I’m no Barbra Streisand
(both in looks and dexterity), so it’s no surprise that whenever craft time was
upon us in grade school I would fake an illness, try to stage my untimely
death, or eat a tube of glue to induce illness (or death). Craft time was my
personal hell, and I avoided its horrid ability to prove just how clumsy and
ungraceful I can be well into my adult life. And then I came to PARC.
Which is why I only like crafts that involve alcohol.
See, my original
intention was to work in an environment that would support my background in
urban studies – a field dominated by the formalities and professionalism of
planners, architects, consultants, policy advisors…So you can imagine how much
I started to collapse within myself after I was asked to make feathers from
tinfoil for three hours. It was a whole new version of self-induced hate after I put everything I had into a dream catcher that ended up looking more
like a sewer gyre.
The 'Endless Tree' created by PARC members and staff.
The irony of being
handed off into the arms of PARC’s artistic director was not lost on me. I am
the least likely candidate to support an arts program; most of the time I have
enough trouble staying upright, and any feeble attempts I make to be visually
creative usually end up looking like a modern Picaso if Picaso was a
paraplegic. It took time for me to understand that the type of art we do at
PARC isn’t necessarily about results, but process.
I was the only one who cared that my art was pre-school, or that I couldn’t
cross-stitch a goddamn cardboard box. We are learning together, and, more
importantly, allowing our selves to flow into our craft. It is an outlet and an
extension of the stories and struggles of people who wouldn’t otherwise have an
outlet.
Nowadays, when I step
into the craft room at PARC to paint a giant canvas tree or make ‘wise puppets’
out of clay, I feel a deep sense of purpose covered in a blanket of safe
serenity. We begin each session with a ten minute meditation where every person
involved can find that place where thoughts turn inward and creativity is born.
We sing Celtic folk songs and make non-sensical voices for our made-up characters.
We write stories about imaginary markets and creatures born in our heads. But
most importantly, we become ourselves and embrace the various multifaceted and
multidimensional forms that take shape when people collaborate to make art.
Ever know a person who is a rather
talented filmmaker/actor/storyteller/dancer/one of those people who seem to be
good at anything they try? I have a
friend that possesses this god-like ability to somehow immediately absorb any
skill she wants, and master it in a fraction of the time it would take my
skinny, white, sometimes a little ‘slow’ ass. Although I watch in half-wonderment,
half-envy as my comrade one-ups me in everything, I am also taken back by how
she had attributed her success to her blog.
Struck by how someone I knew could use a shared social media tool to obtain
a dream, I began to look at my blog as something that had potential beyond just
a hobby. I was also scared at the
prospect of my online self becoming much bigger than my real self.
The advent of pipe dreams and visions of
unrealistic blogger fame creates some pretty serious questions. If I am to even
attempt to ‘scale out’ my blog, I have to start thinking about it in terms of
its entertainment value and where that can intersect (or take away from) the more introspective, personal side I have
created. Does the transition from small-scale to super-stardom necessarily mean
that your integrity is compromised somewhere in between? How will the
intentions behind my blog change while it becomes bigger and more widely
adopted? Do I even have control over this process? In some ways I think it’s
easier to not change a thing, but sameness becomes staleness and I’ll just get
bored and join the exceedingly massive pile of dormant websites that clutter
the internet. So….with change comes fear, with fear comes apprehension....how
do I mount my fears like a steed and ride into the unpredictable horizon of
‘make-it-or-break-it’ bloggers? Hopefully I’ll still get to use awesome
metaphors like that.
I don't know, but I think this is how it would look.
"SEE. I TOLD you leprechaun pole vaulting was REAL."
I recall a discussion in class mid-semester
about the ‘self-made expert’ of the internet; the thousands of average people
with ordinary intelligence who find some dark corner of the internet and claim
unwittingly sound and superior judgement in politics, gardening, vegan baking,
raising children, finding God, weightlifting, interpretive dance and just about
every other subject of life on earth. Blogs allow people to step into that
fabricated role of ‘holy knower of all things’, regardless of creed, experience and/or background. I ponder over how much I’ve let myself do the same. I
discuss many things in my blog, though I am not an expert in any of them. Do
people actually read my stuff and assume I knew exactly what I was talking about? It’s an interesting case when you
consider how I’ve already written about fundraising, university, public broadcasting,
tourism, Christmas and more. Interestingly enough, having the gumption to talk
about these things and post them for the world to see has in turn increased my
confidence as a writer. So is it really such a bad thing?
