Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
Walking up Bay Street from King, I saw two guys sitting on the sidewalk. It was rush hour and people were pouring from the buildings to make their dash down to Union Station. At first, I didn’t think anything of it: two more kids begging on the streets. But as I passed, I did a double-take. A rat had climbed onto the one kid’s shoulder. I stopped and knelt beside him: “Is that what I think it is?”
I’m working on a photobook tentatively titled The Disposable City. It’s a vehicle for exploring urban concerns like ephemera, waste (garbage, demolitions, pollution), and the commodification of everything, including people.
Freddy was sitting on a bench in Allen Gardens tuning his guitar. I went up to him and asked if I could take some photos of him doing his thing. A couple hours later, after (among other things) a trip to a Timmies where I bought him a coffee, we parted company on Carlton Street.
There’s been a lot of talk in Toronto about the practice of “carding” where police stop people on the street and ask for ID. A number of events have converged to make it a hot-button topic.
This is Richard. I was climbing the stairs from Ted Rogers Way to Huntley Street and he was sitting on the top step so I stopped and we chatted. The conversation was rambling, driven by a free-association game that Richard seemed to be playing with himself.
Where Bloor Street passes over Rosedale Valley Road, there are two bridges instead of one. There’s one bridge for the road, and another for the subway.
This is the last installment of a 10-part series of posts featuring photos from Victoria. I began with touristy photos, and end here as far from touristy as you can get — with street photos.
Merry Christmas! Some lights to fill you with cheer! Oops! I don’t know how this first photo got into the mix. Let’s move on to something more sanitized, shall we? Okay, so this is where I interject with my little Christmas sermon. I was not the only person shooting these trees. There was this girl,…
A couple years ago, my wife and I sold our house in the suburbs and rented a condo downtown. It was an experiment. We wanted to test a different lifestyle. More evenings out. More amenities. More walking. Less cars. Less big box stores. Less cocooning.
When I see someone panhandling, or simply sitting there, obviously homeless, my usual response is no response at all. I stare straight ahead and direct all my energy to reaching a point further along the sidewalk. I pretend there is no hand outstretched, no voice asking if I can spare some change.
I’m meeting a friend for lunch. She used to work for the city as an employability specialist. The way I understand it, her job was to help homeless people develop the skills they’d need to get back to work. My impression is that her job was overwhelming. A cup of resources. An ocean of need.