Information about the Loren Kellen Memorial Fund is now available on its own page on this site.

... a poem by Anita White

yes, Loren is gone
gone
Hard to imagine
or really know

even after the solemn procession
and the big community grieving

AND the  CELEBRATION OF HIS GREAT AND WONDERFUL LIFE!!!

OH LOREN!!

it is almost Thanksgiving
tonight I’ll cut up succulent
oranges, lemons and apples
to soak in red wine for a deep
red rich Sangria
that we will drink to make us happy
on Thanksgiving

it is enough to drink the wine
of forgetfulness
and gather round deeply
in the embrace of family

as a cold wind blows by.....

I imagine that same wind
winds up the Mississippi
bends round Loren’s domain
and dances with his ghost

 we remember him with joy!!

but the lonliness is aching.

the community celebration
was so good.......

and yet,
there’s a period at the end of every sentence.

and each season
brings the reminder
of inevitable change.

soon, it will be winter.

look, now, carefully
as snowflakes fall,
see, there they are
Loren’s footsteps
in the snow
in the wilderness
walking out to the last horizon

Terry McDaniel videos of individual expressions at the memorial service.

A song by Anita White

Click here to view the embedded video.

The Voyageur

by Otis Ouray Anderson

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Loren’s poem DOGS

recited by Bruce Blacher

Click here to view the embedded video.

Because the World is Round

sung by Doug Cain

Click here to view the embedded video.

The Cremation of Sam McGee.

A shadow puppet rendition by Rich Wilson and George Meyer

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by Terry McDaniel.

I made a little video with parts from the Memorial for Loren. I thought what the family said was very powerful and the whole memorial was amazing.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Here’s some photos of Loren Kellen used at the November 8 celebration at the Cedar Cultural Center. Thanks to all who sent photos, and to all of the photographers!

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
garden
Let them be over
grown,
Plant some seeds.
They’ll meet your
needs.
I love you
LK

Video by Terry McDaniel.

Loren at the annual May 1 (actual MayDay) Morris Dance sunrise gathering, Mississippi River.  He  speaks about the importance of observing holidays on the day they occur.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Photos of a few of Loren Kellen’s creations from his ever-changing garden. Photographed  on October 6, 2009 by Liz Welch.

[View with PicLens]

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.

I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.

I am for an art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.

I am for an art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.

I am for the art out of a doggy’s mouth, falling five stories from the roof.

I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.

I am for an art that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.

I am for art that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes.

I am for art that flaps like a flag or helps blow noses, like a handkerchief.

I am for art that is put on and taken off, like pants, which develops holes, like socks, which is eaten, like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt, like a piece of shit.

I am for art covered with bandages, I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps. I am for art comes in a can or washes up on the shore.

I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair.

I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.

I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.

I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.

I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind mans metal stick.

I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.

I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetys arm, or kiss, like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks, like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.

I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.

I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.

I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a government check. I am for the art of last wars raincoat.

I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer-holes in winter. I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worms art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.

I am for the art of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for odor of boiling dishwater.

I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red and white gasoline pumps.

I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.

I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead birds.

I am for the art of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.

I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am for the art of kids’ smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.

I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beerdrinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a bartstool.

I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog-turds, rising like cathedrals.

I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.

I am for the art of fat truck-tires and black eyes.

I am for Kool-art, 7-UP art, Pepsi-art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol Art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L & M art Ex-lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New ar, How art, Fire sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat’s dance between floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.

I am for the art of meowls and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.

I am for the white art of refigerators and their muscular openings and closing.

I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meathooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.

I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for for the art of crayons and weak grey pencil-lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.

I am for the art of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, explodes umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men sleeping in them.

I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phonographs.

I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharohs. I am for an art of watertanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.

I am for U.S. Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-eat art, Best-for-less art, Ready-to-cook art, Fully cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, Pork art, chicken art, tomato art, bana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art.

add:

I am for an art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is burshed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.

square which becomes blobby

Video by Doug Cain

This is one of my earlier projects. A collaboration with Loren which kept us linked over four seasons. It premiered at his birthday party along Jamaca Rd. near Withrow. This followed our participation in “The Circle of Water Circus” – which brought us together in Alma, WI. at the Tell Store – watching fireflies in the valley at night, then from Brainerd to St. Louis, MO. We shared the awe of the Great Cahokia Mound with a rainbow – then saw the remaining giant chains of the Mason Dixon line which once stretched across the Mississippi in Kentucky. Later on we traveled with Jim Ouray to Trinidad and Tobago. I remember watching a huge flock of scarlet ibis fly in at dusk to roost in a giant mangrove swamp with Loren just outside Port of Spain. That was an early indication of what was to come regarding Loren’s fascination with flight and the color red. He was an airplane mechanic in Vietnam but didn’t talk much of it with me. He was a deeply principled man with a heart of gold. So very creative and caring as well. He lived life to the max – dancing, hugging, listening, building, and playing – hard ! Loren is a great friend – for so many – and I’m personally proud to call him that – from my heart.

