INTRODUCTION
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| A selection of local treatments |
What is it that makes up the
visage of a place?
What matter makes its
skin, its bones?
What substance holds a
site together?
What material comprises
the structure of its soul?
"Toronto is a
concrete city," reads the blurb aback E.R.A. Architects'
2007 monograph Concrete Toronto. "Looking at its
international landmarks, civic buildings, cultural institutions,
metropolitan infrastructure, and housing, from high-rise to
single-family home, it is clear that much of Toronto was born in an
era when exposed concrete design was the order of the day."
Against the modish ascent
of glass facades, wherein the current city skyline threatens to
disappear into its own translucent reflection, this sentiment may
seem increasingly moot. Still, one cannot deny the intended and
continued prominence of such structures as the CN Tower, New City
Hall, the SkyDome, and various other buildings, erected mainly during
the latter half of the last century, in which concrete serves not
only as a skeletal frame but also the unadorned flesh of the edifice
itself. Everywhere across this city one finds the grey, beige, and
rust-stained reminders of Toronto's concrete epoch; be they in the
coarse ripples of a bush-hammered finish, the cold solidity of a
smooth-treated formwork, the rustic terrazzo of a pebble-mixed
aggregate, or the rough precast furrows of a broken-rib panel.
Clearly this material held a certain fascination for many of this
city's builders. But why this material? And how deeply have
these foundations been poured?
As to the first question,
there are certainly practical efficiencies to recommend concrete as
the stuff of construction beyond any aesthetic or historical
considerations. In contributing to the abovementioned work,
structural engineer Chris Andrews extols that:
Concrete is a unique,
almost magical, building material. The primary constituents of
concrete — including sand, stone aggregate, water and cement —
appear to be benign, nearly inert materials. However, when mixed in a
carefully proportioned manner, they form a flowable slurry that can
be placed into temporary forms and left to sit for as little as 24
hours; through a chemical reaction, the liquid-like material
transforms into a mass of hardness, surface characteristics and
colour properties similar to that of natural stone ... Other unique
properties of concrete include spontaneous heating of the material as
it sets, shrinking of the material as it cures and ongoing strength
gain if it is kept damp. It has a coefficient similar to that of the
thermal expansion to steel. This last feature allows reinforcing
steel and concrete to behave compatibly during variations in
temperature and allows reinforced concrete to work in the Toronto
environment.
Such "unique,
almost magical" properties may have led somewhat towards its
aesthetic celebration as well, although practical (namely economic)
efficiencies have, again, likely played the larger part in this
regard. As to any historical considerations, however, this brings us
to the second and, perhaps, the more intriguing of the two questions
at hand. Though commonly thought of as a recent invention, as Andrews
goes on to note, "the development of modern concrete goes
back at least 5,000 years, to the initial emergence of lime
plasters," stating further that, "the Romans then
improved on this material by adding what initially looked like a sand
material [pozzolan] found in the vicinity of volcanic areas."
This new concoction, known as opus caementicium, set off an
architectural revolution that would give birth to some of antiquity's
most famous buildings; from the Colosseum, to the Pantheon, to the
Baths of Caracalla. Moreover, while it was not until the mid-19th
century that we find concrete reinforced with steel rebar of the
contemporary sort, the same principle has been applied since ancient
times via wooden beams, granite columns, iron chains, and so forth.
That being said, with
respect to the concrete history of Toronto, official records
attribute a chronology in accordance with this material's more recent
past. A pattern shop, built around 1890 as part of the great
Massey-Harris factory complex near King and Shaw Streets, is
generally thought to be the original seed which spawned everything
else so far discussed. Yet beneath this surface layer of municipal
architecture, another stratum of concrete construction — vaguely
out of place, and queerly out of time — lies seemingly lost and
found throughout the wilder tracts of the city, raising further
questions about the true roots of this phenomenon. Specifically, one
may look to any number of mysterious ruins scattered freely across
the metropolitan landscape; some lorn within its sunken woods and
vacant fields, others hidden in plain sight amongst the more decorous
furnishings of its well-trodden parkland. All differ in appearance,
composition, and extent — yet all stand united in their inscrutable
peculiarity.
