A Journey into the Heart of Darkness that is the Distillery District
June 1st, 2007
Toronto’s Historic Distillery District
By Stewart Byfield
Page one of the Luminato schedule of events has four bright, smiling corporate faces on its high-gloss surface. The abstract beneath describes the festival as “an extraordinarily ambitious multidisciplinary artistic Endeavour.” The program then goes on to mention the sponsors, the artists, and you, the prospective audience, in that order. Perusing the events listed, one might notice that most of the free stuff seems to be happening at the Distillery District and that most of the paid events sound lame. Thus the decision is made. The bag is packed and I’m off to Front and Parliament to rap with my fellow ambitious, multidisciplinary artsy types. There are also a few vague words about multiculturalism and diversity in this, the shining paragon of inclusiveness and tolerance that is Toronto. Or something along those lines — I just want to grab a beer and meet some bohos.
And sure enough I’m in through the north gates and first thing I see is a bevy of multimedia kiosks with bright red parasols and friendly facilitator types manning laptops. These kiosks are scattered throughout the whole of the Distillery grounds and I am eager to see what kind of fun art thing they are all about.
Step right up folks!
(I’m in a line, so this must be good)
Red banners with the word ‘Scene’ on it.
Great!
(I am smiling at those around me)
I dig scenes.
But red is apparently the colour of a dour herring rather than the rose of creativity. “Scene” is a credit card. These are computers to which you are expected to feed your secret numbers. And the friendlies in matching casual wear are bankers. They want to sell me debt.
My wide smile of fun is replaced with the even wider smile of irony. I sidestep out of the line and head towards the thick of the crowd. Ok, ok, see the sponsors, then the artists and then reflect upon it by myself, in that order. It’s behind me now and I hear samba music.
All South American music sets my toes to tapping, samba and salsa in particular. There have been times when I have imagined myself in a room or on a patio or even in the streets with a hundred other sweating lunatic feet demons. Then shoes come off somewhere before the exhaustion point and everyone is dancing recklessly with hot, mad eyes, hooting and screaming. These impressions and the muscle memory in my arches are leading me towards a stage.
There are three pairs, six people dancing at full arms length in safe wide circles across an air-conditioned tent floor. Two of these pairs seem to be of the daughter-on-father’s shoes kinda deals. There is no sweat or madness. I look to the band imploringly and I see the type of restraint that comes from knowing who signs the cheques and exactly how they want the music played. And then I am hit by a curious observation. I am utterly surrounded by the J. Crew catalogue. Some vague words about multiculturalism and diversity and —
Let’s tighten up on the particulars for a moment here, this is the long story made short:
Stage one: Latin dance band on laudanum. Spectators milling around in expensive, casual summer clothes. Stage two: Wallpaper female vocalist with major scales and melisma. People drinking six-dollar half pints in plastic cups with expensive, casual summer tapas on black linen.
Stage three: African men winding cables and setting up mic stands in preparation for inoffensive sub-jazz which is in turn a preparation for people drinking six-dollar half pints with expensive summer haircuts bobbing (a)rhythmically in the manufactured breeze, which is in turn preparation for the off-chance to appear philanthropisty.
Stage four: “Scene” parasols and friendly blonde faces holding applications for immediate financial dependence. Save enough points and you can buy a TV to fill your entire field of vision at fifty yards. Vanishing point.
I check the schedule again. Right day, right time, right place. Wrong expectations. I decide I need a minute without, and head towards the familiar honking of Parliament.
Herein lies the true genius of Luminati (sic); they attract the obviously money’d with the golden apple at the centre of the trap and they get the sophists and cynics (namely me) on the way out the door with a shrug and the great Canadian caveat: “Sorry man, it was like that when I got here.” For suddenly, around a corner and half way down an unmarked alley I see two young women on a scaffolding slapping brushes to a huge wall mounted canvas. There are a dozen such canvases lining the industry walls of those oh so distinct Distillery type warehouses. All are blank save the one that is occupied by Beata and Hanah, the first artists I have seen. Having only just started their work I am amazed to see that they are covered in paint. I would have missed them if I’d decided to stick around.
