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The Romance of Ruin
The wrecking ball can be an uncannily honest artist, laying bare the hidden truth – and beauty – of a structure. A tour of Toronto the Broken
Aug 04, 2007 04:30 AM
Christopher Hume
Urban Affairs Columnist
To everything there is a season, says Ecclesiastes, a time to break down, and a time to build up.
In Toronto, we have lots of both, up and down, construction and demolition.
Indeed, one is dependent upon the other. For one thing to be built, something else must be destroyed.
Although we cringe when we hear about buildings being torn down, there's more to wreckage than meets the eye. Some even consider it beautiful. And in a strange way, they're right. It is awful to see great buildings destroyed to satisfy developers' banality and greed, but other times, demolition can be just the right thing. The trick is to tear down the right buildings.
In Toronto, of course, heritage gets little respect; you want to cry when you think some of the landmarks we have destroyed: Walnut Hall, the Union Carbide Building, Inn on the Park...
On the other hand, how wonderful it is to see the disappearance of Terminal 2 at Pearson Airport (1). If death ever became a building, this is the one. As it succumbs to the wrecker's ball, it has acquired a sudden beauty. The structure, long hidden beneath the mundane architecture of this oversized waiting room, emerges strong and bold. Suddenly, for the first time in decades, the terminal is interesting. The steel beams, the trusses, the reinforcing bars, these are the only parts that come close to making the structure heroic.
What we saw before was ordinary, utterly mediocre, almost invisible. Stripped of its surfaces, however, and the dull expanses of drywall and industrial-strength carpeting, it finally becomes the monument it should have been.
An even more dramatic example of demolition beauty is the old Molson Brewery on Fleet St. (2), as boring a box as could be found in the city. This was the kind of default architecture that characterized an earlier decade. Now reduced to a steel frame, it stands out on the skyline like some giant modern skeleton, a reminder of the engineering prowess that we rarely see, or think about.
Perhaps the most poignant of current demolition sites is on the northeast corner of Victoria and Shuter Sts. where the St. Michael's Hospital Nurses' Residence (3) has stood for decades. The red brick building has been opened up through a series of accidental arches that expose the interior as never before. These once private rooms are now visible to all who pass by, at least temporarily. Earlier this week, a lone tree remained, a small but hardy survivor of this ruin-in-the-making.
The beauty, which changes hour to hour, lies in the unexpected contrasts that result from the slow tearing apart of the building. We're not just reminded of the impermanence of our own existence, but of the city we inhabit and everything in it.
At other times, this can be a distinctly unpleasant experience; when the city ordered Walnut Hall (4) demolished in May, the scene of destruction was truly disturbing. All that was left of this last standing row of Georgian townhouses on Shuter St. was a pile of bricks. There was nothing beautiful about this job, which was carried out before anyone knew what was happening.
What made the disappearance of Walnut Hall so troubling was the fact that the building had to endure a long, slow, painful and very public demise. It was a clear case of civic neglect. No one wanted to see it happen, but no one felt they could do anything about it.
Another kind of demolition can be seen in the underground shopping mall at the Royal Bank Plaza at Front and Bay Sts. (5). The space has been under renovation for several months; the project began with the removal of wall and floor coverings. With the polished marble cladding gone, and the concrete and steel structure revealed, this utterly predictable commercial interior has been transformed into a strikingly honest and unique experience. Stripped of gloss and glitz, the subterranean passageway has lost its glamour but gained a kind of honest beauty that is much more compelling.
It may not be spectacular, but it offers the sort of imagery that appeals to acclaimed Canadian photographer, Edward Burtynsky. He has established himself as one of the world's leading practitioners through his pictures of the ravages of the industrial landscape. Though he doesn't always document demolition per se – except perhaps in his series of ships being dismantled in Bangladesh – his reputation rests on his uncanny ability to extract visual beauty from even the most degraded industrial processes. Never have mine tailings seemed so exquisite, or factories so sublime. The romance of the ruin is undeniable, even if it is the planet.
It may be troubling to acknowledge this as the city is levelled around us, but perhaps it also provides some small measure of consolation.
