The Moral Economy of Cities : Shaping Good Citizens [1 ed.] 9781442628083, 9780802038869

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THE MORAL ECONOMY OF CITIES: SHAPING GOOD CITIZENS

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EVELYN S. RUPPERT

The Moral Economy of Cities Shaping Good Citizens

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2006 Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada ISBN 0-8020-3886-7

Printed on acid-free paper

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Ruppert, Evelyn Sharon, 1959– Moral economy of cities : shaping good citizens / Evelyn Sharon Ruppert. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8020-3886-7 1. Urban renewal – Moral and ethical aspects – Ontario – Toronto – Case studies. 2. Urban renewal – Ontario – Toronto – History – 20th century. I. Title. HT251.R86 2006

307.19416909713541

C2005-901909-3

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Programme, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

For Engin

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Contents

List of Tables and Maps Acknowledgments 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

ix

xi

The Good City 3 Making Yonge-Dundas Good 14 The Secure City 41 The Consumer City 89 The Aesthetic City 126 The Governable City 149 Making the Good City 191 Yonge-Dundas Made Good? 227

Appendix A: List of Exhibits 235 Appendix B Notes

239

251

Bibliography

265

Illustration Credits Index

285

287

Illustrations follow page 138

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List of Tables and Maps

Tables 3.1 Survey results: Dundas Square Safety and Security Focus Group 52 6.1 Profile of Yonge Street retail from Queen to Gerrard 169 6.2 The public and non-public 185 B.1 NOC codes and broad occupational categories 240 B.2 Example of NOC description 241 B.3 NOC classification of expert witnesses 242 B.4 Examples of witness credentials 246 B.5 Quality-of-life index categories and weighting 250 Maps 1.1 Yonge and Dundas in relation to downtown core 8 2.1 Downtown Yonge Street Improvement Plan Area 20

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Acknowledgments

Leaving a professional career in urban planning and policy to return to academia was a challenge, as it would be to anyone attempting to traverse the divide between two fields. It is a humbling experience to abandon a field where a certain status, credentials, and knowledge have been acquired and enter one based on different valuations and forms of recognition. However, it is an elevating experience to enter a field that affords the opportunity and privilege to critically reflect on one’s practice. I could not have succeeded in that move without the guidance and inspiration of a number of people. In the writings of Pierre Bourdieu and Michel Foucault, I found concepts that enabled me to investigate professional practices in a way that resonated with both my experience and my convictions. Although I draw extensively from their ideas, it is their orientation to research and a critical reflexivity that have inspired me the most. We cannot step outside our own experiences, but we can interrogate and problematize them, and call into question their claims to naturalness and objectivity. Bourdieu applied the name ‘participant objectivation’ to bringing into question one’s social position and location in practice. Such a stance is not a claim to a fully reflexive view or an absolute standpoint. Reflexivity can only ever be carried out by degrees, and in the end it is always partial. But Bourdieu taught me that by exposing the underlying social conditions of my professional practice I could escape to at least some degree from ideology and achieve a more objective grasp of practical social life. Intellectually, Bourdieu is my first mentor, as well as a thinker with whom I have the greatest affinities. Politically, his activism and writings also strike a chord with my interests in modes of political engagement.

