This building is slated to be demolished. The first development notice went up in 2014, outlining a plan to replace the site with a high-rise condominium complex. In the eight years since, the plans have evolved and the demolition — ever pending — has been delayed. Perhaps indefinitely. Perhaps for a few months. In the meantime, memories remain. The walls, windows, rugs, floors, light switches and layers of paint bear the palimpsest of a century. These are the scenes captured in photography.

In the early 20th century, this site was an industrial setting, where electrical appliances were manufactured. By the 1990s, artist studios and small, independent businesses carved out a new territory, and were eventually joined by offices and a data centre, with car dealerships and apartment towers as their neighbours. Walls were covered in stucco, floorplans were redrawn, windows and floors were replaced, but the bones remain. According to the City of Toronto’s Planning department, “This site was not deemed to have any historical value.” It is a calculus that erases the cultural life behind the bricks — the affordable, creative spaces that breathe life into the building and the city beyond. At 7 Labatt and across Toronto, this heritage, history and culture is disappearing into oblivion. But for now, the building remembers.

In a space where erasure is on the horizon, the sense of fragility is palpable. And it is palpable in these pages. In lieu of a hardcover book of glossy paper, this printing embodies the vulnerability of its subject, creating a dialogue with the building and its uncertain future. The delicately bound newsprint displays the photographs in a variety of scales and configurations, reflecting the varied, fluid spatial dynamics that have transfored the building over the last century. Sooner or later, the pages will tear, the newsprint will yellow and the images will fade. There is no permanence through photography, no immortality through art. In a few days, this will all be gone forever.

— Stefan Novakovic