In a long ago post I mentioned shooting a roll of film that was already several years old. At some point I must have developed the roll, because I found the prints from it the other day. From an early October weekend in 2015, they’re pictures of my old neighbourhood in Toronto’s CityPlace.
The circumstances I found myself in the day I went to take these pictures were troubled. The short version is the night before I stood up to someone who had been mentally abusing me for a long time. They physically attacked me for it. I was knocked into and partially through a wall in my apartment. My face and neck were scratched for my family to see on Thanksgiving the next day. Upsettingly it wasn’t the first time they’d attacked me—but it was the last time. This individual had slowly crept and creeped their way into my life, colonized my thoughts, and curated my experiences. I thought I was going insane, hanging on by just a thread at one point—such is the goal of a gaslighter.
But I got away.
When I found the prints I was struck by how far from ago they felt. The film stock itself was old and expired, likely responsible for some of the washed out colours and fuzzy details, though some of that look might be from me being out of practice with the exposure control. I generally use a camera’s aperture‐priority mode so I can influence the depth of field, but it can get tricky when using ISO 400 film outside on a brilliantly lit autumn afternoon. The rest of the look must come from the effect of scanning a photographic print—there’s something about the way a scanned picture looks… it’s gotta be the dust.
Nostalgia is something I have to watch out for. At times it’s still too easy for my mind to wander from a trip down memory lane to a detour up a cul‐de‐sac of regret or across a boulevard of unfinished business. Rampant nostalgia becomes a subtle gaslight of the past—tempting one to forget there’s usually a few reasons why it’s been left behind.
The bicycle used as the featured image for this post was always locked up in the same spot outside my old building on Spadina Avenue. It was there the day I moved in, and it was there the day I moved out. Archived Street View images confirm the bike has been there for years prior and years since—always in the same spot. I last saw it in 2018 when as I was passing through the neighbourhood on a streetcar.
The most recent Street View suggests the bicycle isn’t there anymore, but the images don’t make it clear. I’d need to visit the site itself and see for myself—though that’s assuming I care enough one way or the other about the bicycle’s status. Its location frozen not in time but in place is what was of interest to me, but I realize now the bike’s entire existence is irrelevant. It’s either there, or it isn’t, and either way I’m no where near it.
Perhaps my cautious thoughts of gaslit nostalgia or dead‐ended regret are misplaced. Something definitely feels over. Business feels finished.