The Hotel Waverly doesn’t exist anymore. Even when it did exist, the word “Hotel” was a generous gesture. It was more like a flophouse. I had thought I’d write a short story someday about a family of tourists on holiday from another country, Germany for instance. Not knowing any better, their travel agent books a suite for the family at the Hotel Waverly. They arrive from the airport to some shock. Hilarity ensues as they share with the locals the German words for such phrases as “crack whore” and “meth-head.” They return to their home in Bonn with bedbugs and STD’s for souvenirs. Alas, I was too slow and a condo developer had demolished the building before I could get around to banging out my story.
Like so much real estate in Toronto, if I blink, it vanishes. While I’m out and about, I make a point of capturing older buildings so that I have personal documentation of what things looked like at that precise instant. It’s astonishing how quickly visual memory fades. Without the help of my photographs, I would soon forget the old buildings, the ones people like to say had character when what they really mean is that they were gross, dirty, and decrepit.
It feels somehow natural to offer these photos as black and white conversions. Black and white signals we are glimpsing a world that no longer exists. Black and white encourages a certain feeling of generosity toward the subject matter, too. However disdainful we snooty middle class types may have felt for the Hotel Waverly in its day, we can forgive its sins now that we look back from a safe distance. Such character!
After a few more years have passed, and we find ourselves growing weary of the endless rows of glass and concrete towers, we note a surge in feelings of nostalgia. The Hotel Waverly was not just a place with character. We realize now that it was somehow integral to the city’s life and personality. Its demolition is a lot like what happens when a senior loses brain mass. Memory grows unstable, and then follows the gradual slide into municipal senescence.
