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City Life

Winter Scenes: The Precariously Housed in Toronto

Winter is always a difficult time for people whose housing arrangements are insecure at best. Whenever the temperature goes below -10ºC, the city of Toronto issues a cold weather alert for the benefit of those who ordinarily live rough. This triggers the opening up of additional temporary shelter space. Nevertheless, for a variety of reasons, there are always some recalcitrant souls who won’t place themselves in the shelter system. For some, there are mental health issues. For others, there is the fear of violence. And Covid-19 has added another dimension to the sense of bodily threat.

During a snow storm, I shot this tent on the stretch of Bloor Street West known as the Mink Mile, one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world. You can see the Cartier sign in the background. Nearby are flagship stores for Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Burberry, and Hermès. With talk of rentals at $300 a square foot generating sales of $2000 a square foot, the disparity of wealth this suggests is stunning, and yet those of us who live here grow inured to it.

The other day, I made the mistake of tumbling down the rabbit hole of a Twitter thread where somebody suggested this was nothing we should be concerned about; it’s for the homeless to take responsibility for themselves; let them get proper jobs. Maybe I was being trolled. Maybe the person posting this wanted own the libs. There’s a lot of that going around these days. Even so, I suspect the people who post these things are far less ironic in their views than they’d have us believe. They don’t want only to provoke a reaction; they really mean what they say.

In the past, I might have responded with some variation of a chat about the fact that the proportion of those living on our city streets while struggling with a major mental health issue is north of 70 percent. I’d go on from there to describe some of the more concrete ways in which mental illness hamstrings a person and makes talk of getting a job utterly beside the point.

But I don’t engage in those kinds of chats anymore. Life’s too short to waste talking to people who have already foreclosed the possibility of compassionate regard for those around them. I don’t care if people want to troll me or own me or stomp on me and thump their chests like silver backed mountain gorillas. This conversation isn’t about me, so owning me accomplishes nothing.

Homelessness and its attendant demons, mental illness and an outrageous housing market, are matters of social responsibility. You either commit to that view or you don’t. But if you don’t, your world view takes you ineluctably to the assertion that people who suffer aren’t human. This is the view shared by the person who refuses to participate in the well-established protocols that keep people safe during a pandemic because they lack the imagination to see how their rights are safeguarded by everyone else’s commitment to social responsibility.

The intractability of such a view, the refusal of give and take, the impossibility of reason, is not simply immature, it veers into cultism which, ironically, is a mental health condition.

Thus endeth my rant.

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City Life

How many words for snow are there and who cares?

According to they (as in: “they say”), there are 52 different words for snow in the Inuktitut language. Always, “they” trot out this fact as evidence for a linguistic observation that we tend to develop our vocabulary according to our need. If we are Inuit, snow is important to our lives and so we develop a more nuanced account of snow.

If, on the other hand, we live in Toronto, where urbanization has changed the local climate into an urban heat island, snow doesn’t really dominate our lives anymore. People outside Toronto tend to think our vocabulary has developed more nuance in describing financial instruments and ways to flip real estate investments. As for snow, if the temperature is below freezing, we call it fucking snow. If the temperature is above freezing, we call it fucking slush. That’s about as far as our vocabulary goes.

As for the 52 different Inuktitut words, it turns out “they” were just making shit up. In fact, there are only a dozen Inuktitut words for snow and another ten for ice. For example, qinu is the word for “slushy ice by the sea” and fucking qinu is the word for “fucking slushy ice by the sea.”

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City Life

Good-bye 2021

Tonight we show 2021 the door. A year ago, people made jokes about saying good riddance to 2020. By implication, 2021 had to be better because nothing could be worse than 2020. And then 2021 came along …

To be fair. It’s not a competition. Each year has turned out to be shit fucked in its own special way.

This image nicely captures how I feel about 2021. I identify with the skeleton playing the mandolin. I didn’t even bother to interrogate the year or give it a fair trial. Instead, I chopped off its arm and ran a sword through its chest. Then I sat on a log and played a madrigal. They call them madrigals for a reason. If you sang them when you’re happy, they’d call them gladrigals.

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City Life

How do you pronounce Toronto?

