Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
Toronto’s weekly anti-vax rabble were out in force again this Saturday. I stumbled upon them by accident. My wife and I had run out to get a few groceries. When we reached the corner of Church & Bloor, we could see flashing lights in the distance and realized that it was police blocking an intersection…
I was curious to know if there would be a repeat performance of last weekend’s Freedom Convoy protest in Toronto. However, on Saturday when I got to Bloor and Avenue Road, it was apparent that the police had assembled a more comprehensive grid of road blocks. At Bloor & Avenue Road, there was a lone…
I went out at 11:30 am, starting my adventure at the intersection of Bloor Street West and Avenue Road. I had thought I would walk south through Queen’s Park Crescent and the tractors I’d seen the night before, then on to the Medical Arts Building where health care workers were planning a counter protest. However,…
One girl was on the phone to her mother, almost in tears, saying “Mom, I really fucked up this time.” Others had their heads buried in cell phones trying to book Uber rides which, because of the sudden spike in demand, were priced in the stratosphere.
Certain fire hydrants suffer from performance anxiety, praying each time they hear a siren that the fire truck doesn’t pull up in front of them: “Oh please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. The last time a fire truck stopped here, I pissed a river and had a bladder infection for three weeks.”
I return again to the image and wonder if an older man wearing a mask and carrying a book about grief isn’t emblematic of our times. During the pandemic, there are ways in which we all have experienced loss.
My silence isn’t assent; my silence is an acknowledgement that I don’t really know what’s going on here. There is a context beyond my grasp, yet the whitest thing I could do is to presume that context doesn’t matter, that platitudes shared through Facebook memes have universal application.
At the corner of Yonge and Hayden, a woman was leaning against a utility pole, her back to me, head bowed as if she was texting or scrolling on her smart phone, purse tucked under her right arm. But the kicker was the leopard skin print dress.
Sometimes, when I’m out walking, the city seems to buzz. Thanks to the pandemic and the lockdowns it has required, I haven’t had that feeling for a couple years. But this Sunday was different.
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.
It’s like an Arctic Spring: a winter of desolation and then, suddenly, an explosion of life. Young people with money. Old people out for a stroll and leaning on their canes. Sirens blaring. Schizophrenics screaming at the cars. Things are starting to feel normal again.
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?
This is the first time in months that I’ve been out with my camera and have interacted with a live human being. It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath all winter and can suddenly let it out (while still wearing a mask, of course). It gave me such a lift to chat with a stranger.