xii Acknowledgments

It was within this spirit of research that I first encountered Foucault. Early on in my work, I read a short interview in which he stated that every time he tried to do a piece of theoretical work, it was on the basis of elements of his own experience and connections to processes he saw unfolding around him: ‘It was always because I thought I identified cracks, silent tremors, and dysfunctions in things I saw, institutions I was dealing with, or my relations with others, that I set out to do a piece of work, and each time was partly a fragment of autobiography.’ For me, it was the cracks and tremors in the professional field within which I worked that inspired me to write this book and which continue to stimulate my academic pursuits. In their different ways, the members of my supervisory committee contributed a great deal to the dissertation that served as the basis of this book. My greatest debt goes to Mariana Valverde, who provided unwavering support and encouragement and who, most significantly, did not impose her own perspectives on me. Rather, she gave me the intellectual breathing space within which my own thinking could flourish. I would also like to acknowledge the support and contribution of my first supervisor, Ioan Davies, who shared my interests in Toronto’s cultural politics. His sudden death in 1999 was a great loss. But I was fortunate that Mariana Valverde took on the role as co-supervisor with with Gordon Darroch, who, despite joining my supervisory committee late in the process, went above and beyond my expectations in providing intellectual and administrative guidance. Throughout the process of writing the dissertation, Gerda Wekerle also provided challenging and critical questions that kept me attentive to the politics and practice of urban planning in Toronto. I also want to acknowledge the influence of Shoukry Roweis, who supervised my masters thesis in urban planning at the University of Toronto. Although I have had little contact with him since that time, this inquiry began with his troubling critique of planning practices – a critique that has nagged me these many years and inspired me to pursue doctoral studies. My colleagues and friends at York University and the University of Toronto also gave me support and encouragement during the challenging years of academic studies. I am grateful to my family, but most of all to my father, William Georg Ruppert, who unconditionally supported my academic pursuits and whose stubborn, determined, and intellectual spirit were often an inspiration. The transformation of the dissertation into book form was supported by the skilful guidance of Siobhan McMenemy, acquisitions editor at

Acknowledgments xiii

University of Toronto Press. I am thankful for her assistance and advice through each stage of the publishing process. The reports of two anonymous readers and the UTP academic board offered critical and constructive suggestions, which led to a number of revisions that have greatly improved the manuscript. I also appreciate the careful attention paid by managing editor Frances Mundy and copy editor Matthew Kudelka to the final manuscript. Carolyn Humphreys, of the City of Toronto’s Urban Design Services Graphic Division, ably assisted me in locating original files of many of the images displayed in this book. I am grateful for the permission granted by the City of Toronto and Brown + Storey Architects to reproduce several illustrations, as well as the wonderful photos taken by EFI. I too appreciate and acknowledge the financial support of the SSHRC Aid to Academic Publishing Program and Trent University. To my true dost, Engin, for his amazing grace, generosity, and support, I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude. He unfailingly stood by me throughout the rollercoaster ride of professional practice, graduate studies, and then the writing of this book. Although his love and unconditional support were mainstays, his critical and unnerving insights and questions were even more influential in shaping this work. This book is truly a tribute to him. Istanbul, May 2005

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THE MORAL ECONOMY OF CITIES

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1 The Good City

What makes the good city? This question has long mobilized various practices involved in the physical and symbolic making and remaking of the city. City-making practices such as urban planning, design, development, and architecture define and pursue the good and promise that they can deliver it through plans and policies. The pursuit of the good city is also the object of scholarly and lay discourses that promulgate critiques and constructive visions, negative and positive images, and utopian and dystopian futures for the city. Indeed, a long tradition of utopian thought is credited for having influenced citymaking practices over the past two centuries, from the classical works of Robert Owen, Charles Fourier, Pierre Joseph Proudhon, William Morris, Peter Kropotkin, Ebenezer Howard, Lewis Mumford, and Percival and Paul Goodman to the more contemporary works of Kevin Lynch, E.F. Schumacher, Ivan Illich, Jane Jacobs, Delores Hayden, John Friedmann, and Leonie Sandercock (Friedmann 2000). The utopian visions of the good city, advanced by amateurs, planners, architects, and academics, were prominent and variously influential in the twentieth century. These included the Garden City (Ebenezer Howard), the Regional City (Lewis Mumford), the Monumental City (Eugene Haussmann), the City of Towers (Charles-Edouard Jeanneret Le Corbusier), and the City on the Highway (Frank Lloyd Wright). After the 1960s, visions of the good city were advanced in works such as The Death and Life of Great American Cities (Jacobs 1961), The Timeless Way of Building (Alexander 1979), A Theory of Good City Form (Lynch 1981), Toward an Urban Design Manifesto (Jacobs and Appleyard 1987 [1996]), and The Good City and the Good Life (Kemmis 1995). Each of these works both critiqued cities and set out a constructive vision of the good city.