Now more than ever I am seeing new
applications for my blog. Every time I do something big or meaningful I ask
myself if I can successfully transform it into a readable post. But the bigger
my blog gets, the more mediated it
becomes. In fact, as I’ve come to realise lately, everything about the process of creating a blog has been mediated
by something else. The act of writing a post is mediated by what I believe to
be truth, which in turn is mediated by something else that has convinced me of
this (a book, a TV Show, a newspaper, etc). Even when I write about first-hand
experiences I have compromised isolated truth; the pure act of seeing a
mountain, riding a bus or attending a concert has certain mediation in how I understand it. That filter or lens between my
self and the world around me obscures reality and I reproduce this false
picture on my blog for all to see.
Thus I have created the most depressing
and de-motivating group of sentences about Lost and Found to ever be written.
Although the fact that my blog is but an ultra-mediated fabrication of real
life, I still feel the need to work on my craft as a writer. I have acknowledged
its limitations as something devoid of pure unbridled real stuff, but what, in
all honesty, is?
Heading Southwest on
Queen Elizabeth Way, a vital superhighway that shoots out of Toronto’s West end
and skirts Lake Ontario to Niagara Falls/Fort Erie, it would be hard to miss
the greyscale stacks and old brick factories that indicate only one thing: you’re
passing Hamilton.
At its most Western
point, the lake funnels off and you cross the “Allan Skyway”, boasting the best
views of what was once the industrial capitol of Southern Ontario, but now
barely resembles a long dead era. In fact, the only real reminders of working
class heritage are the skeletal remains of the monsters and machines that once
ruled all.
Because of its short
rise and fall at the fate of a rapidly changing economy, Hamilton is now
commonly asserted as ‘Canada’s butthole’; a filthy leftover, full of poor
blue-collar remnants that were caught in a city that grew beyond its own
capacity to sustainably fill jobs and provide proper housing. But in between
the flashes of old Hamilton’s short-lived heyday is a city that still lives on,
a city that hasn’t yet succumbed to the intensity of modernity and a place that
is struggling to revive itself….And is.
Believe it or not, change is present, and Hamilton is beginning to put itself
back on the map, but in quite a different
way. Here are a few reasons why:
The
Hamilton ‘Supercrawl’
The topic of Hamilton
as a city in transition would be grossly incomplete without including its
burgeoning arts scene, now immensely present in the downtown core. Enter the ‘Supercrawl’: A weekend of never-ending
parties that celebrate art from all corners of the earth, colliding in the bars
and galleries of James Street and various outdoor stages erected for this very
event. Last year hosted the likes of Great Lake Swimmers
and K’naan.,
while giving over 75,000 visitors a weekend that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.
The best part: it’s totally free and easily accessible.
The rest of year
Hamilton continues to support a diverse range of new ‘up-and-coming’ artists
who have completely reshaped the culture scene in the city (if Hamilton even had a ‘culture scene’ to begin with).
Many attribute the rise in arts and culture to be the reason why Hamilton didn’t become a ghost town in the early 21st
century. Whichever opinion you choose to take, it’s clear that the influx of
hipsters, artists and neo-hippies in Hamilton is creating new space for
identity and economy.
The
Hamilton Farmers’ Market
No matter where you’ve
been or what you’ve done, you’ve never quite seen anything like Hamilton’s
Farmers’ Market.
In the centre of the
city rests a permanent space dedicated to the immigrant merchants and fresh-ass
food you won’t find in too many other places. This multi-level market-style
complex houses ethnic goods from around the world and seems to stretch into oblivion;
each corner rounded a new culinary adventure awaiting your senses - a mash of
Portuguese, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, African and more.
During the industrial
boom of the early 20th century, Hamilton became a main entrepot for
skilled labourers that left Northern Europe in search of prosperity inside mills
and factories. The market is a byproduct of a European-style center of trade
and commerce, gaining its first roots as a Jewish grocer but eventually
expanding into the mega-market it is today. Hamilton’s rich history of
working-class immigrant settlers that formed the original city is alive and
well in the market and can be enjoyed by everyone.
Waterfalls
of Hamilton
Probably the last item
one would imagine on a Tour de Hamilton would be a picturesque waterfall. Well…Think
again, and then think a multitude of
cascading H2O, and you have a city with the ultra-cool title of ‘The Waterfall Capital
of Canada’. Apparently, a shitload of water rockets over a
shitload of high crested rocky cliffs in and around Hamilton.