“It’s about immigration.” Hanah has come down from the scaffolding to answer a few of my questions. She shares some much less vague words about multiculturalism and diversity and how she is glad to be a part of the festival. She says that she and Beata (who nods once and then gets back to her brushing) are toiling in the spirit of collaboration. They are each responsible for half of the perhaps 15′ x 15′ foot canvas before them. Wordlessly, Beata shows me the draft she has made of the final work. It has been cobbled together from complete sketches and almost abstract line drawings. It is a bright daytime agricultural landscape inhabited by cartoonishly large roosters. This early in the game, however, they have only managed to transfer the basic underpinnings of the scene. The colours are vivid and I like the lack of brick red. I promise myself that I shall return towards the end of the festival to see the completed work. There is a largely undefined mash of yellows, greens and blues. Hanah says other artists are expected to consume their own enormous canvases over the next ten days and that ultimately the works will be on display… somewhere… she thinks. I thank her and Beata (who nods once and then gets back to her brushing) for taking the time to talk to me. I stroll back from whence I came noticing another crimson ‘Scene’ box that hadn’t seemed to be there before. I suspect that such things are fully capable of just popping into existence whenever our backs are turned.
I idle around the BBQ at the centre of the party. Once again, a quick look around confirms that I am still wandering blindly through the most boring Gap ad of all time. Sure, the music is banal, but my Dad rocks real hard to Andrew Gold, so what prevents these mostly young, mostly affluent folks from at least looking at the performances? I see a lot of six-dollar pints in plastic cups being tipped down aerosol-tanned gullets. I overhear a great deal of chatter about the expense of such a gathering. I overhear the lascivious sputterings of old men upon the younger wait staff. I see bored wealth. I see no multiculturalism. Blue blazes! I see no culture, period. Certainly no art. Where are the galleries? Apparently in Distillery land, a gallery can be an over-polished Williams and Sonoma type accoutrements boutique. All things teak and stainless steel for only twice your next mortgage payment. Did you know that you can own a Segway now for a paltry $6,995.00? Or perhaps you’d like to buy a leather chair that resembles a vagina in a gravity well?
But wait! There’s less!
I end up having a smoke with this dude named “Pupi.” He is a dance instructor. We lean against a rain barrel and enjoy a smoke together. He tells me he runs a workshop on the festival grounds, giving cursory dance tutelage to those in attendance. He tells me it has been a slow day. (Three pairs, six people dancing in slow safe circles always at full arms length.) I ask him about the theme of the festival and why he wanted to participate. “Oh, I’ll get you my flyer.” He butts out on the barrel and rushes off through a door marked “staff only.” Nearly a full minute later he re-emerges, handing me a copy of the same Luminatus program I have stuffed into my bag. Inside he points out the listing for the Inaugural Shin Dig at the Historic Toronto Distillery District. There I find a few vague words about multiculturalism and diversity. “I am eating now!” he says, clutching his stomach. Did I not just then hear a bell? I notice that he is not going to the BBQ area.
Pupi is the last person I speak with.
Except for the two Distillery employees who are operating the “Enormous Multi-Lingual Scrabble Game”. I ask them what the game represents. They shrug. People will walk past on their way to the exit. They will stop and inquire as to the nature of the game. They will comment lightly on the “cleverness” or even “cuteness” of such an idea. They will continue on their way to the exit. Scrabble has been relegated to a dark corner far from the meat of the action.
I have just tipped a six-dollar half pint in a plastic cup down my throat and the music seeping out from the restaurant behind me is starting to melt my head. It is major, triumphant, uplifting, and totally forgettable. I must flee. I cannot afford to have my head petrify in this place. It might be mistaken for art. So I start to walk blindly towards the comforting sounds of traffic. When suddenly…
There is a long, slender, horizontal maroon poster on the red brick wall before me. Across it there is a quote:
“Most Human Beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted.”
The quote is credited to Aldous Huxley.
Twenty-three short minutes later I am looking at a billboard of Queens Quay. It says: “Look great in the photos and all else will be forgiven.”