4 The Moral Economy of Cities

Each was a reaction to a different problematization of the city as a place of disorder, decay, poverty, social malaise, and civil unrest (Friedmann 2000). Against images of decline and decay, of the bad city, images of progress and reform, of the good city, were formed. Although utopian images and ideas have to some extent been influential, arguably city making in the West in the twentieth century has followed quite different paths. Many observers have long noted the disjunction between these utopias of the good city and the contemporary realization of cities. The scholarly literature is heavy with critiques of how theories of the good city have not been effective. Some urban scholars contend that these failures are in part due to the abandonment of the search for and theory of the good city, and that academics in particular have failed to provide a normative ideal (Boyer 1988; Friedmann 2000). They defend ‘utopian thinking’ that can guide city builders and help them choose a path to the good city, for ‘city builders need not only blueprints for their work, but guiding, normative images’ (Friedmann 2000: 464). Having accepted the loss of Enlightenment ideals, city planning has ‘fallen into a great malaise of relativity’ as well as into the aesthetic being defined and controlled by the codes of market production (Boyer 1988: 51). Others have joined in the defence, arguing that we must reclaim the ‘search for good city form,’ which is the ‘telos of urban and regional planning as a tradition’ (Talen and Ellis 2002: 36). They argue that there are enduring ‘truths’ about what constitutes the good city. In their view, the lack of a theory of the good city has created the contemporary dystopian city of formless sprawl (ibid.). For still others, theories and ideas of the good city have been ineffective because they have lost their connections to the social, political, and economic conditions and interests and power dynamics of class (capital), gender, and race that gave rise to or made possible particular city forms (e.g., Fincher and Jacobs 1998; Gottdiener 1994; Harvey 1988; Massey 1994; Sandercock 1998). Whatever the case, there seems to be a consensus that the age of the utopian ideals of the good city is over and that the contemporary city is a piecemeal and dystopian product of struggles over space among various social groups and interests staking claims to the city. A central thesis of this book is that theories and critiques of visions of the good city underestimate how in practice, city making does indeed involve defining and articulating visions of the good city. This book will show how, although grand theories and utopian images may have lost their appeal, theorizing, defining, and making the good city are in profound operation in practices and central to both their legitimacy and

The Good City 5

reproduction. This book will illustrate how the vision of the good city works in practice and how the moralization of conduct is the basis on which dominant groups unite and consent to professional strategies and technologies of city making, from the small-scale making of an urban square to the writing of a land-use policy. It will demonstrate how the moralization of conduct underpins visions of the good city and how what constitutes good conduct is brought into being through processes of constructing and shaping ways of being a good citizen in the city. That objects (morals, problems, responsibilities) are created through processes of construction (moralization, problematization, responsibilization) and not through already existing phenomena awaiting recognition is a key epistemological orientation of this book. This orientation will be developed further to investigate how processes of construction and the proselytizing of the good in practices (and theories) conceal interests, preferences, and perspectives that both shape and become materialized in particular city forms. The investigation begins with a detailed empirical analysis of the redevelopment of a particular space in downtown Toronto in the mid1990s – the corner of Yonge and Dundas Streets (Yonge-Dundas) – as a ‘particular instance of the possible’ (Bachelard 1949). That is, it identifies general or invariant conditions that structure and are structured by particular practices involved in city making and that make possible and give rise to city forms such as Yonge-Dundas. As such, Yonge-Dundas is not presented as an exemplary, unusual, or unique case of city making. Indeed, it is none of these. Rather, it is investigated for the purposes of identifying those conditions which make cases like Yonge-Dundas possible and which can be tested and used to interpret other projects of city making. This spirit of research will guide the investigation that follows. Instead of beginning with ‘formal and empty conceptual constructions’ (Bourdieu 1992: 30) and then doing a case study of an object, we will begin with a detailed empirical analysis and from there articulate a grounded theory. The term ‘city making’ warrants some clarification at the outset because it is fundamental to the argument and analysis of this book. Terms such as urban development and city building are often used to represent physical outcomes. In contrast, city making is used to capture all of those practices which produce not only physical space but also other material and symbolic outcomes that socially define the city. City making refers to practices that shape both materially and symbolically not only the physical spaces of the city but also the ways of being a citizen of the city.