Albion Falls.
This unexpected treasure
is actually a product of Lake Ontario geography. Hamilton is located at the
very Western tip of this giant blue body, where plenty of rivers and watersheds
flow into the lake. Couple that with the fact that the area is surrounded by a
giant riff in the earth known as the Niagara Escarpment,
and you get waterfalls…Waterfalls everywhere.
Many flock to the
trails and viewpoints of places like Mill Falls,
Albion
Falls and my favourite, the Devils Punch
Bowl to meet these hydrological giants and feel the wrath of thousands of
litres of water flying over a cliff.
The
Bruce Trail
You’re in escarpment
country now, where hiking trails for all age and skill levels creep through the
umpteen conservation areas, highlighting the hidden natural beauty of Hamilton’s
backyard. From Dundas
Valley to the Eramosa
Karst, the options for exploring are endless, but the main artery that runs
through this network is none other than the Bruce
Trail, Canada’s oldest and largest hiking experience.
Running 885km from
Niagara to the Bruce Penensula, the trail has gained notoriety as being the god
of all hiking itineraries in Canada. More hikers seem to be interested in the
trail every year, some undertaking ‘end-to-ends’ that can last up to three
months and traverse every kilometre of its winding route. Hamilton serves as a perfect
mid-point on the ‘Iroquoia’ section, before the trail heads North past
Burlington and Milton.
No matter how you look
at it, Hamilton is changing, and growing, and metamorphisizing…Into what, we’re still not sure yet, but I
think it’s interesting and you should too. So, next time you’re passing that
freaky-ass industrial shoreline along the QEW, consider looking beyond and
stepping into Steel City.
Stifled by endless school
assignments and shitty fall weather, I decided recently that it was time for
another small adventure to recharge my batteries and remind myself of life
outside. But where to go, and what to do? I love Toronto, but it can be one
hell of an entrapment when you’re looking for a bit of solitude. Perhaps I
could find a nice private cabin in Muskoka that doesn’t cost my unborn child’s
college tuition? Or maybe Niagara Falls happens to accommodate the winter
camper? All wishful thinking, none a feasible option.
I was almost ready to
give up, convincing myself that escaping the concrete jungle was an
impossibility on my measly budget and strict timescale. At the same time, the
semesters end had me yearning for a good read, and I picked up Cheryl Strayed’s
Wild, because if I couldn’t travel
physically goddamit I was at least going
to go somewhere mentally. Strayed not only captured my attention in her
incredible true story of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, but also reminded me
of how much I fucking love hiking. It
was, very quickly after this revelation, when I decided to go on a trip anyways
and see the world-famous Bruce Trail.
The Bruce Trail, in
case you haven’t heard, is Canada’s oldest and longest trail system that runs
885km from Niagara to Tobermory on the tip of the Bruce Peninsula. While I wasn’t
about to embark on an end-to-end trip (that would take about a month and a
half), I could at least spend a couple days on the nearby Niagara Escarpment
where the trail offers scenic views and an opportunity to rekindle a relationship
with Mother Nature. Its closest access point from Toronto is only an hour away
by car but can be located by using other transportation systems located in the
towns and cities it passes.
At the foot of the DPB
A mere hour on a
Westbound GO Train and I found myself in downtown Hamilton, hopping a city bus
to its outskirts and traversing the grassy knolls of Battlefield Park to
a Bruce Trail connection. From there, the trail switchbacks up the Niagara
Escarpment and enters a place called the Devils Punch Bowl, or a giant fucking
crater in the earth with a waterfall and shit. I almost forgot where I was for
a while, resting atop a rocky outcropping devouring an egg salad sandwich and
watching my fellow hikers with their dogs that relentlessly and excitedly
explore every inch of cold ground.
I know it’s a pretty
far stretch, but I couldn’t help but compare myself to Strayed while I strapped
on my hiking pack and camera case or lost my breath on a steep ascent. Two days
on the escarpment is nothing like the brutality of three months across in the
Sierra Nevada, and I only created one wimpy blister during the trip – unlike
the swollen, toenail-dying, chewed up rawness of Strayeds’ feet (which are
described in gruesome detail in the book). Still, the spirit of being on the
trail in the wilderness was not lost on me. Nor was the innate wonder of the
Niagara Escarpment.
Standing at the iconic Stoney Creek lookout.
