August 2nd, 2007
An empty factory at 1000 Dupont Street.
Its glassy aloofness beckons at the edge of downtown
As mentioned in my previous post, Dupont Street is something of a physical and psychological demarcation line, a former industrial artery running along the CP tracks separating downtown and midtown, between “there there” and nowhere in particular. It’s a tribute to the city as a work in progress, with warehouses-cum-lofts next to shockingly empty parking lots, and industrial monoliths across the street from working class Bay-’n-Gable. It may also be the perfect embodiment of the post-modern city, as North Toronto JAPs, Portugese immigrants and downtown types come to shop and hang at a stone’s throw from each other, in the shadow of Dupont Street’s messy, weird, and (sometimes) startlingly beautiful architectural jumble.
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August 2nd, 2007
The railyard, gateway to the West Island. Photo by Ben Soo
Every Montrealer knows that the West Island is not, in fact, an island unto itself: it is simply the westernmost part of Montreal Island, a collection of towns and boroughs home to about 250,000 people. To many anglophones, it is synonymous with “suburbia”; to many francophones, it is synonymous with “anglophones.” Although often portrayed as a sprawling wasteland, the West Island actually has a number of village-like town centres and historic suburban neighbourhoods in its southern half, known to most simply as the Lakeshore.
Still, anyone who visits the West Island may detect a distinct lack of place. Where, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, is there?
In many ways, the West Island is more a political construct than an actual place. Sure, its geographic boundaries are very clearly delineated, being surrounded by water on three sides and a vast airport, railyard and industrial area on the other. But, like Mississauga or Laval, it remains fundamentally a collection of old towns and villages knit together by a loose fabric of suburban sprawl. Unlike those two other places, the West Island was never merged into a single municipality, so it lacks their earnest efforts at building a civic identity. Politically, it remains split between nine independent towns and two Montreal boroughs, a legacy of the botched attempt to merge all of Montreal’s municipalities into one.
The Gazette stumbled across this troublesome reality when it asked the readers of its West Island edition what they thought was the defining symbol of the area. The results, which were published this week, give Old Pointe Claire the top spot with 25 percent of votes. It’s a nice place, and it’s home to a well-known 18th century windmill, so fair enough. But the the next most popular icons aren’t even on the West Island: 24 percent of respondents chose Hudson Village and 12 percent chose the Lachine Canal. Some other popular icons include the Fairview Mall, Trudeau Airport, the town of Sainte Anne de Bellevue, the commuter train and — wait for it — the Pointe Claire Aquatic Centre.
Kate McDonnell wrote last week that the Gazette survey “is proof that the area is not, notionally, a single place, except as concerns the Gazette’s marketing policies.” Perhaps she’s right: if nearly half of West Islanders consider an off-island town and a canal most would consider to end on the easternmost fringes of the West Island, what, beyond geography, binds the whole place together?
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August 1st, 2007
Grange Avenue
Kensington Avenue
Building like these are like the proverbial blades of grass: if they stick up too high, they’re cut down. Often, when a building breaks with the architectural norms of its surroundings, it is lambasted by nearby residents for being ugly, intrusive or out-of-place. But these kinds of buildings provide a necessary diversity in the streetscape. They are unexpected and visually engaging; in their way, they become landmarks by which to navigate the city.