One of the things I love about Toronto is that a majority of the people living here weren’t born in Canada. What’s more, a majority of the people living here identify as belonging to a visible minority. That means there are huge opportunities for personal and cultural enrichment. If I let people in, they can shake me from my complacency and show me fresh ways to engage the world around me. This is a gift.

As a middle-aged white male who was born here, I acknowledge that bias inevitably creeps into my impressions of Toronto’s multicultural life. For example, I tend to regard Toronto as a place which, relative to other places, puts far less pressure on newcomers to conform to some hegemonic view of local culture. Then again, as I’ve never been a newcomer, I could be mistaken.

However, there is one matter which demands absolute conformity. If you want to claim you’re from here, you have to pronounce the name of this place without the second “T”. Nobody is from Toronto. We are from Trawna. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it is. You can find a good example of this in the hit song by The Kings, The Beat Goes On/Switchin’ to Glide. There, they rhyme Trawna with wanna and Donna.

Another way to pronounce Toronto is “construction.”

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City Life

A bottle in front of me

Dorothy Parker once famously said: I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. A logician would say that, strictly speaking, this is what is known as a false opposition. But our logician would also be missing the point.

Traditionally, the holiday season is the time of year when we tend to put more bottles in front of us. That impulse may be compounded this year by the fact that, thanks to the omicron variant, more of us are alone and/or bored. Alcohol seems like a reasonable antidote, especially after we’ve already had a few.

However, thanks to the fact that, in Ontario, most of our alcohol comes through a single pipeline (the LCBO), we are at its mercy to keep us well stocked. And this year, that’s a problem. There are rumours swirling around, like olives in a martini glass, that the LCBO is having supply chain issues. Their advice is to buy early and try new things. People have been using the Hunger Games to describe the scramble for booster shots. I think it’s a more fitting description of the scramble for jello shots.

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City Life

Party Line

When I was kid, my mom and my grandma spoke on the phone almost every day. My grandma worked at the Eaton’s offices in London and they had a trunk line to Toronto, so the calls were free. It was a different matter when my grandma called from home. She and my grandpa lived on a farm on the 5th concession near Nilestown to the south of London. There, they had a party line with the farm across the road which would have been fine except that it was a family of 8 children who lived there, most in their teens, and they kept the line perpetually busy. My grandparents complained, but secretly they enjoyed the entertainment. They’d pick up the receiver and overhear one of the teen-aged girls spilling her heart to a friend. When my grandma retired, it came as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, there were no more free calls to Toronto. On the other hand, there was more time to listen in on the family across the road.

A few years later, after I was married, my wife and I drove to London to visit my grandma. By this time, change had overtaken her. For one thing, my grandpa had died, leaving her alone on a large rural property. For another thing, the neighbours across the road now had a phone line of their own which forced my grandma to do the same. I think she missed keeping up with all the kids.

At the same time, my wife had gotten herself a cell phone. (I was still a bit of a Luddite and resisted the trend.) One afternoon, we took my grandma for a drive to visit family, but because we were late, I suggested my wife use her fancy new cell phone to call ahead and let them know we’d be a few minutes late. From the back seat, my grandma said: “Why don’t you use mine.” And she passed her phone to my wife in the front seat. It was cordless phone. Before we left, she’d pulled it off its cradle and put it in her purse. She didn’t know there was a difference between a cordless phone and cell phone. She thought she could use her cordless phone to call from anywhere.

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City Life

We’re all in the same basket

My parents have resumed their usual habit of wintering in Florida with hundreds of thousands of other retired Canadians who’ve had enough of winter living. Recently, my dad told how he went to a meeting of the local camera club and was the only one wearing a mask. They met in an enclosed space. They didn’t enforce any distancing protocols. Meanwhile, the news tells of omicron ripping its way through European countries as a portent of things to come in North America. But people in Florida have had enough of Covid-19 protocols and all the accompanying talk of vaccinations. They want to get on with their lives the way they lived them back at the beginning of 2020. And so my dad sat by himself, masked and triple vaxxed.

My dad’s account offers an interesting reversal of an already interesting reversal in the narratives people tell about mandated protocols. Here, in Toronto, where vaccination rates are some of the highest in the world (86.2 % fully vaccinated among those aged 12 and up) the anti-vaxxers take to the streets, marching through the downtown core every Saturday and telling onlookers to stop being sheeple, to start thinking for themselves. (I call this an interesting reversal because, before the pandemic, the same protesters insisted on wearing masks because they feared government surveillance.)