My second day on the
trail followed a not so fruitful sleep at a hostel in Hamilton. Exhausted, I
found my way again out to the brink of civilization, this time at the edge of
the Kings Forest, due 45min Southeast of the city. Now descending the escarpment,I was reminded how much harder it is to
walk down than up. I emerged, knees shaking uncontrollably and hands covered in
dirt and stone from grabbing roots and rocks to stabilize myself, in front of
the spectacle of Albion Falls, a cascading 62ft tower of water. The sight of it
became the homage of my trip – my hiking was over, but I would spend an extra
hour watching how the water tumbled over each small riff in the earth, eventually
pooling into rock-filled enclaves at my feet.
Albion Falls.
My trip through the
escarpment, however small it was, reminded me of simple pleasures – hiking alone
in the woods, with nothing to do but think about your life, moving forward and
respecting the trail you’ve already walked.
*Cheryl Strayed's Wild can be purchased here. This book will blow your mind.
Ever notice how much
Christmas is actually just a huge bummer? I mean, I get it…Being seduced by
‘The Christmas Spirit’ is great, and I’ll admit to feeling jolly after stuffing
myself stupid with cranberry sauce, literally turning my stomach in a bow full
of jelly. The fact of the matter is, though, for many us, a more accurate
opening line for ‘Deck The Halls’ would read ‘Tis the season to be stressed and
feel like dying’.
When Christmas lights rape your head.
We’ve overcomplicated
things because of the significance that gets uncontrolably packed into a few important
weeks of holiday. The ‘cheer’ part only seems to resurface in short waves when
you’re not sardined into a lineup at
Wal Mart or attending the infinitely long and useless company holiday pot
latch. When all is said and done, it feels almost emancipating to free oneself
of the festive season, no longer bound by solving mysterious gift ideas or navigating
the pandemonium of shopping centres during Early Christmas, Black Weekend,
Green Thursday, Mid-December, Pre-Christmas, Pre-Pre Christmas, Last Minute,
Last Second,
I-Literally-Forgot-to-Buy-My-Wife-Something-and-its-6am-on-December-25th,
Boxing Day, Boxing Week, New Years and Just-For-Shits-and-Giggles sales. In
lieu of the aforementioned, it’s no surprise that something called ‘holiday
depression’ is now considered a serious disorder that has become
commonplace during this time of year.
Three years ago, I did
something that would change the course of Christmas forever: I abstained from
gift giving/receiving. This simple yet oh so season-changing decision was met
with chagrin from family members and passive scolding from friends, but was
also the smartest thing I’d done in a long, long,
panic-induced-from-buying-presents time. That December, I avoided all things
with a price tag like the plague and didn’t step one foot into a mall, instead
finding more time for myself and the people around me. The residual effects on
my student-sized wallet and time management strategy were unbelievable, but
what made the largest impact were the other changes it would catalyse.
I immediately regret posting this.
I’ve found the simple
act of refusing gift exchanges has forced me to find a new approach to
Christmas. Suddenly, other, less tangible things became more important, and
consequently my experience of Christmas has changed shape over the past few
years. My partner and I don’t buy things for each other; instead, we go on
trips over the break. This year, I’m co-hosting Christmas Eve for the family
for the first time. I read books, see old friends and make food. I’m spending
more time preparing for holiday events at PARC instead of creating gift lists.
This isn’t a shameless
self-plug or boastful post, nor is it an anti-corporate politically charged
message. I am not suggesting widespread gift-less holidays (some people just
can’t help it, as I’ve come to learn after having a few slipped to me every
year in the wake of my ‘no gifting’ protests). I am suggesting a toning down of
the things that are merely physical things,
because those things don’t get us
closer to each other.
Think about it: what’s
the worst thing that could happen if you reduced gift giving? A few long faces
on Christmas Day? Confused children? Now brainstorm the benefits. We have a
hard time abstracting the true meaning of this time of year from the boxes
wrapped in shiny paper, but I promise you that fewer things under the tree
equal a Christmas where you don’t feel like sticking your head in an oven. And that’s
just priceless.
Remember when
your cousin ate so many marshmallows he crapped all the colours of the rainbow
for three days straight, and your mother never again purchased those light
fluffy slices of cloud in fear of creating another poop-induced epidemic?
"Chubby Bunny" was a household favourite.
Sometimes the
decisions and reputation of one person or thing can ruin it for the rest of us.
