Breakfast in Scarborough

Yesterday I signed an on-line protest against a municipal proposal that might close some library branches and introduce elements of privatization. I am passionately opposed to these cost-cutting measures, for they would impoverish our city’s ability to uplift and educate all Torontonians regardless of age, language, or income. Our ninety-nine branches are a richly diverse expression of a city’s soul, providing a nexus of human connection in an increasingly fragmented and disconnected world.

City Hall Library’s Children’s Nook

A newcomer to Canada since 2002, I have spent the last four years blogging about all 99 branches in the Toronto Public Library system. As an experienced library pilgrim, the notion of a Toronto Private Library makes me shudder because privatization would desecrate the democratic ideals upon which the free library was established in 1883: “the free public library’s purpose was to help in the cause of education among all classes of the population” (Margaret Penman’s A Century of Service: Toronto Public Library 1883-1983, page 6).

Stairs to Upper Level, Agincourt Library

I do not want 128 years of progressive history to be demolished on a political whim. After all, libraries do not ride gravy trains. They don’t travel to expensive conferences in Hawaii or linger over lunches at the top of the CN Tower. And the tabloids seldom show pictures of library branches embroiled in sex scandals.

On the contrary, libraries are places to study for the TOEFL test, join a knitting circle, daydream from a window seat, create a crazy quilt, fill a shopping bag full of picture books for your children, and relax with a newspaper in your first language.

Historic Main Street Library‘s Attic

Barbara Frum Library

Crazy Quilt at Jones Library

If we commercialize one of the last truly public institutions in the city, what will be next? We cannot afford to lose ground, for we’ve lost so much already to a culture of greed, intrusive advertising, and the dominance of the profit motive. Libraries are too special, too important to betray their founding principles without a fight. It’s time to speak out against proposals that strike at the heart of a great city’s soul. Sign the petition, call the mayor, and help us protect our libraries.

Port Union Library

April Quan’s Woolen Castle at Deer Park Library

Mural at Morningside Library

Sand Doors Meditation, Collage by Catherine Raine, 2011

When I saw Marsel van Oosten’s photograph (2011) of a ruined Namibian house half full of sand, I immediately tore it out of National Geographic. The scraps of paper which compose the border mosaic come from brochures, magazines, and a calendar.

On my first visit to City Hall Library in 2007, I described it as “cozy yet important.” The small size of the branch (5,074 square feet) made it cozy, and what made it feel important was the lofty ceiling and serious grey walls (appropriate for its dignified status as co-tenant with Toronto’s municipal government offices).

After my second visit, I’d like to add the adjective “groovy” to complement cozy and important. In fact, grooviness saved City Hall from taking itself too seriously, as evidenced by this triangles-on-acid painting and the lively view of Nathan Phillips Square available from the south-facing windows.

I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed sitting in front of the south windows, for I noticed piles of magazines left behind by afternoon readers. (A staff member told me that they have lines out the door during lunch hour). Stacked at random on a long stone bench were slightly rumpled editions of People, Hello (“The Dazzling Duchess!”), Popular Science, Spiderman, and Vogue.

One weighty tome stood tall among the fluffier reading fare on the bench: Canada: An Illustrated History. And I personally added several more books to the piles of reading material: the colourful Let It Shine, a book about Albanians who sheltered Jews during World War Two (which one of my Albanian students had told me about), and a sample from the Chinese collection.

In spite of City Hall’s businesslike vibe, it contained a lot of interesting corners and angles that offered respite from the brisk pace of city life. For example, the small Children’s section was tucked away in the tail of a curved wall. Disc-shaped cushions silently invited readers to settle more comfortably into a beam of sunlight.

Most quirky and mysterious of all was a partially hidden staircase which led nowhere in classic Escher fashion. As I was taking pictures, I noticed a man in a suit walk down the top steps and then disappear behind the walls that hid the bottom half of the stairs. He quickly reappeared at the top, looking confused.

When I asked the temporary branch head, Karen Singer, about the steps, she explained that the library used to occupy more space (11,000 square feet) in the larger City Hall building. In 1996, a substantial part the library’s collection was transferred to Urban Affairs. That’s when the stairs were walled off from the current library space.

The confused staircase man could have benefited from Karen’s explanation, and I hope he eventually found his way out. Better still, I wish he had discovered the entrance to City Hall branch instead. Then he could have picked up a copy of Newsweek or even studied House of Stairs by the south windows in good scholarly company.