Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
Stepping away from the cubicle, I saw that it served a small construction site. A man stood on the sidewalk eating a fruit cup for breakfast and I realized he was probably the foreman. He smiled at me and asked how my day was going. I smiled at him and hiked up my pants and said it was going well thank you; and how’s it going for you?
Beaumont conceives of walking—at least as expressed by his author/heroes—as an act of resistance insofar as it fails to conform to the imperatives of our late capitalist economy. It has no preconceived end, motivated instead by pleasure and curiosity and the demands of recreation.
I think there’s something offensive about the longstanding tradition that art has a redemptive quality which can magically elevate a man’s misery. Too long it’s been used to justify apathy in the face of unjust social relations.
The scene paralyses me. My mind reels at the enormity of the contrasts. I feel called to respond but don’t know how. I make my shot and walk away, head bowed because I know it’s a great shot, but so what?
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?
It’s easy to overlook the possibility that medical guidance is entrenched within or is an expression of middle-class values. But those things we expect of people—self-isolation, social distancing, masks, hand-washing—are not possible for many people.
Bathed In Luxury. This is the tagline of a new condominium residence and hotel under construction on Bloor Street East. I struggle with the word luxury. I struggle with the way it’s used.
There’s something poignant about those green apples all crowded against the dirty window. Who knows where they’ve come from. Some bear wounds. Some yellow in the light.
A standard question during a psychiatric intake interview is: Do you ever feel that the people around you can read your mind? I wonder if our cultural habits have rendered this question obsolete.
On Tuesday January 7th, the City of Toronto conducted a sweep of homeless people from the Rosedale Valley ravine. Mayor Tory cited “health and safety” as an important reason for the sweep. News sources also cited “risks such as fire when open flames are used.”
The City of Toronto is conducting a sweep of Rosedale Valley Road, removing homeless people who live either under the bridges that cross the ravine or in tents in the more densely wooded areas.
We eat at the bar; my nephew is serving. A man sits on the stool to my left. He says he’s at the convention for the North American Widget Manufacturers Association or something like that. As soon as he opens his mouth, we know he’s an American …
His name is Raymond Joseph Robichaud and he was born near St. John NB to a French Canadian mother and Irish/Scottish father, so he is a self-described mongrel. He asked if I could spare some change; he needed money for art supplies. Seriously, he said.
For me, as a street photographer, shooting a homeless person is an ambivalent act. It plays along a line of tension between the need to document lived conditions and the need to protect our most vulnerable citizens from exploitation. As our missionary forebears demonstrated, it’s often difficult to tell the difference between compassion and colonization.
This is Atta. I met him in Dundas Square near the Yonge/Dundas intersection. Approaching through the crowds, this is what I saw: a slender man in a hoodie, sometimes still, sometimes moving with an exaggerated animation. He was laying pieces of paper on the pavement and fixing them in place with objects. Gusts blew the pieces of paper away and Atta chased after them through the square.