Breakfast in Scarborough

Dignified Bloor/Gladstone Library was recently re-opened after a three-year period of architectural improvements. Its original debut was in 1913, and it was the first Toronto library built without relying on fancy Carnegie grants.

I entered the Bloor/Gladstone with a sense of anticipation, as patrons before me have done for ninety-six years. The lobby was sparse and white, with nothing to distract me from the generous atrium and a host of large windows above and beyond. To my right was a Learning Centre whose south wall looked like an aquarium-themed screen-saver. The blue screen’s opposite side livened up the north wall of the Children’s section, which was half a level below the lobby.

The designer of the kid’s zone demonstrated sensitivity to the human reader’s need to perch and nestle. In a gap between two tall shelves were two long green cushions, perfect for sinking into a literary reverie. A square green cushion rested on the floor against a side wall near comprehensive windows overlooking an outdoor patio. A thoughtfully-placed table sat beside the cushion, so a reader could lean against the wall and place a stack of picture books or a silver thermos of hot chocolate on it. And for those looking for more conventional perches, a couple of robust yet puffy green sofas beckoned just steps away from the wall-cushion.

The lower level was very quiet compared to the upper one, where every single chair had an occupant. On the east wing, a historic stone hearth decorated with protruding cherub heads shared a corner of the room with a big screen TV. I loved the high arched mullioned windows whose sills were wide enough for teens to place their laptops on while resting their feet on a heater.

As I passed over to the west side of the top floor, I enjoyed looking over the atrium from above. Lining two sides of the upper ledge were rows of squat orange swivel chairs that looked like decorous versions of spinning teacups at an amusement park. They even had clever side panels from which a desk could be pulled out, as airplane chairs provide when it’s time to accept your cup of soda and bag of pretzel sticks.

Before I crossed over into the new cube-shaped addition, I noticed a matching hearth, complete with attendant cherubs. I found more readers in swivel chairs there, although this time they were green and placed in front of the north windows overlooking Bloor Street. The west wing also contained an impressive variety of language materials, including French, Chinese, Vietnamese, Portuguese, Spanish, Tamil and Hindi. Finally, along the west wall were three engaging study rooms with green interiors and round air ducts (also painted green).  I made a vow to reserve Room B one day and revel in the studious atmosphere, infused with creative possibilities.

Bloor/Gladstone Library, we’ll meet again!

Visiting Weston Library was like stepping into a fairytale. Flower boxes, stones, and vines on a trellis set the stage for enchantment, and the spell remained once I ventured inside the old section of the library. With $10,000 dollars from a Carnegie grant, the building was constructed in 1914. Its simple elegance gave me a spiritual lift.

The old brick walls contained exquisite stained-glass windows. Each one was decorated with shields bearing the names of dead white male writers: Johnson, Ruskin, Shakespeare, Moore, Wordsworth, Dickens, Scott, Tennyson, Stevenson, Lamb, Burns, Chaucer, and Milton (among others). One window’s shield didn’t have a name underneath it, which gives me hope that it’s reserved for a live radical feminist of colour. Imagine what heated debates the windows’ representative have at night, especially when the topic is poetic idealization of women versus the reality of historical oppression!

While most of the panes gave an unobstructed view of the streets outside, one window offered a glimpse into the library’s private office, which was part of a puzzling addition to one side of the building.

I have to say that looking at this addition spoiled the fairy-tale effect for me. Why did they tack it on this way? After I had spent some exalted moments contemplating the giants of literature, I suddenly fell to earth with a thud at the sight of filing cabinets, piles of paper, and a plastic snack tray.

Also, I was distracted by a tempting spread of grapes, cookies, Cadbury fingers and doughnuts on the other side of the glass. A staff member walked into view and grabbed a morsel, casting a slightly apprehensive glance my way. Was I the snack police? Was I researching the dietary habits of librarians? I decided to move away from the window and investigate the other wing on the main level before the next snacker arrived.