The situation in Florida illustrates a further reversal. When the anti-vaxxers dominate the public discourse, they lose the advantage of their usual arguments. They can’t accuse people like my dad of being sheeple anymore. And they can’t say that he isn’t thinking for himself because, obviously, he’s asserting his independence of thought when he’s the only one choosing to wear a mask.

Context is everything. In the context of an unmasked majority, we see them clearly for what they are: people who have cast aside all pretense of argument and will do what they want to do for no other reason than that they want to do it. But we can’t very well call this libertarianism, can we? Not when everyone is doing it. I’m more inclined to call it sheepleism.

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City Life

The white stuff

I love it when the white stuff falls during the holiday season. By white stuff, I don’t mean snow; I mean salt. Whenever our weather apps send out even the hint of a whiff of a chance of snow, people afraid of attracting personal liability scatter bag loads of rock salt onto the sidewalks while city plows scatter it everywhere else. Never mind that it corrodes everything from cars to concrete. And never mind that saline runoff damages the local watershed. Still, after it’s done its work melting the snow, it leaves behind fascinating patterns etched into the underlying surfaces.

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City Life

Pandemic Skating in Nathan Phillips Square

It’s interesting to compare public skating pre- and post-vaccine. Last year, people were skating before we had secured any vaccines. That meant that protocols were overly cautious. The city allowed only 25 people on the ice at a time while others waited in line behind a fence. When those 25 people had finished their skate, marshals directed them to a separate area where they could take off their skates. Only after the ice had been cleared did the marshals allow the next batch of 25 onto the ice. After the people in the changing area had left that space, the marshals went over and disinfected the benches. It was a slow process, and even though the city got to say that skating was open to the public, in practical terms, almost nobody got to skate.

This year, it’s different. We know that transmission happens almost exclusively by aerosols, so disinfecting benches is a waste of time. We also know that the risk of infection outdoors is low, so going maskless in wide open spaces isn’t such a big deal. As a result, people are moving more freely through Nathan Phillips Square this year. Even so, there are obvious signs that we are still in pandemic times. The band-aid in the final “O” of the Toronto sign reminds people to get vaccinated. A sign of the times?

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City Life

I love the smell of urine in the morning

During the Covid-19 pandemic, I’ve developed a theory. I call it Dave’s Law, although I don’t expect it will ever make me famous. It goes like this: there is a direct relationship between infection rates and the presence of homeless people on city streets.

There may be any number of reasons for this:

For instance, when infection rates go up, more people work from home. While this doesn’t mean the number of homeless people goes up, it does mean that homeless people account for proportionately more of the people moving through public spaces, and so they are more visible.

Another reason may have to do with the possibility that the number of homeless people really is going up. With each spike in infection rates, the precariously employed and the precariously housed become increasingly vulnerable. The government can offer all the assistance it likes, this is only a band-aid approach to more fundamental issues. As many have observed, the Covid-19 pandemic has exposed fundamental flaws in the way we organize ourselves as social beings.

Every morning, as I walk through our city streets, I smell the consequences of our flawed approach.

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City Life

Photos to calm the nerves

Graffiti on the side of a chimney, E & N Railway Trail, Victoria, B.C.

New infection rates are going up by leaps and bounds. They call it exponential. The omicron variant is taking over. Governments are imposing restrictions on gathering sizes. Schools may have to shut down again. The stock market is plummeting. Day traders are jumping off rooftops. And I haven’t got my wife a Christmas present yet. Ah, the anxiety!

For me, one of the antidotes to anxiety is to find a calming photograph and simply stare at it. It’s like an intervention. It interrupts all the voices that clamour for my attention. Most of that clamour is just click bait anyways. Why would I want to reward it?

There’s something about this chimney I found in Victoria a couple weeks ago, the way the green siding and the off-beige cinder blocks interact with the blue trim and blues of the sky. I treat it as shapes and colours with no particular message, and it sets my heart at ease.

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City Life

Chevrolet

Chevrolet parked at the E & N Roundhouse, West Victoria, B.C.

