Nuit Blanche in Toronto
Nuit Blanche is a pretty big deal here in Toronto.
The idea is that for 24 hours the downtown streets become arteries for all manner of performance, installation and exhibition and for one night, the city becomes a radiant pulse of art.
It’s a great idea that offers all sorts of promise, and every year I get terribly excited. Like thousands of others, I charged out into the streets a few weeks ago looking to have a mind-blowing experience of the first order. But the truth is that Nuit Blanche always devolves into a commercial rather than artistic enterprise. Relentlessly sponsored by Scotiabank, you can’t help but notice that everybody is first and foremost, looking to make some money. Stores, bars and restaurants stay open later, hair salons pretend to be galleries and all manner of junk is being sold off as art.
It’s not exactly depressing, just disappointingly monotonous, and it had the unpleasant effect of making me feel like a tourist rather than a participant. Overwhelmingly white in complexion, it’s an event for middle class people with pretensions. Participants in a consumer culture rather than a counter-culture arts scene, we plodded hopefully about the streets with the rest of our tribe. This, of course, was the best part of the experience, as the streets were just teeming, and the energy and potential of the pedestrian traffic far outstripped that of any of the installations or exhibitions I happened upon.
At one point I found myself standing in front of a patisserie on Queen West. It was a damp and cool night, and the glowing interior of the shop was vivid and arresting. Inside, pretty as Paris chefs, served stunning looking desserts to their customers, as if exchanging gifts. It was an immensely comforting sight. It was so safe and beautiful– almost magical in appearance– and it unfolded like one of those perfect, nearly accidental moments, a welcome contrast to the intentionality of the theme park city unfolding all around us.
And then later, heading home on the packed streetcar at three in the morning, an unwittingly pretty young woman smiled as she read a text message. On her lap was a perfect and prized dessert, something she was likely going to share with somebody she loved.