Hostels are no exception to this rule, only instead of a bad case of the shits
you have fear mongering over rapists and thieves. Yet in all my experience
staying in hostels across Canada
I’ve never once felt like I was in danger of losing my butt virginity to a
crazed train-hopper. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I willingly choose
hostelling for a few important reasons, all of which add to the experience of
traveling someplace in a very positive way. We hold certain expectations of who
the general hostel-goer is and what they do, but the fact of the matter is that
people of all walks of life – young, old, non-Canadian, wizards, mimes,
couples, Treebeard from LOTR - end up in hostels, which only adds to the
uniqueness of the space (although some of those things may only appear when
using hallucinogenic drugs).
Still
unconvinced? Read ahead: 5 reasons why hostelling is superior.
1) Why do I have so much
money?
The 'deluxe double room' at beautiful 'La Maison du Patriote' in Montreal; $64/Night for two.
Hostels save
whatever small pieces of dignity still exist within that pitiful reserve you
call a bank account. If budget traveling is your thing, hostels are the climax
of low-cost orgasms. A bed in a dorm usually ranges from $20 – $28, depending
on the facilities, but the option to rent a private room is available at many
locations. The price range is, of course, higher and wider, but still very
cheap when compared to the deep gouging Holiday Inn across the street. This
means you can bring a ‘special friend’ along without it forcing you on food
stamps for the following year.
The overwhelming
savings can thus also be used for more fun shit during your trip. This may
leave you feeling liberated and free from the shackles of financial worries.
Yes, the hills are alive with the sound of loose change weighing down your
trousers.
2) Awesome people. Awesome
people everywhere.
You’re an
awesome person. That’s no secret, but, as Big Daddy Kane thoroughly explains,
‘Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy’. In order to keep your street cred at a satisfactory
level, you’ll need to network between other awesome people to keep a diverse
gangtsa portfolio. Luckily for you, hostels are a mecca of unique individuals
from all over the world, and they’re anxiously awaiting your complicated
handshake of straight thug brotherhood.
Hostels attract
more than just old waspy couples from the ‘burbs because it’s not just an
accommodation – it’s an opportunity to make new friends and experience new
things. They are a gateway into the community and keep you connected to other
folks who are visiting. Get ready for a Facebook friends list that will be
admired by all.
If hotels are
the epitome of ultra-rational segregated mindless confinement (and let’s face
it….they kinda are), hostels are a
different spectrum of colorful, welcoming warmth that are community-oriented
and intentionally supportive. The experience of traveling somewhere can be
rewarding, but also quite isolating if you’re far from home. You may feel like
an outsider and completely unadjusted to a new place and way of life. If only
you could find a place that feels more familiar.…more
acknowledging of your situation.
BAM. Now you’re
in a FUCKING HOSTEL and shit just took a turn for the helpful. Hostels are in
themselves micro-communities designed for optimum fun during your stay. They
are well connected to the surrounding area and are invested in your experience,
often helping you find the ‘hidden gems’ that make a trip worthwhile. Allow
yourself to be absorbed into a hostel community and in turn reap the benefits
of unlimited hook-ups.
4) Customer care: you’re
doing it right.
Oftentimes
hostels will employ people who are in your boat: travelers, wanderers,
adventure-seeking individuals who are passionate about being on the road and
actually want you to take something
away from all of this. They’ll tell you about local deals, the best places to
eat, amazing best kept secrets and the things/places/people that can rip you
off so hard it will leave a nasty rash.
Behind this
solid advice is a person who has insider knowledge and wishes to share their
sound judgment. Being able to rely on well-informed people that are hired for
you to gratuitously take advantage of is just another perk of hostel life.
5) There’s so much room for
activities.
So by now I’ll
assume your next trip will involve a hostel. If this article wasn’t convincing
enough to you, that’s just fine….I know that silly “O.J Simpson” trial you
juried for was also a huge hoax, as was the so called ‘evidence’ of political
prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. Hosteling must be another sham created by the
corporate machine to turn us into robots or something.
The Nanaimo International Hostel - more of a house than a hostel - in central Nanaimo
For those of you
who aren’t wearing tinfoil hats, be glad that hostels usually offer ‘member benefits’
that allow its patrons to do amazing stuff at discounted prices. Rollbacks on
transportation, museums, eateries and tours are to name a few. And don’t forget
the endless amount of activities that can happen inside a hostel, such as jam sessions, bingo nights, concerts and
drink-offs that are easy on the pocketbook and heavy on the friend-making fun-ness.
