Journal excerpts of my early attempts to get back into the street photography habit.
April 15th, 2021
Somebody has spray painted Are You My Hero? on the side of the Bloor Street East bridge that crosses Mount Pleasant Road. As I shoot the words, a food delivery guy on a bicycle rides past which strikes me as somehow fitting. There seems to be something essential about their work and yet, like so many roles that have suddenly become essential, we grossly underpay them. We seem to think calling them heroes is compensation enough.
As soon as somebody spray paints a message here, it’s gone almost immediately. The authorities are hellbent on sanitizing this particular stretch of Bloor. Meanwhile, underneath the bridge, and lining the concrete walls of Mount Pleasant Road, is some of the kitschiest street art I’ve ever laid eyes on—scenes of the Canadian wilderness with bears and canoes and happiness and unicorns. The graffiti cleaners never touch it even though it’s gawdawful.
April 23rd, 2021
Things are quiet so it’s easy to keep everyone at arm’s length. I run out to the post office to retrieve mail for X. Two cheques plus one in hand, so up to the bank to make a deposit. Again, things are quiet everywhere so it’s easy to stay distant.
I have taken my the Sony mirrorless with me to try and get myself back into the street photography groove. I have low expectations. However, an unexpected opportunity presents itself. When I was walking to the post office, I passed a man, possibly homeless, sitting on the ground on the north side of Bloor a little east of Yonge with a guitar close at hand. I say possibly homeless because, with a guitar close at hand, he could be a busker getting ready to play a set, not that people are busking much these days. He didn’t strike me as particularly interesting, at least not visually, so I kept on walking.
When I finish at the bank, I return along the north side of Bloor and, by this time, the man has—how should I put this?—transformed himself. Now, he has the remnants of a white styrofoam container on his head and is tapping out a rhythm using a piece of wire with a blue tourniquet tied to the end for a kind of ribbon. He bangs his mallet on his guitar, the lid from a plastic bin, and then his head, all in quick succession, like he’s a drummer in a band. I step up and shoot a quick burst. How can I not? I decide, too, that I can strike the word “possibly” from my description of the man. With the tourniquet and the head-banging, it’s more of a “definitely” than a “possibly.”
April 26th, 2021
While I’m walking along Bloor Street, I come up behind a guy who’s stopped at an intersection and seems immobilized. Maybe he’s homeless. It’s hard to tell. He’s wearing a jacket two sizes too big and he’s slouching. It feels like we’re all slouching now. The weight of Covid-19 bears down on all of us. When I get home, I decide to process the image in black and white because, honestly, it’s too depressing to keep in colour.
Further along, I come up behind another guy who’s stopped at another intersection. At first, I think he’s carrying a big package of toilet paper and it takes me back to scenes that were common a year ago. But when I get close, I see that he’s carrying a 12-pack of paper towel. We’ve taken a step up in our paper products. When I get closer still, I note that the tagline on the package says: “Strength & Thickness.” That could easily be the tagline the man adopts to describe his stance. The way he sets his feet apart, shoulders squared, it’s almost as if he holds his paper towel as an act of defiance. There is no slouching in his demeanour. I wonder what his secret is.