6 The Moral Economy of Cities

Toronto is a perfect context for an investigating how ideals of the good city mobilize certain practices. ‘Toronto the Good’ is one of many popular nicknames used to represent the moral conduct of its citizens. This term was first associated with one of the early examples of reform politics in Toronto: the mayoralty of William Holmes Howland from 1886 to 1888 and his campaign for moral purification (Morton 1973). In the mid-1890s a distinctly moral discourse came to dominate urban planning and reform initiatives such as programs that problematized the living conditions and conduct of those who were regarded as ‘slum dwellers’ (Valverde 1991). Moral purification was also manifest in restrictive legislation such as the Lord’s Day Act, which prohibited the operation of streetcars on Sunday, and restricted liquor sales, tobogganing, and shopping (Clark 1898; Lemon 1996). Howland’s distinctively Christian moralizations were symbolized in the connection between the nickname ‘Toronto the Good’ and descriptions of the church spires that dominated Toronto’s skyline (Utting 1978). Ernest Hemingway, as a young reporter on the Star Weekly in the early 1920s, complained in letters to friends: ‘Christ, I hate to leave Paris for Toronto the City of Churches’ (in Lemon, 1985: 57). At the time, ‘Toronto the Good’ did not refer to the economic success or technical efficiency of the city, but rather to the moral conduct of its citizens, which was based in Christian faith and temperance and codified in rules and laws. It has been claimed that Torontonians welcomed this definition of ‘Toronto the Good’ for it reflected the ‘wide acceptance of a brand of evangelical righteousness, a pride in churches, church-going, temperance endeavours and earnest Sunday observance’ (Careless 1984: 122). This book is not about whether the moniker ‘Toronto the Good’ has ever represented a reality. Strange (1995) contends that it was a fiction constructed by late-nineteenth-century urban reformers in order to represent Toronto as good and also to sound warning bells when the city was judged to be in danger of becoming bad. I agree with this analysis but extend it more generally to connect today’s moralization of conduct to that of the nineteenth century. The significance of ‘Toronto the Good’ for this investigation does not lie in its accuracy. Claims about ‘Toronto the Good’ were never appealed to in the discourses on Yonge-Dundas. Rather, it aptly represents how past and present visions of the good Toronto have been underpinned by the moralization of conduct. The moralization of conduct sustaining the vision of the good city and good citizen is quite different today from what it was in Howland’s time. The conduct, discourses, purveyors, and governing technologies have

The Good City 7

certainly changed. In the late nineteenth century, the conduct being moralized included prostitution, homosexuality, vagrancy, drunkenness, and Sabbath breaking. Moralization was explicitly Christian and unabashedly racializing, gendering, and classing (see examples in Strange 1995 and Valverde 1991). The need for greater moral rectitude was espoused by reformers from civic charitable and religious organizations and supported by the traditional professions of the clergy, medicine, and law. Governing focused on sovereign and disciplinary technologies of reform such as laws, rules, and projects of moral reformation. In the late twentieth century, conduct such as panhandling, squeegeeing, littering, postering, and drug dealing were moralized.1 This moralization was purveyed by community ratepayer and business associations, and it was packaged and advanced by the new professions of planning, architecture, and marketing. To the arsenal of governing strategies, technologies of governance-at-a-distance have been added – for example, crime prevention through environmental design. However, discourses no longer have to rely on the explicit moralization of conduct. Racializing, gendering, and classing have become so institutionalized and routinized, so implied and concealed, that they are almost imperceptible to us. That is why I have written this book – in order to unearth and reveal moralization that passes as objective. By analysing in detail a particular instance of the possible, I reveal the contemporary conduct, discourses, purveyors, and governing technologies of city-making practices and how the moralization of conduct still serves as a basis of their legitimacy, authority, and reproduction. So, allowing that the moral moniker ‘Toronto the Good’ may no longer refer to temperance or religiosity, this book investigates how the moralization of conduct in the city continues – albeit in fundamentally different ways – to mobilize an immense machinery of resources, programs, and interventions in making the city and shaping good citizens. This occurs through specific projects wherein the moralization of conduct underpins the vision of what makes a good city. Yonge-Dundas is one such project. Shaping Good Citizens Yonge street is Toronto’s main street, the city’s spine, dividing Toronto into east and west. It runs north from Lake Ontario and is serviced by the main line of the city’s underground subway (Map 1.1). At 1900 km, it is the longest street in the world according to The Guinness Book of

