In Season

Take a Stroll through Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn

October 5 – November 3, 2018

An Exhibit with Pieces from Kawartha Art Gallery’s Permanent Collection

With changing seasons come new colour, shape, and life to the world around us. Experience the beauty of each season captured by the pieces within the permanent collection here at the Kawartha Art Gallery. There are a total of 20 pieces, 5 per season, including artists such as Maurice Roberts, Paul Gauthier, Jack Reid, and more. There is a mix of abstract and realistic styles so that people with all preferences can find a piece that they really enjoy.


Miniature Exhibit “FOAM”

Artwork by Michael Behnan taken from our Permanent Collection, and accompanied with the poem written by Hans Magnus Enzensberger.

Image result for michael behnan

“In the deep rancid foam in the madhouses”

The poem titled “FOAM” was written in the late 1900’s by Enzensberger and speaks of the social injustices and corruptions that exist in the world. Later in 1976 the artist Michael Behnan decided to illustrate passages in Enzensberger’s poem. The featured pieces in the gallery are both grotesque as well as fascinating in the way Behnan manages to convey the feeling of each passage as well as his own personal images he envisions when he reads the poem himself. This is the very first time the Kawartha Gallery has displayed this artwork. 

Below are the first few stanzas of Enzensberger’s poem. Come to the Gallery to read the rest!



   at the hour of birth i was blinded with foam in my eyes                                                                                       crying with grief unable to look at the sky                                                                                                               on a black friday thirty years in the past

   foam hangs from the century’s mouth foam                                                                                                           in the bank vaults foam howling                                                                                                                                 in the wombs of mothers in the lead-lined bunkers                                                                                               foam in the pink-tinged bidets

   no bolt from the blue can undo it: it flowers                                                                                                           it covers the length and breadth of the earth                                                                                                         with its maddening snot: no fire no sword                                                                                                               can stop it it’s endless no fooling there’s nothing                                                                                                   that does it no plan no hatchet no secret device                                                                                                     it’s too sweet it rises up from the depths                                                                                                                 and it foams it smirks and it foams

   slip me a brotherly handshake you sellouts                                                                                                             your fingers flecked with warts shell fragments diamonds                                                                                   subsisting on obscene subordinate clauses                                                                                                             deliver your adams apples to my judasbite                                                                                                             your foaming soap hearts and your bank account                                                                                                 stained red with haemoglobin: pull me down to the ground                                                                               as far down as you as the other gobs of phlegm                                                                                                     in that professional muck.