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Modern Art "Skill without imagination is craftsmanship
and gives us many useful objects such as wickerwork picnic baskets.
Imagination without skill gives us modern art." A serene backroad slipped us into Ottawa, the nation's capital. Many non-Canadians are under the impression that Toronto is our country's capital. But they're incorrect. Toronto is the centre of the universe. (In Spain, I got into a lengthy argument with an older fellow who absolutely insisted Toronto was Canada's capital. Each time I shook my head and said "Ottawa," he would even more emphatically shake his head and come back with "Toronto." Finally, a better educated Spaniard came to my rescue. Yelling "Ottawa" at the top of his lungs, he lashed the elder into submission. Or so we thought. The older fellow hopped in his car and drove off with one last shout of "Toronto!") A bike path, lined with autumn leaves and well-tended flowers, paralleled the canal. It whisked us merrily downtown and deposited us outside the Ottawa Art Gallery. We locked our bikes to a railing and went to go inside. But before we even entered, someone's perverted idea of art assaulted our senses. In an attempt, perhaps, to put patrons in the correct frame of mind to view modern art, some sicko had staged his interpretation of Monty Pythonesque art. Laying on the sidewalk was an exploded pigeon: grey head; clawed feet; clump of feathers. Dumped alongside the poor bird's remains was a smart heap of corn and a wriggling ball of fishing worms. "Just one little wafer...." Hours later we exited. Thankfully, the art authorities had confiscated the revolting exploded bird display. Even better, we found our bicycles and panniers and all their contents exactly where we had left them several hours prior. "Our bikes have been here so long," Sharon joked, "people probably were beginning to think they were part of some special modern art exhibition." "Yeah," I agreed, nodding my head. "But wouldn't our tires be exploded?" |
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