Next time you’re
planning a getaway, be a champ and stay at a hostel. It’s only the coolest
thing that all the cool people are doing.
Just as soon as you’ve acclimatized
to the suits and Irish-Pubs gone Hollywood, the fashonistas disappear and the
weather is groping under your skin. It’s pre-winter; that time of year when
it’s too damn cold for your permeable city skin and the snow hasn’t fallen yet
so all you’re left with is a cloudy sky and gusts of wind that feel like a
thousand tiny needles assaulting the light fall coat you’ve adorned in full
denial of the rapidly changing seasons. Beside you is a bus stop that is
ordinarily graffiti’d with black ink, mocking the cheesy poster of some kid
visiting The North Pole. At your feet, though, close to one hundred wreaths,
flowers and envelopes trace the periphery of the glass shelter and cover the
gap where the walls end and the sidewalk begins. You look up; you’re standing
on the corner of Danzig St. and Morningside Ave.
Not six months ago, Danzig St. was
seen by many as just another failed low-income housing project that centralized
crime in Toronto’s East end suburb of Scarborough. One fateful night in July
2012, however, would change this community forever as gunshots rang out over
the scene of a massive ‘block party’ early in the evening. A staggering 23
people would be wounded and two more victims dead after ‘Toronto’s
deadliest shooting’ shook fear into the lives of the families involved.
Although the horror of such a tragedy is unparalleled, the attributed gun and
gang-related violence is not uncommon in the area. Consequently, the ‘Danzig
Shootings’ became a poster child for how community violence was framed in local
media long after.
His Righteousness, the soon to be exiled Mayor Rob Ford visiting Danzig soon after the shootings.
Like plenty of other stories we hear
and read about, the shootings in Lower West Hill were retold by dominant media
as an external problem, blaming guns and gangs for this and other crime-related
activities in the GTA. What we miss, however, is a fuller and more complete
analysis of what is actually happening in a place like Danzig. Newpapers and TV
reports fail to properly identify and discuss how the Toronto District School
Board (TDSB) has recently
closed several public schools in the area with more cutbacks to
extracurricular programming in the facilities that do exist, or how rapid
development and corporatization in the area has further marginalized low-income
communities, and what part that has played in the rising rates of violence in
West Hill.
Perspectives from Toronto Police
don’t add much clarity to the situation, either. A recent study conducted on
police accounts of gun violence in Toronto found that the violence was
‘commonly associated in the media with young black males’ and that ‘the most
prominent police frame attributed the problem to the proliferation of gangs,
illegal gun smuggling and illicit drug trafficking.’ (Ezeonu, I, 2010. pp.150).
The language and jargon of these reports can be incredibly oppressing and
smother community voices, disadvantaging the affected peoples by discouraging
reclamation of shared values, space and safety. Being critical of media
literacy identifies how language in media can subversively blame and finger-point
without accurately depicting a story (this is also referred to as Critical Media Literacy). Bakari Chavanu
(2011) explains how ‘Critical media literacy proposes that, with different
information, viewers might make different choices or engage in different behaviours’
(pg.285). The idea that media can influence behaviour is incredibly poignant to
the case of the Danzig Shootings and other crime in the GTA because of its
relevancy to our reactions and perspectives.
Queen West
From outer city
to urban innards, you’ve immersed yourself into the never ending flocks of
tourists that head West: to Queen West, that is. There is, arguably, no better
example of a corporate takeover in the city than Queen West between Younge
Street and Bathurst. Unlike the oober-modern New-York inspired Dundas Square, a
flashy cousin to the North of Queen West, there was little to no planning
involved in the expansion of big, multinational companies that usurped space
originally entitled to the indie scene on this strip of Queen Street. Only the
second largest destination for shoppers in Toronto, it can be easy to lose
yourself amongst the crowds that line the precipice of concrete and glossy
storefront on any given day.
The unbridled change of corporate
stakeholders on Queen West has also affected the identity of its residents and
long time community members. Once upon a time, this area was slated for long
term ‘cultural redevelopment’ that would invest in important social services
and support local business. But as Queen West became a popular destination in
Toronto, larger and more powerful players became involved. The mix of modernist-planning
dominating at city hall and multinational interest in the 1960’s would quickly
rearrange priorities on Queen West and transform its fabric. This extreme
change is also ‘attributed to such factors as existing land use planning
regulatory frameworks and the organizational structures prevalent in municipal
government.’ (Mcdonough & Wekerle, 2011. Pg.41). Today, any cultural
planning still prevalent on Queen West exists in spaces that must be actively
searched.
