Joe Fiorito
Nancy Halifax mustered her provisional army of photographers and prepared to hit the streets. Bottles of water? Check. Sunblock? Check. Cameras? One or two disposables and a digital SLR.
Check, check, check.
The photographers are men and women who have, at one time or another, been homeless. They are working on a project called "Asleep in Toronto." They are taking pictures of places where they have slept, places where they might have liked to sleep, and places where others are sleeping now.
You'd think it would be easy.
Not entirely.
Nancy said, "We're having trouble getting into some of the shelters. We've written letters and made phone calls." No response; no idea why.
But she has heard that some shelters are cherry-picking – that is, taking only the most stable men and women, and leaving those with the most serious problems to fend for themselves outdoors.
The photographers have also heard the rumour. It is impossible to confirm, except anecdotally.
The photographers – they are the paparazzi of la vita dura – gathered their gear, piled into a couple of vans, and headed for the bridge of sighs that crosses Bloor at Sherbourne.
And as we drove, the photographers talked of places they know where the homeless sleep.
James said, "There are a couple of squats down by the lake, very well hidden. You know those sewer pipes, corrugated, four feet in diameter? There's two of them in the middle of nowhere, tarps all around, a couple of chairs, mattresses inside, a barbecue, pots and pans."
Sounds almost cozy.
As for James, he has it fairly good at the moment. He lives in a trailer near the shore. "I have propane and all that. The guy who owns the property knows I'm there. I sort of take care of things. He has a lot of copper. I was there all winter. I was getting to be a hermit."
Ron, who used to kip in a squat near Fort York, nodded in agreement when he heard the word "hermit." He said, "I'd be in my squat for five or six days until my food ran out. I'd drink the vinegar out of my pickle jar rather than go out. It's partly because I knew, if I left, I'd find crack. And it's partly because I'd cocoon."
What the men mean is that, if you do not force yourself to go out into the world, it gets harder and harder to go out, and the world collapses in on you.
After a time, we found a spot to park and headed along Bloor St., walking toward the bridge, easing past the bushes, nosing around the hidden trails and snapping pix along the way.
And then we clambered under the bridge and entered the ravine. The dry bank was steep. Old knees are not supple. City shoes are slippery.
The ground was littered with debris. Ron noticed a razor blade. He scuffed it with the tip of his shoe. I raised an eyebrow. He said, "You use the blade to take the residue out of the crack pipe to smoke it again." Jim said, "Here's an old needle." Ron snapped a photo.
Across the Rosedale Valley Road, we noticed a man sitting under the northern foot of the bridge. He had a backpack by his side; alone, and clearly homeless.
I don't know what that man thought as he sat there in the shade but this is what he saw: half a dozen strangers, armed with dangling cameras, trying to look discreet, acting as if what we were doing was the most ordinary thing in the world.
The man seemed wary.
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