Here, it should be noted,
we use "ruins" in the broader sense of the term, referring
not only to those dilapidations plainly ruined through neglect
and the passage of time, but also to those structures of a more
indeterminate nature that may, or may not, still stand as intended,
but whose purpose has long been forgotten or abandoned. Indeed, many
of the ruins described in the following might be said to straddle
both categories, if not tend towards the latter. As such, it could
also be said that we use "mysterious" in, perhaps, a
somewhat redundant sense, as all ruins are, to a certain degree,
mysterious; inherently evocative, intrinsically enigmatic. We need
not rehash the musings of a Byron, a Chateaubriand, or a Macaulay on
this subject, nor quote of The Ruin or Ozymandias. They
speak well enough for themselves — and on our behalf, too —
victims, as we all are, of relentless time's burden; sacrifices to
progress and degeneration alike. But, of course, not all of their
mystery is so weightily ruminant. Beyond begging of creation why
hast thou forsaken me?, ruins pose other questions of a more
immediate sort. We seek out their builders, their function and form;
the dates of their construction and the cause of their collapse.
Then, even when such details are said to be known, we are still often
left to ponder why what remains has remained, why in such a place,
and why in such a configuration. These are the mysteries we hope to
unravel here — or, at least, intend to investigate as far as any
evidence permits.
To that end, there are
certain obvious resources one would expect to consult in pursuing
such evidence. Yet the books, maps, and assessment rolls remain
largely silent on the structures in question. What does speak to us,
however, is that most constant resource of all historians,
geographers, and archaeologists in these matters: toponymy. Naming,
of course, is a fundamental tool in any attribution of meaning, thus
much can be learned of a place and, by extension, its artifacts,
through the proper study of its various names. Just as with
etymology, where one may trace not only the linguistic development of
a word, but also the ideational development of the concept behind it,
so too with toponymy one may trace not only the cultural development
of a site, but also its geographic and functional significance. By
correctly understanding its name alone, one need not be familiar with
the history, or even the location of, say, "Palermo" to
deduce that it was settled successively by Greeks, Arabs, and
Italians (Palermo being a Sicilianized version of Bālarm,
itself an Arabic interpretation of the Greek Panormos), and
that it was likely an important coastal trading city (with Panormos
meaning "total port" or "complete harbour," from
πᾰν + όρμος). Of course, not all toponyms are
so "total" or "complete" in detail — and even
with all of the information packed into a "Palermo," this
name gives no indication that the city was originally founded by
Phoenicians under the moniker of Ziz (meaning "flower");
nor would any of this information be pertinent if we were
investigating the origins of Palermo, Ontario (named in honour of
Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, "Lord of Palermo" among his
many other titles). Likewise, lacking any further data, one might
ceaselessly ask if a certain "Holy River" was so named
because it flowed past an ancient temple, or if the temple was built
there because the river was already deemed holy. Nevertheless,
lacking any further data, remnants found in the vicinity of a
"Millbank," "Millford," or "Mill Road,"
for example, may, in most cases, be reasonably associated with some
sort of mill until somehow proven otherwise.
Unfortunately, in a
modern urban setting like Toronto toponyms are rarely that
descriptive of the site itself. Streets, parks, and neighbourhoods
more often commemorate the early settlers, local land owners, and
other notable residents of an area. They will also typically appeal
to locations and figures of some significance elsewhere, or to simple
aesthetic conceits deemed marketable by realtors and property
developers. These, at least, are the conventional explanations for
most of the names one comes across. But then there are certain
appellations which appear mysterious as any of the ruins we seek to
explore.
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| Strange names in strange places, February 2008 |
Why, for instance, do we
find in the eastern realms of North York a "Lucifer" Drive?
Who, or what, exactly, is being appealed to here? What should one
make of the fact that, during its short span, this street also happen
to intersect with both a "Warfield" Drive, and a "Faye"
Drive ("nickname for someone believed to have supernatural
qualities," from the Middle English faie, meaning
"fairy," according to the Oxford Names Companion)?
And, for that matter, why have we a "Warlock" Crescent, a
"Wyvern" Road, or a "Wendigo" Way in other parts
of the city? Such names would seem to compel investigations of their
own, if not invite further scrutiny into what may lie behind all
those of a supposedly more prosaic breed. To further demonstrate this
unusual interplay of names and locations, let us now look behind the
nomenclature connected to an actual ruined site; eschewing, for the
moment, any of the official given history for the local toponymy,
while looking, instead, directly into the surrounding names
themselves...
