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Keith Ashton

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Under The Impression

(remembering Joseph Beuys)

Fifteen years back, in the flesh, an ex-Stuka
pilot chalked up points on FAT and FELT.
He performed, avant garde, in a low-brow hat;
music hail fashion, Teutonic-style, less than
hysterical. The brim made no nonsense of ears.
Unavoidable eyes pierced cloud cover, fired
at will. Steel glinted the absolute war-comic
gospel. Scarcely a shot-down survivor haunted
hard men in the audience, pursuers of Fine Art.

Today, to mark his death, televised tribesmen
re-enact salvaging the young god from wreckage.
Fat-smeared, felt-bandaged, his body retains
heat. Art becomes life. A Russian winter
hammers intensity into the scheme of things.

Viewers tuned in to get the drift. While we’re all
potential artists to him, Fat Chair and Auschwitz
Piece prove the icon and relic of major impact.
Singing with TV idols, he makes the pop charts;
raises cash to buy trees. And mere earthly concern
appals purists. A shadow of his former self,
last rites academic, newsreel, he plays the ace
of spades, plants a seedling, an image of green.

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