In 1968 the London, Ontario based artist Greg Curnoe walked into a bar.
He was wearing a bright yellow suit paired with an equally loud purple shirt. It was a bold look.
He had gone to the bar to listen to a man speak. A Futurist who seemed to appeal as much to the counterculture as he did to the establishment. An architect who, by that point in his career, had been described as the first poet of technology, a living genius and… a crackpot.