Doug Cain

by Xena Huff

St. Paul Bike Classic 9/13/09

This was a really nostalgic moment for me. This Flamingo was always the meeker less vibrant flamingo of the bunch. Like an old bird she never seemed strong enough to make it through the event let alone to ride again.Loren kind of scoffed at her at meeker qualities.He pointed out to me that I could barely see what I was passing and and was always taking out the passerby with my wings. I was stubborn and continued to ride her as she was. I brought her out in September as it seemed like she might make it through the St Paul Bike classic for one last ride. At the end of the day I took this photo, I had just left Loren and Lisa cheering for bikers in the classic as they flew down Pelham in the home stretch. I was headed to the Castigar memorial in Theo Wirth park. I talked briefly with Loren about death and memorials. It was a beautiful afternoon ride home. I caught my flamingo on film smelling the flowers out by the garage and thought that I should take her photo before I took her apart.

I felt confident that I would forever be building puppets and losing wrestling matches to the strong young vibrant Loren… forever like a teenage boy rumbling with energy. How did he slip away so fast? I keep thinking it is some magnificent trick and he’s about to pop up from under the bridge having held his breath for a few weeks.

There is no one like him in this world and probably no one like him in the next. I just wonder who else could come up with names for us like : Jerry Werle and wary girly? He would always refer to us that way…”well, there’s Jerry Werle and wary girly.”

And it is true, I was a wary girly around Loren! It was perfect! His energy and fun loving nature will be greatly missed.

Mienko

I’ve been living in faraway places for a decade, finding my way to Duluth this past year. Prior to these journeys I spent 16 years in Mpls. I was lucky enough to know Loren, to get to know and spend time with him in work, art, Mayday, and many other things. Loren provided the mascot for our softball team ‘the Squirrelskins’, and his house as everyone knows was filled with the curios of Borges’. I worked for Loren as his assistant for a while, watching how he could figure out ways to fix most anything. Loren and I grew up in the same county of Lac qui Parle and so knew that part of each other well.

One of the many stories I remember of times with Loren is this: in the early 90s, we were having a party out at Pete’s. I was in charge of roasting the goat, which we procured from some farm nearby. We brought the goat home, assembled a crew, and David’s flute music began slowly. We drew straws, though of course it was merely a formality: Loren drew the short straw, the straw of the man who would slit the goat’s throat in preparation for our roasting.

The flute music grew stronger, more staccato, and the goat was agitated, and Loren drew the knife across his neck. We held the goat as his blood and life drained. We processed the goat, and I rubbed it with olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic, oregano, mint leaves and lemon zest, storing it overnight in Pete’s ancient basement in the cabin. Loren took the lead the next day in preparing the firepit, and I stayed by the roasting goat all day.

That late afternoon, the goat was delicious and we fed scores of people. This was one of many things Loren had done for generations. Loren, I never imagined you passing, you seemed so ancient already. You are a leader, a pied piper for children and adults. You are missed, but your stories are emblazoned in us like pathways across the land. Pipe on my man.

Randy Hanson

I took this photo of Loren working on Pete’s patio. He knew what to do and took charge.

photo by Ernie Gunderson

Wisconsin Gothic

by Yiscah Bracha.

Loren loved to disrupt the composure of others.  One year during the rehearsal for the MayDay ceremony, he surreptitiously placed a black and white skull-and-crossbones flag on the same pole that carried the sun, anticipating (correctly) that Sandy would get quietly apoplectic when she saw it (she did, and looked at me plaintively, as if I could somehow do something about it).    Another year, he costumed himself as a frothing mad dog for the parade, and declared his intention to lunge at the  toughest looking adolescent boys in the crowd, the macho ones strutting and preening for their friends.  One night as I was climbing the stairs he had made, to the loft he had made in his converted potato cellar (the cave), the human-sized crow that always stood next to the stairs suddenly lifted its wings and squawked at me.

His trickster antics started when he was very young.  He attended a Catholic school in Madison, Minnesota, he and one of his sisters living with their grandmother in town during the school week, returning home to the farm on the weekends.  One day, he and another schoolboy were exploring their environment, and they came across a nest of baby garter snakes.  They placed the entire writhing squirming mass of them in a bakery bag, and the next day placed the bag inside the locker of the most high strung girl in the school (remember, this is small town Minnesota in the 1950s, when school lockers didn’t have locks on them).  Of course the snakes escaped from the bag, and of course they ended up all over her books and clothes and the sides and ceiling of the locker.  “I didn’t see the result,” he narrated with some disappointment, “but I heard the screams”.  He would have gotten away with it, but his accomplice confessed.  He never would divulge their punishment.

