Katie Paolozza wrote an article for this column in 2017 about Honest Ed’s getting taken down. In that article, she raises an important question: “how should we then define a city that changes what is part of its core essence?” This article is my attempt to answer her, and all the other people who think that Toronto’s changing landscape is pushing our city’s heritage to the sidelines.
The critique is certainly fair – it seems that there are new condos going up every other day at the expense of beloved cultural institutions like Honest Ed’s. But the battle between condos and history isn’t black-and-white. In fact, we have more power over our city’s memorialization than we might think.
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| The demolition of Honest Ed's nearing completion. Source. |
The “myth of Toronto”, the story and identity of our city, changes based on who you ask. Some people think Toronto’s myth is multiculturalism, for others it might be world-class cuisine, absolutely terrible public transit, or permanent construction. Insofar as we all consider different things important to Toronto, we all imagine the city’s myth somewhat differently. However, I think there are instances of common ground between our individual conceptions of Toronto’s myth — for example, many of us mourned Honest Ed’s demolition, suggesting that we all happened to agree that it was important to Toronto.
Honest Ed’s didn’t instantly become a famous Toronto landmark the second it opened its doors. But when that sign was taken down 68 years later, there was a palpable feeling of collective loss, like the entire city was mourning. Sometime during its 68-year lifetime, Honest Ed’s came to develop a greater significance to the city. People had grown to weave Honest Ed’s into their day-to-day lives and family traditions, going there after school every day or taking their kids there every Christmas. When it was taken down, it wasn’t only the end of the building’s lifetime – it was also the end of all those individual traditions.
I think there is a correlation between Honest Ed’s value to Toronto as a whole and its value to individual people. In other words, individual people thought of Honest Ed’s as part of Toronto’s myth, and it developed greater value to the city in virtue of developing this greater value to individuals. And even though it’s gone, those individuals can still remember it through their family traditions that took place there.
A lot of Toronto’s myth develops like this, with pieces of ordinary city life gaining significance by being part of people’s day-to-day lives. This kind of myth seems like it relies on physical continuity, since an institution needs to physically exist to remain a part of people’s day-to-day lives. But I think institutions of Toronto’s myth actually have the power to withstand dramatic change, even demolition – because we can choose to remember them.
The same thing happened with Sam the Record Man: it began as regular store with no inherent significance to the city when it opened. But over time, it developed a greater meaning to individual people, and therefore to the city as a whole.
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| An old photo of Sam the Record Man in all its LED glory. Source. |
We also saw this happen in 2003, when Corwyn Lund installed an ordinary playground swing between two buildings in Graffiti Alley. The “Secret Swing” became an urban legend and tiny cultural institution, a pilgrimage site for the cool youth of Toronto.
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| The Secret Swing's dedication: "new secret swing dedicated to all of Toronto". Source. |
The Secret Swing was an ordinary object given no physical place of prominence in the city. But it became extraordinary through people’s continued interest and fascination with it, until it was officially dedicated to all of Toronto. (As an aside, the alley where the Secret Swing was located got boarded up in 2006, but you can still visit the site today.)
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| An old picture of some lucky person getting to ride on the Secret Swing. Source. |
All of these institutions have been subject to change and taken down. But they haven’t ceased being a part of Toronto’s myth, for the same reason we didn’t just suddenly forget every time our parents took us to Honest Ed’s at Christmastime. The memories don’t go away. So asking how we can define Toronto in light of all these changes is the wrong question (sorry Katie!). We don’t have to change our understanding of Toronto’s myth whenever the city’s landscape changes; rather the myth just needs to survive the landscape changing around it.
With that in mind, I think the question we should be asking is: “how can we create opportunities for remembering the cultural institutions of Toronto’s past?” There are some examples of this already being done in Toronto: the Honest Ed’s sign is going to be installed outside the Ed Mirvish theatre, and the Sam the Record Man sign was moved to Yonge and Dundas Square earlier this year. These memorialization efforts are by no means perfect or free from criticism, but my point is that it is (at least) possible to turn our capacity for remembrance into a memorialization that persists through the changing Toronto landscape.
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| Sam the Record Man sign lights up the skyline behind Yonge and Dundas Square. Source. |
There are so many more missed opportunities to memorialize Toronto’s myth – I certainly don’t intend to suggest that all the work has already been done or that I have the answers about how best to do it. I simply want to suggest that there isn’t a back and forth, all-or-nothing battle, between condos and history, and that Toronto doesn’t lose a part of itself with every new demolition. Even though the city might be changing rapidly around us and doesn’t seem to care about preserving our story, we still have some power over Toronto’s myth. After all, we’re the ones who ultimately have a say over what counts as myth, and it is up to us to find ways to remember it.
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