8 The Moral Economy of Cities

Map 1.1 Yonge and Dundas in relation to downtown core, November 1997

The Good City 9

World Records. This infamy is often cited by Torontonians. The intersection of Yonge and Dundas Street, a major east-west artery, is characterized by many as the symbolic ‘heart of the City.’ It also is the geographic centre of a portion of Yonge known locally as the ‘Yonge Street Strip,’ which extends from College Street in the north down to Queen Street in the south – roughly one kilometre. The strip includes the Eaton Centre, Toronto’s downtown flagship mall, which opened in 1977 and occupies the west side of Yonge from Dundas to Queen (Plate 1). Farther to the south and closer to Queen is the eastern edge of Toronto’s theatre block, a heritage planning district consisting of live concert halls and theatres: Massey Hall, the Elgin, the Winter Garden, and the Pantages. Several large tourist hotels are nearby. ‘Low-end’ retailers such as discount stores, bargain electronics outlets, music stores, adult entertainment parlors, pawnshops, pinball arcades, jewellery exchanges, and fast-food restaurants take up most of the rest of the strip. The strip is surrounded by various subdistricts of the city’s downtown core. South of Queen and west of Yonge is Toronto’s financial district, most of it high-density office towers. North of Gerrard Street is College Park, built in the 1930s to house Eaton’s flagship department store; in the early 1980s, after the Eaton Centre opened, it was redeveloped into a retail/office/residential complex. To the east are the campus of Ryerson University and the gentrifying ‘Toronto East Downtown’ neighbourhood with its renovated Victorian homes and new condominium developments. To the west is Bay Street, which was transformed in the 1990s from a predominantly institutional and office corridor into a high-density condominium community. The Yonge-Dundas redevelopment project, which is the object of this investigation, involved several properties on the northeast and southeast corners of Yonge and Dundas, characterized as ‘the heart of the heart.’ These properties consisted of eleven low-end retailers (Plate 2). The City of Toronto expropriated these properties, contending that the area was dangerous, threatening, and crime-ridden and suffering from ‘social and economic blight.’ Some of the property rights were transferred to the city for the purposes of developing an urban square; a large portion was sold to a major Canadian developer for the purposes of building an ‘urban entertainment centre’ that would contain high-end retail shops, theme restaurants, and a cinema megaplex. One could interpret redevelopment projects like Yonge-Dundas in many ways by drawing from the dominant perspectives within con-

10 The Moral Economy of Cities

temporary urban scholarship. A political economy approach might analyse how the material form of a city is the outcome of a conflict between different circuits of capital and labour and how capital accumulation is central to the production of space (Castells 1978; Gottdiener 1994; Harvey 1989). An urban politics perspective might examine how urban development is controlled by dominant groups, powerful urban regimes, and growth coalitions (Ambrose 1994; Cochrane, Peck, and Tickell 1996; Judge, Stoker, and Wolman 1995; Lauria 1997; Quilley 1999), or how the city is shaped by professional power and cultural politics (Beauregard 1993; Ley 1996; N. Smith 1996; Zukin 1995), which are increasingly global in their reach and influence (Olds 2001; Sassen 1991). A perspective on gender, race and ethnicity might examine how space emerges as the outcome of struggles between the interests of various identity groups (Fincher and Jacobs 1998; Wilson 1991). Alternatively, urban images, metaphors, and discourses might be interpreted as representations shaping the production of space (Burgin 1996; Donald 1997; King 1996). Finally, an urban planning and design approach might examine how the city is developed by hegemonic planning ideas, perspectives, or theories (Ellin 1996; Friedman 1987; Hall 1988; Sandercock 1998). This is not an exhaustive list; rather, it is a selection to illustrate one common orientation to analyses of how a city is produced. A city is the product of powerful corporations, institutions, and organizations, or it is an end result of commodification, privatization, and globalization. The agents that shape cities belong to groups, classes, coalitions, regimes, or partnerships with power. These enable them to claim the city for economic, political and cultural ends, and the material interests of landowners and property developers are dominant. The analysis presented in this book departs from these approaches by focusing on how visions of the good city are underwritten by the moralization of conduct and are central to the making of cities. It reveals how the moralization of conduct mobilizes professionals who are more than mere handmaidens to economic or other interests. It argues that in fact, professionals play a central role, in that their authority serves as a bridge between knowledge and making the good city and shaping good citizens. Their practices follow logic that cannot be reduced to economic or political rationalities. The moralization of conduct is the specific logic that mobilizes professional practices, unites differently positioned and interested agents, and legitimizes economic, cultural, and political ends. Thus it is through professional