I’m not a car guy. I was drawn to this car mostly because of the way the late afternoon light struck it against the backdrop of red bricks. I think it’s a Chevrolet because the word “Chevrolet” appears on the hub cap, but for all I know the hub cap could come from some other car. My Dad used to be able to tell me the make model and year of any car on the road. But that was easier to do when there were only 3 big manufacturers in North America and foreign imports barely had a toehold on the continent. Now, there are so many different models on the road, my Dad just shrugs. It’s hard to keep up.

According to an article in the Toronto Star, car thefts are up this past year, presumably a consequence of supply chain issues which make it harder and more expensive to buy new cars in some markets. Topping the list is the Lexus RX350 and the Honda CR-V. Nobody cares about Chevrolets. According to the article, the stolen cars either go to chop shops for parts, or they go to Montreal where they end up in shipping containers bound for Europe, Africa or the Caribbean.

I’ve read that there is a shortage of shipping containers too, so I guess even car thieves face logistical challenges and rising costs in these unprecedented times.

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City Life

I Like Trains

Boxcar at the E & N Roundhouse, West Victoria, B.C.

I like trains. On November 23rd, I found this scrawled on the the side of an abandoned boxcar that sits by the E & N (Esquimalt & Nanaimo) Roundhouse in West Victoria, B.C. This message or declaration or cry to the gods was brand new. I know this because I had shot the same boxcar only two days earlier and, at that time, it had no message spray painted on its side.

I don’t know why people need to declare to the world their privately held personal preferences. Isn’t it enough just to stare at the boxcar and admire it? Maybe the message isn’t about what it says, but about what it does. Maybe there’s an implied bit that can be added to the message: I like trains and I exist. The spray painted message satisfies a basic existential need: it confirms to the spray painter that they aren’t invisible but can act in the real world. I arrive on the scene with my camera and amplify that confirmation by sharing it with the rest of the world.

Boxcar at the E & N Roundhouse, West Victoria, B.C.
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City Life

Coming and Going

Man pushes a hand truck loaded with boxes through a blast of steam from a vent in the road.

Thanks to the Covid-19 pandemic, the world is fraught with supply chain issues, a concern as the holiday shopping frenzy takes hold. We hear stories of goods sitting for weeks in shipping containers. I wanted to buy flowers for friends but when I visited the local florist, I found the shelves picked bare. All that remained were a few unwanted plants with their withered leaves, a sight that filled me with sadness. My wife tells me that, at her office, they’re running low of the usual supplies, paper, staples, sticky tabs, that sort of thing. Bars can’t offer exotic drinks for the holidays because delivery of liqueurs like Compari and Schnapps is delayed by up to six weeks.

So it’s a surprise to watch a guy push a hand truck loaded with boxes. Evidently, not all supply chains are created equal. The gears of commerce still grind on. Minutes later, the same guy passes through my frame minus his boxes. He’s like Santa Claus, and somewhere up the street, a local retailer is dancing a jig.

Speaking of Santa Claus, I wonder how the man in red manages supply chain issues for his workshop. Is he going to be skimping on his deliveries this year? Or does he have a dedicated pipeline to source materials?

Man pushes an empty hand truck through a blast of steam from a vent in the road.
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City Life

Photographing Singers

Baritone Danlie Rae Acebuque sings at the Orpheus Choir of Toronto's Sidgwick Salon

I sing with the Orpheus Choir of Toronto (tenor) and we support a scholarship program for students in programs like the Glenn Gould School and the U. of T. Opera School who are on the cusp of careers as professional performers. To raise funds for the program, we host an annual salon where, in effect, our scholarship students sing for their money. They get a few things out of the program, including a regular stipend (students can always use money), an opportunity to work closely with our artistic director, Robert Cooper, and experience singing in an ensemble (where they have to rein in their big solo voices).

Each year, I photograph the event and each year it presents me with the paradox of capturing in one medium the artistry expressed in another. Singers sing. That’s what they do. There’s nothing I can capture in a photograph that conveys the auditory pleasure their skill produces. And yet …

These students are not just singers; they are performers. They project a presence. With bearing and gesture, facial expression, poise, a sidelong glance, they convey so much more than we find represented in the notes on a page. These are elements the camera can capture.

Featured here is baritone Danlie Rae Acebuque while looking on is Russell Braun. You can tell by the way Danlie holds himself that the music he makes is worth listening to.