The Romance of Ruin
The wrecking ball can be an uncannily honest artist, laying bare the hidden truth – and beauty – of a structure. A tour of Toronto the Broken
Aug 04, 2007 04:30 AM
Christopher Hume
Urban Affairs Columnist
To everything there is a season, says Ecclesiastes, a time to break down, and a time to build up.
In Toronto, we have lots of both, up and down, construction and demolition.
Indeed, one is dependent upon the other. For one thing to be built, something else must be destroyed.
Although we cringe when we hear about buildings being torn down, there's more to wreckage than meets the eye. Some even consider it beautiful. And in a strange way, they're right. It is awful to see great buildings destroyed to satisfy developers' banality and greed, but other times, demolition can be just the right thing. The trick is to tear down the right buildings.
In Toronto, of course, heritage gets little respect; you want to cry when you think some of the landmarks we have destroyed: Walnut Hall, the Union Carbide Building, Inn on the Park...
On the other hand, how wonderful it is to see the disappearance of Terminal 2 at Pearson Airport (1). If death ever became a building, this is the one. As it succumbs to the wrecker's ball, it has acquired a sudden beauty. The structure, long hidden beneath the mundane architecture of this oversized waiting room, emerges strong and bold. Suddenly, for the first time in decades, the terminal is interesting. The steel beams, the trusses, the reinforcing bars, these are the only parts that come close to making the structure heroic.
What we saw before was ordinary, utterly mediocre, almost invisible. Stripped of its surfaces, however, and the dull expanses of drywall and industrial-strength carpeting, it finally becomes the monument it should have been.
An even more dramatic example of demolition beauty is the old Molson Brewery on Fleet St. (2), as boring a box as could be found in the city. This was the kind of default architecture that characterized an earlier decade. Now reduced to a steel frame, it stands out on the skyline like some giant modern skeleton, a reminder of the engineering prowess that we rarely see, or think about.
Perhaps the most poignant of current demolition sites is on the northeast corner of Victoria and Shuter Sts. where the St. Michael's Hospital Nurses' Residence (3) has stood for decades. The red brick building has been opened up through a series of accidental arches that expose the interior as never before. These once private rooms are now visible to all who pass by, at least temporarily. Earlier this week, a lone tree remained, a small but hardy survivor of this ruin-in-the-making.
The beauty, which changes hour to hour, lies in the unexpected contrasts that result from the slow tearing apart of the building. We're not just reminded of the impermanence of our own existence, but of the city we inhabit and everything in it.
At other times, this can be a distinctly unpleasant experience; when the city ordered Walnut Hall (4) demolished in May, the scene of destruction was truly disturbing. All that was left of this last standing row of Georgian townhouses on Shuter St. was a pile of bricks. There was nothing beautiful about this job, which was carried out before anyone knew what was happening.
What made the disappearance of Walnut Hall so troubling was the fact that the building had to endure a long, slow, painful and very public demise. It was a clear case of civic neglect. No one wanted to see it happen, but no one felt they could do anything about it.
Another kind of demolition can be seen in the underground shopping mall at the Royal Bank Plaza at Front and Bay Sts. (5). The space has been under renovation for several months; the project began with the removal of wall and floor coverings. With the polished marble cladding gone, and the concrete and steel structure revealed, this utterly predictable commercial interior has been transformed into a strikingly honest and unique experience. Stripped of gloss and glitz, the subterranean passageway has lost its glamour but gained a kind of honest beauty that is much more compelling.
It may not be spectacular, but it offers the sort of imagery that appeals to acclaimed Canadian photographer, Edward Burtynsky. He has established himself as one of the world's leading practitioners through his pictures of the ravages of the industrial landscape. Though he doesn't always document demolition per se – except perhaps in his series of ships being dismantled in Bangladesh – his reputation rests on his uncanny ability to extract visual beauty from even the most degraded industrial processes. Never have mine tailings seemed so exquisite, or factories so sublime. The romance of the ruin is undeniable, even if it is the planet.
It may be troubling to acknowledge this as the city is levelled around us, but perhaps it also provides some small measure of consolation.