The Good City 11

practices that moral and economic ends, and others, become bound up, and that different forms of capital are accumulated (such as that accrued by professionals, developers, and transnational corporations). In this regard, this book argues that the economy of cities is constituted by practices involved in the pursuit of many ends and interests – including material and moral interests, and as such, these professional practices form a moral economy geared to shaping good citizens. The term ‘moral economy,’ which captures this understanding, is discussed in detail in chapter 7. As we will see in the following chapters, the remaking of YongeDundas involved moralizing the conduct of various users of the space. Particular groups were singled out for engaging in panhandling, drug dealing, littering, loitering, squeegeeing, tagging buildings with graffiti, and intimidating or aggressive behaviour. Retailers were criticized for selling cheap merchandise of poor quality, for not investing enough in the maintenance and security of their properties, for facilitating criminality, and for allowing their properties to become run-down. It was in relation to the moralization of such conduct that a vision of the good city was defined. This vision was recognized by dominant groups constructed as the public – middle-class consumers, office workers, tourists, families, and high-end retailers – and was defined in relation to their socially distant others – street youth, panhandlers, discounters, and low-income shoppers. This vision united the public and was the basis on which they consented to professional visions of a good city space at Yonge-Dundas. Against this vision, professionals (such as urban planners, architects, urban designers, and marketing analysts) problematized and then proselytized what was to be done. The vision of the good city and the moralization of conduct that underpins this vision are reflected in three criteria: the good city is a secure, consumer, and aesthetic city. These three ‘goods’ well represent the variety of problematizations, rationalities, and technologies proposed by professionals to make Yonge-Dundas good and are used in this book to organize the analysis. Chapter 2 situates Yonge-Dundas within the context of post–Second World War Toronto. It then details the development of the city’s plan to redevelop Yonge-Dundas and how the existing landowners appealed the city’s expropriation plans to a quasi-judicial tribunal, the Ontario Municipal Board (OMB). The OMB hearing afforded a unique opportunity to observe and access governing rationalities, arguments, and justifications that otherwise would have remained out of sight – that is, all

12 The Moral Economy of Cities

of those conditions that make particular instances like Yonge-Dundas possible. Over thirty-eight days, some thirty-seven professionals were called on as experts to persuade the adjudicators – who were themselves drawn from city-making professions – why this project would be good or bad for the city. Although it seemed ordinary, this was an extraordinary moment, one during which an entire range of interests converged to articulate the terms of the good city. None of this would have been recorded and available to the public had the landowners not appealed to the OMB. Through the OMBs adjudication, good planning and the public interest were constituted based on definitions of what and who belonged at Yonge-Dundas. This required classifying Yonge-Dundas at three levels: in relation to itself, in relation to other spaces in the city, and in relation to spaces in other cities. Bound up with this classification of spaces was the identification of particular groups, with a vision and division of conduct and groups corresponding to a vision and division of spaces that together established the position of Yonge-Dundas within an order of good city spaces. In chapters 3, 4, and 5, I provide a detailed empirical analysis of how problematizations and classifications of Yonge-Dundas involved the moralization of conduct and how this was translated into a vision of the secure, consumer and aesthetic city. Although this vision was the basis on which the various statements of dominant groups converged (ratepayer, high-end retailer, developer, politician, urban planner, and so on), it was professionals who justified and rationalized this way of seeing things. Professionals translated the vision of the good city into specific codifications. They did not simply go out and collect information indiscriminately; rather, they sought to codify, quantify, conceptualize, categorize, and visualize problematizations, which were based on particular rationalities and which activated particular solutions in the form of technologies for shaping good citizens and making the good city. I outline how all of the related practices – problematizations, rationalizations, and technologies – were activated by the moralization of conduct and aligned with political programs, which have come to be named ‘neoliberal.’ Chapter 6 shifts focus to analyse how the authority to make claims was granted to professionals at the OMB hearing. The focus becomes those socially recognized conditions that made professional practices authoritative, objective, and rational. I discuss how the making of the good city depended on the practices of a small number of agents who

