Since I was in Ottawa for business, I decided to visit our National Art Gallery. I had been there before, but it was quite some time ago. Emily Carr was the featured show and having, on the west coast, seen more Emily Carr than I would like, I chose only to purchase my ticket for the permanent collection.
I do love art
and our National Gallery does have quite a collection. Perhaps it pales in comparison to some of the more famous galleries in the world, but as far as galleries go, we deserve to be proud of our collection. We have, for example, a nice smattering of the more famous French Impressionists. Perhaps, just enough to wet the appetite for more. But were I the curator, I'm sure I'd be satisfied with the foreign content. There is just enough to provide a great opportunity to compare our own artists with those more globally noticed. For nothing in the gallery is as luminous and stunning as Tom Thompson's
The Jack Pine. Such an ordinary Ontarian view. The sort that every cottager has seen time and again. And yet, on his canvas, through his visionary eyes, it is simply awesome. While working your way through the adjacent room, if you are fortunate enough to glance in the direction of this scene, it will arrest you in your tracks. It leaps from the wall. It is simple and gorgeous and no electronic image may do it justice. Next to it sits a second masterpiece: Tom Thompson's
Northern River. More subtle and sedate, it draws you in with it's complexity. The intertwined branches parting slightly to reveal a bend in the river. I would be hard pressed to choose a favourite.
I was still bubbling with enthusiasm, still feeling great about art itself, when I stumbled into the more contemporary artists. While balancing a piece of steel on its end is impressive, I struggle to see the art in it. Nor can I justify an entire room for a video of a man pumping a p
plastic bottle full of air until it shoots into the air. I want my art to be made by artisans. I want technical excellence. I want an image that captivates through beauty, or horror, or well something. Instead I found myself in front of the
Voice of Fire. What a grotesque waste of money. I understand that the work has appreciated since we the taxpayer shelled out 1.8 million for it. But appreciated in whose eyes? Who are these lunatics who would pay more for three stripes? It hangs in a room littered with nonsensical pretentious crap. A big black painting with a yellow stripe down the side. A white canvas with a few stripes. But it dominates the room, not the way
The Jack Pine dominates the room. Not by transporting you to a distant place. No, it dominates by sheer size alone. Eighteen feet of stripes. It is not a "modern masterpiece, a mythical work for a secular age" and having stood before it, I for one cannot attest to the notion that it "floods our consciousness with a sublime sense of awe and tranquility".
Just when I was feeling down about the direction of art. About the ever widening gap between people and so called artists creating art for a self declared elite as if the world didn't matter. I saw this face sitting amongst so many bits of the emperors new art. To give you a perspective, this baby and I, we stood eye to eye. The detail was consuming. The face massive. It forced you to stare. It forces us to say, "we can do better than a great big stripe."
Sally Spitfire says 
These are not my flip flops. They look an awful lot like mine. The same brand. Same size, give or take. Same worn in foot impressions. Just not my foot impressions. They are different too. Mine are black, these are green. My straps are fabric, these straps are plastic. That is my rug. It sits at my front door, where my flip flops usually sit.
We interrupt this Blog to bring you late breaking news. 
What used to be called Hoop It Up is now NBA 3on3. A legal battle can be the only reason for such a downgrade in a name. Still, while the name isn't as good, the tournament was better. Particularly enjoyable was the 'King of the Court' contest and the show put on by Joey Heywood a.k.a. 'King Handles'. I wish I'd had a better camera with me so that I could share some of the insane moves he had. But truth be told, he's just to fast for a camera phone. Here's a shot from the 'half time show' instead.
Some time ago I was asked, 'What is it that you understand the least about the opposite sex?' By way of example, the asker offered her inability to understand forest green sheets. She believed that men and only men would buy a such 'faux pas' and could never understand the appeal.
and our National Gallery does have quite a collection. Perhaps it pales in comparison to some of the more famous galleries in the world, but as far as galleries go, we deserve to be proud of our collection. We have, for example, a nice smattering of the more famous French Impressionists. Perhaps, just enough to wet the appetite for more. But were I the curator, I'm sure I'd be satisfied with the foreign content. There is just enough to provide a great opportunity to compare our own artists with those more globally noticed. For nothing in the gallery is as luminous and stunning as Tom Thompson's The Jack Pine. Such an ordinary Ontarian view. The sort that every cottager has seen time and again. And yet, on his canvas, through his visionary eyes, it is simply awesome. While working your way through the adjacent room, if you are fortunate enough to glance in the direction of this scene, it will arrest you in your tracks. It leaps from the wall. It is simple and gorgeous and no electronic image may do it justice. Next to it sits a second masterpiece: Tom Thompson's Northern River. More subtle and sedate, it draws you in with it's complexity. The intertwined branches parting slightly to reveal a bend in the river. I would be hard pressed to choose a favourite.
plastic bottle full of air until it shoots into the air. I want my art to be made by artisans. I want technical excellence. I want an image that captivates through beauty, or horror, or well something. Instead I found myself in front of the Voice of Fire. What a grotesque waste of money. I understand that the work has appreciated since we the taxpayer shelled out 1.8 million for it. But appreciated in whose eyes? Who are these lunatics who would pay more for three stripes? It hangs in a room littered with nonsensical pretentious crap. A big black painting with a yellow stripe down the side. A white canvas with a few stripes. But it dominates the room, not the way The Jack Pine dominates the room. Not by transporting you to a distant place. No, it dominates by sheer size alone. Eighteen feet of stripes. It is not a "modern masterpiece, a mythical work for a secular age" and having stood before it, I for one cannot attest to the notion that it "floods our consciousness with a sublime sense of awe and tranquility". 