He would disrupt but never in meanness.  Always gentle, always going just to the edge of what the target could handle, and then laughing and backing away, leaving the target a little shaken, but only because the target was holding too tightly to something in the first place.  Just another way that Loren’s spirit infected the world.

A Poem For Loren

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

photos by Ewart from the Brule River

by David Roy

Loren always had the time to talk to a friend or to make a new friend. He was kind to everyone, full of knowledge, helpful, and had many talents and friends. I always liked seeing what his current fashion would be and wished that I had the courage to wear fun things like he did! I wonder what he is wearing now……….thanks for the memories Loren!

Loren Kellen Photo Gallery by David Roy:

[View with PicLens]

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.

To Bloomington he had come bearing burdens heavy,
Looking for love, seeking the dove, and driving a ’56 Chevy.

Loren’s mind understood engines, the pistons, valves and rotors
He’d doted on tractors, been with turbines, even made love to motors.

His country was proud that he was endowed with skills that others had not.
So, they sent him to Asia to work on the bombers that all our taxes had bought.

After ‘Nam, the shop-man called seeking both tool and dye.
Loren complied, he never lied, sure he’d give that a try.

And to this credit, he never let it, hold or tackle him there.
From farm to shop, ‘Nam to mop, Loren had scarcely a care.

See, Loren’s path is ancient road travelled for thousands of years,
By seekers and artists, witches and mystics, shamans and all kinds of seers.

His spirit, like clouds at night, shapes and evolves in the wind,
Comes to life in human form with chance and energy twinned.

Dust from stars and crust of caves form Loren’s bones,
Spider’s silk, farmer’s milk and fifty potent hormones.

He’s travelled lands far and wide, visited Kingdom Come,
Fought in wars, slept with whores, been both hero and bum.

Captain and knave, owner and slave, Jew, Catholic and Daoist.
Winner and failer, criminal and jailer, Nome, Pagan and Maoist.

Loren’s face is only a mask hiding the realm of spirit,
His beard a trick, body a bluff, the smell—a fraud to be near it!

See how his eyes twinkle and shift, dart, sparkle and gaze.
Look at his hands, rugged and thick, their work designed to amaze.

This man is too much, a world of his own, a sum of infinite parts,
Feathers of birds, fragments of words, fires, jewelry and hearts.

Where was he made this prince of the hour, come from beyond the stars?
Was it a chance, seat of the pants, work of the Man from Mars?

We’ll never know, nor can we guess, origins, causes or reasons.
Why we’re here, this life so dear, and onward the changing of seasons.

But, come to him now, look at his mask, see what was kept in his mind,
Struggle with answers, ask other dancers, steal whatever you find.

But love what you do and do what you love as Loren would have you believe.
And when you are done, honor the fun, and laugh as much as you grieve.

Look to the moon, see how she moves, new to half to full.
She never stops, pauses or drops, or waits for others to pull.

Loren’s eyes have looked to these skies for years and ages and aeons,
While roaming the earth with kings and minstrels, sages, fools and peons.

He’s seen the moon shade herself in, change in a regular fashion.
Make the world dark, pretty or stark, flood it with love and with passion.

Now after years, laughter and tears, songs, dirges and verses.
Loren is ready, holding confetti, to hail the legions of hearses.

There is no end or start or stop or reason to dread the worst.
We are this moment, pleasure and master, of all that must have come first.

These moons we’ve seen or must have been tell us to work with Earth,
Fear not death, it’s not final and melts on top of the hearth.

For sixty years and seven hundred moons, Loren held onto this
Building fires, working with pliers and flirting with infinite bliss.

Bless him now and raise a toast for all that he means to us here.
Then leer at the moon, dance with him soon and chug the rest of your beer.

Know it is true, whatever you do, that Loren has been there before.
Toured Paris, dined on the terrace, got drunk and slept on the floor.

So walk on the moon, make a new mask, build a solo canoe.
Dance in parades, win at charades, but never ask yourself who.

Loren it is, Loren it was, Loren ever will be.
Party to this, party to that, part of us, you and me.

Look for him now, put out a call, petition heaven from us,
Would it be weird, that’s him and his beard, riding the back of the bus.

There he goes, let’s follow him close to see if what I say is true.
Loren’s not here a minute ago,– he’s back and younger than you.

Dust from stars and crust of caves form Loren’s bones,
Spider’s silk, farmer’s milk and fifty potent hormones.

He’s travelled lands far and wide, visited Kingdom Come,
Fought in wars, slept with whores, been both hero and bum.

Captain and knave, owner and slave, Jew, Catholic and Daoist.
Winner and failer, criminal and jailer, Nome, Pagan and Maoist.

Now after years, laughter and tears, songs, dirges and verses.
Loren is ready, holding confetti, to hail the legions of hearses.

And tell you this of Loren Kellen, man, spirit and friend:
Every puppet in the world cried to hear of his end.

Seven hundred moons in Loren’s eyes,
Oh, beautiful life, death’s final disguise.

-Peter Henry