I had been sans salary [as I frequently am] (unemployed, it seemed) for two years; the worse it got, the more apparent it became just how restrictive, cultural-validation could be for those not privileged with access to the inner financial sanctuums of the curatorial-class. (One of my better exhibit-proposals in Toronto was to photograph all the security guards employed at the 'Art Gallery of Ontario,' using a cheap plastic-lens camera and having the guards pose in front of various works in the collection -- the paintings would be diffused to the point where they would ressemble portrait-photographers' painted-atmospheric-backdrops. This was not permitted of course.) Upon scaling the walls of this retired Thirties beach pavilion, it was soon apparent that the spirit of the space was anything but stationary. Every frame from one roll of film exposed in Toronto, 1983. This place was usually reserved for exclusive wedding-portraits or commercials, booked in-advance; despite my attraction to this Lake Ontario vista, I couldn`t find a decent shot: I kept moving. Best suited to the format of one of those accordian-folded postcards. Interminable. Have a look.
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