In the west window, stand three white cardboard display cases, offering postcards for sale, drawn by Erica, coloured by others, $2.00 a piece. In the south window, three shopping buggies wait to wheel displays of postcards out into the street. Outside the window, citizens wait in a shelter for the coming of the red streetcar. On the east wall, inscriptions on small white cards balance in rows:
“Blue square. Greyish brown. Whole new thing inside. See a deck. In the maze running. Doing some nice things.” AGO. Delilla. Resident, 5.5 years.
“Night time, it’s dark. Behind the condos. In front is the Rogers centre and CN tower. We go hang out and then security asks us to leave. There is an edge to sit on. Down!” Rogers centre parking lot.
“Lively street. Walking along it in evening. Round circle in sky. Looks like moon. Actually clock of fire station.” Moon over College Street. Resident, 13 years.
“Small store. Punk ephemera in the window. Queer punk items. Records. A shelf of zines. Books, largely stolen, mostly theory.” Who’s Emma bookstore. Nassau Street & Augusta. Allain, resident, Toronto, 13 years.
“Stretching between two streets. Garages. Fences. Backgates. Raccoons.” Laneway between Sussex and Bloor. Keith. Resident, loves the city, 38 years.
“CN trestles over the Don, you’ll never find them.”
Breath, voice, and the hand inscribing.
So, this is not the sterile white of a clinic that surrounds me, or the corporate white of disavowal, or the white of art-speak, but a gessoed realm of possibility. Already, dots of yellow, red and blue, mark locations on the charted, urban expanse, asking: where precisely were you? Was there precision?