While the invasion of neon street
signs infects your body with harsh coloured lights, you catch something
different out of the corner of your eye. Down a narrow alley and beyond the
skeleton of a fire escape you examine how the colours on the wall bleed and
blend into each other, creating a vast array of multi-toned pictures and
obscure manifestos. Curiosity grabs hold as you step off Portland Street and
into a world where shapes form words and every inch of space is covered with
something unique. You are on Rush Lane, aka ‘Graffiti
Alley’, where street art monstrously invades your every sense. Scrawled on
walls are coded messages, disproportionate animals, fantastical renderings of
figureheads and secret letters for lovers past. To describe it as political
graffiti would be a grave understatement, but it’s all we have. If there’s any
one place cultural planning should be expanded, it’s from graffiti alley out
into the world at large.
Graffiti has been a medium utilized
by many for many years. The endless possibilities for its use as a tool of
expression, dissent, creativity, art-making and more have kept graffiti culture
in Toronto strong. As the municipal government declares war
on graffiti, the graffiti-makers find more applications. Political graffiti
engages passersby and disrupts the influence of corporate city spaces like
Queen West. Stencils and other types of wall art can be used as ‘a form of
protest...throughout the world...because they are easy to make, quick to apply,
and can be used over and over...Whether in a school or on the streets, stencils
– at least political ones – can catch onlookers’ attention and make them
think.’ (Reed, 2011. Pg.298).
St. Lawrence
The-absurd-hectic clusterfuck of
Queen West was probably enough to induce a seizure, so it’s nice that you’ve
ended up in a rather tranquil setting during this last leg. You can faintly
hear children laughing in the background of a small urban park, the odd car
rumbles by but the quiet of this place is almost melodic. You haven’t left the
city, but you’ve arrived at your final destination. Welcome to the St. Lawrence
residential neighbourhood in Toronto’s West Port Lands.
Bound by the decrepit Gardiner
Expressway to the South, the bustle of Front Street East on the North, the
entrepot Union Station a close neighbour to the West and The Distillery
District on the East, the St. Lawrence community is probably the last place you
would expect to find a little peacefulness. Yet here it is; a well thought-out
collective of people who represent almost every walk of life in Toronto: single
working professionals, low-income families, young couples, conservatives,
liberals, socialists....In semi-blissful harmony. So what is it about this
place that absorbs its residents in a bout of radical inclusivity, and how has
media helped in the shaping of the community?
If Toronto has royally messed up on
its waterfront by allowing the ugly giant teeth of high-rise condos to spatter
the lakeshore, then St. Lawrence stands in defiance of this rubric by offering
an alternative solution of inviting people from all over the city into a shared
space. The development has made this possible by offering a blend of at-market
and subsidized housing while building mixed-use business and recreational areas.
The successful collision of multiple demographics has produced opportunities
for expression and art making that has bled into the rest of the city.
One such community arts organization
to rise from the mesh of people in St. Lawrence is the Neighbourhood Arts Network;
an organization that has supported many St. Lawrence public artwork projects
including the Co-Ops
Artwork. The outcomes have included giant community-engaged murals in the
area that embody the challenges and realities of co-operative housing
environments in Toronto. Other pieces that have emerged from the Arts Network
are the Scrape-Bleeker murals, an 18’ public artwork designed by the Bleeker
Street Co-operative members. Community-based murals are just another example of
how community artists transcend what de Zengotita (2005) referred to as ‘an
environment of representations’, where highly fabricated media addresses us ‘by
design. We are at the center of all the attention, but there is a thinness to
things, a smoothness, a muffled quality.’ (pg.15). Embracing the messiness of
community arts in St. Lawrence has directly opposed the streamlined nature of
mainstream art and provided a venue for all voices to be heard.
Sources
de Zengotita, T.
(2005). Mediated: How the Media Shapes
Our World and the Way We Live
in It. New York: Bloomsbury
Puslishing.
Ifeanyi, E.
(2010). Gun violence in Toronto: perspectives from police. Howard Journal
of Criminal Justice. (49), 2. pp.147-165.
Mcdonough, A.
& Wekerle, G. (2011). Integrating cultural planning and urban planning:
the
challenged of implementation. Canadian
Journal of Urban Research. pp.27-51.
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