-wild.
A farmer’s son, who rose to work and learned his lessons in the yard,
Blades were sharp, days too long and truly labor hard.
To his grandma’s place for a Sunday dinner came Loren hat in hand,
Folded linens, the scent of home and always vegetables canned.
But not for farming was Loren’s life, just fields and pigs and grain,
It was to city folk he awoke his genius for living again. (more…)