The new wing of Weston Library, added in 1981, was to the right of the entrance and held the ESL, Teens, Spanish, and French collections. Then I went downstairs to the basement level, which contained a spacious Children’s Department with murals that covered three walls. While Shakespeare, Lamb, and Milton kept it real upstairs, the pantheon of  the downstairs mural included Bambi, Snow White, a Wild Thing, Babar the Elephant, Winnie the Pooh, Curious George, Peter Rabbit, The Cat in the Hat, and Paddington Bear with a jar of marmalade. I wished the muralist had been required to match the writers above with the characters in the basement. I see Chaucer and Burns as Wild Things, Dickens as Curious George, and Wordsworth as Bambi.

From murals to stained-glass windows, Weston Library was a delightful site to visit. I enjoyed feeling connected to a historical era on the precipice of the first World War. Weston’s square simplicity and window-proclaimed faith in an unchanging literary canon reminded me of a quotation from L. M. Montgomery‘s journal. In Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings, Montgomery’s biographer, Mary Rubio, cites a January 1932 journal entry which describes the world experienced by Montgomery’s generation compared to what two previous generations experienced: “They lived . . . in a practically unchanged and apparently changeless world. Nothing was questioned — religion — politics — society — all nicely mapped out and arranged . . . And my generation! . . . Everything we once thought immoveable wrenched from its pedestal and hurled to ruins . . . (with) nothing (left) but a welter of doubt and confusion and uncertainty.” (422-23). Gazing at windows which have endured for almost a century, I hope Lucy Maud would have been comforted to know that they are still here, even though the view is different.

Upon first glimpse of Richview Library, I noticed windows that looked like disposable razorblade containers, stone benches among the greenery, and tiled columns near the entrance. While the tall trees outside grew damper and damper, library patrons kept pouring into Richview branch. The long straight lines of the interior design provided contrast to the soggy swirl of rain outside.

On the main level, earnest study groups had taken ownership of the big tables, loading them down with heavy textbooks. The students conversed in many different languages, reflecting the diversity of the Islington and Eglinton area. Fortunately, Richview’s multilingual resources were large and varied, with French, Polish, Korean, Italian, and Chinese most heavily represented. There was even a Chinese “Best Bets” shelf, something I hadn’t seen before. Urdu, Ukrainian, Spanish, Russian, and Croatian were also contenders, accompanied by a huge ESL section.

Not to be outdone by so much linguistic abundance, the Romance collection was teeming with charming cads and swooning heroines. My two favourite titles were Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights and The Tycoon’s Very Personal Assistant. (I imagined imperilled paperweights and coffee cups about to be swept from desktops).

None of the romance novels had “Local History Room” in their titles, and the no-nonsense research room upstairs seemed to explain why. However, a self-portrait by Norval Morrisseau beside the Local History Room’s door really enlivened this quiet corner of the library. I was fascinated by the red circles connected by a dark line to Morrisseau’s shoulders and floppy multicoloured hat.

The upstairs level also contained an art gallery lined with low wooden benches. Most of the exhibited paintings were the work of artist Wain Fun Ku, a man who had returned to his passion thirty years after leaving art school.

Near the gallery was a large computer lab next to an enclosed Quiet Study Area (both completely full). I felt uplifted by Ku’s story as well as by the concentrated Saturday studiousness in the three rooms. The gallery, lab, and study area all embodied the hard work, the hours devoted, the incremental steps taken towards fulfilling cherished personal dreams.

Taking leave of the inspiring scene upstairs, I took the elevator down two levels and emerged into a spacious lobby where a row of empty trolleys waited to be filled with books for re-shelving. The hallway leading to the Children’s Department had a row of small desks lining one wall, creating a Quiet Study Area for this floor as well.

The main room was a lovely wooden den of a place with some bricks for extra sturdiness. An alcove devoted to picture books and two red sofas contributed to the warm atmosphere, but the best detail of all was a carpeted amphitheatre in a corner. Perfect for storytelling performances, three tiers of steps provided the audience with carpeted perches. From Rome to Richview is not so far, especially when we have libraries to feed our imaginations!

(Note: For a more recent look at Richview, please see this sequel post!)