They’re a weird mob, these immigrants. With their moon-shaped heads, olive skin and bizarre clothing, they just don’t look like us.
And, of course, they’ve already had a baby! And the father’s wearing a tie, so he’s probably after jobs that the rest of us would never consider doing in the first place.
Soon there’ll be so many immigrants that you won’t be able to walk through Toronto without bumping into a nine-foot bronze sculpture with a bulbous bonce.
To my disgust, these were my first thoughts upon meeting the immaculate Immigrant Family. Sure, you could blame my upbringing in a dilapidated caravan, raised by my violent white supremacist step-brother Jeong-ho. But, really, that’s no excuse.
Within moments of arriving in Ontario, I’d fallen victim to the siren song of a group of hatemongers, who surrounded the Immigrant Family to shower them with abuse. It was only as I prepared to hurl a tomato at the father’s oversized cranium that I realised I, too, was a stranger to this land.
As an Australian confused by the silly-sausage customs of Canadians, I had more in common with the Immigrant Family than these unwashed, toothless, inbred, hockey-loving racists. I dropped the tomato and flung myself into the bosom of the family.
“Guys, I know the intoxicating allure of bigotry can prove irresistible,” I told the baying mob. “But Otterness’ work recalls the experience of new immigrants to Canada, capturing their sense of wonder at seeing the city, while gently bringing them close together as they embark on their new life.”
The hateful horde paused for a moment, taking in my heartfelt words, before one particularly unappealing xenophobe rose above the others.
“Firstly, Bigs,” he hee-hawed, “you obviously stole that quote from an art website, and you’re better than that. Secondly, if you’re one of them dang immigrants, we’re gonna have to whoop ya.”
And then, with my new family watching on, the terror began.
Meet Tom Odderness… sorry, Tom Otterness… no, it’s definitely Tom Odderness
Tom Otterness, the savant behind Immigrant Family, can best be described as a lunatic. Despite being one of America’s most prolific sculptors, with his work exhibited from New York to The Netherlands, he’s best known for shooting a dog in 1977.
Frustrated by his inability to find acceptance in the dog-eat-dog world of contemporary art, a young Tom turned to shock tactics to gain attention. He tied a labradoodle to a tree, made sure his Fujifilm Super 8mm camera was rolling, and blasted the poor critter in the face with a Glock 43.
These days that would gain him a cult following on Tik Tok, but in those less enlightened times was met by stunned silence. Disheartened, Tom skippered plans to film himself bonking a cow with a baseball bat, and left the lucrative world of animal snuff films forever.
He turned to something even more disturbing – corporate art, financed by faceless megaconglomerates intent on ruling the world. Whilst his work has been called everything from flaccid to morally bankrupt, it did deliver us the Immigrant Family in 2007, and so what if we had to lose a few dogs along the way to get there.
Meanwhile, back at the scene of the crime
Having had their way with me, the white supremacists raced off to find another minority to oppress. Silence descended upon Toronto, and I lurched into the gentle embrace of the Family.
As I snuggled in, my tears drying upon their rotund bodies, it became obvious that we spoke a common language; one of ambition and hope despite a lifetime of persecution and ridicule. Finally, after decades of searching, I’d found my tribe.
“I love you, Mummy,” I chirped. “I love you, Daddy.” Time stood still as I waited for words of affirmation that never came. They just smiled into the distance, clutching their beloved baby. There was no room, it seemed, for one more son. I gathered the pieces of my shattered soul and staggered into the night.
They didn’t beg me to come back. They never do. Although I’m not proud of it, I punched a street sign on my way home, breaking my hand in several places. The silver lining was that I was sequestered away to Toronto Women’s Hospital, where the service was exemplary – hi, Mahmoud!
My tragic experience shouldn’t prevent you from visiting the Immigrant Family, however. They’re charming, huggable and extremely quirky.
Just don’t get too attached. They’ll kick your hopes dreams into the gutter, and leave you guzzling Prosecco out of an ice cream container in a futile – and really quite destructive – attempt to dull the pain. Just let them go off and play happy families by themselves.