The Good City 13

were authorized to speak: professionals. Their authority to define problems, rationalities, strategies, and technologies was granted on the basis of particular credentials, conduct and claims. Professional credentials specifically included education, accreditation, and experience valued in city making. Professional conduct and demeanour and an understanding of the rules of the adjudication ‘game’ served as further sources of legitimacy and authority. Knowledge claims were made authoritative through appeals to theories as well as through the construction and referencing of recognized and valued codifications and measurements, which translated claims into quantifiable evidence. The standardization, regulation, and recognition of these conditions of authority were established in part by the existence of professional associations. In all of these ways, professionals distinguished themselves and their knowledge from that of others. Their authority served as a bridge between knowledge and making the good city and shaping good citizens. Chapter 7 reflects on the foregoing analysis and considers this question: ‘What are the specific social mechanisms that render professional practices objective thereby concealing their basis in the moralization of conduct?’ The answer has three parts, which together describe the dynamics of how professional practices form a moral economy. I begin by articulating a definition of a moral economy in relation to models and theories of the economy and society that have dominated the social sciences. Drawing on concepts developed by Pierre Bourdieu and Michel Foucault for understanding how the authority of practices is granted and governed, I investigate the economies and regimes of practices. Bourdieu’s sociological approach opens up an investigation of the social conditions of practices that form authority, and of the symbolic systems that universalize and naturalize visions and divisions of what makes a good city and citizen. Foucault’s genealogical approach opens up an investigation of how regimes of truth also constitute authority and how forms of knowledge become accepted at particular moments as natural, self-evident, and indispensable ways of shaping good citizens. The concluding chapter summarizes the analysis and reflects on the materialization of one of the central components of the redevelopment, Dundas Square, and on how much more than a physical space was produced at Yonge-Dundas.

2 Making Yonge-Dundas Good

Yonge Street is Toronto’s ‘Main Street,’ and has become at the same time a symbol of Toronto across Canada. The Street is a destination point for visitors to Toronto even before Nathan Phillips Square, Yorkville or the C.N. Tower. It is not only ‘Main Street Canada,’ but its centrality as part of our culture is reinforced by the echoes in all the cities and towns and even villages stretched out along its length to the north. Yonge Street is also Toronto’s exciting downtown place, particularly for young people at night. It is Toronto’s Piccadilly Circus or Times Square. The image of the Street varies from person to person. For some it is a ‘den of sin and iniquity’ which must be cleaned up; to others it is a vibrant and exciting part of the City which must be preserved exactly as it is at all costs. (Ex. 106)1

This quote well captures typical characterizations of Yonge Street as the city’s ‘main street’ as well as the types of debates and problematizations these have inspired. Throughout most of its two-hundred-year history, a discourse has persisted that both celebrates and condemns Yonge’s exhilarating and threatening aspects. This tense combination has fuelled aspirations to eliminate its transgressions against visions of the good city. Torontonians have variously described Yonge as ‘rough, dirty, busy, loud, lively, and sleazy, as well as fun, cheap, congested and exciting,’ as a ‘heterogeneous, pedestrian shopping street,’ and as the ‘location of City celebrations, protests and gatherings’ (Ex. 69). The street has been characterized as the ‘most crowded and energetic’ and ‘most intense populist public space of Toronto’ and at the same time as flashy, sleazy, and tacky (Relph 2002). It is its ‘mixture of small stores selling cameras and bags, DVDs, discount jewellery and XXX videos, of restaurants, panhandlers and social agencies, that makes this section

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 15

of the street so popular. It is sleazy but it is also reasonably safe [and] an unpretentious celebration of urban diversity’ (2002: 90). Descriptions such as Relph’s, and those in the media clearly express ambivalence about the street. As a journalist has put it: ‘One way or another, Yonge Street has always been Toronto’s public argument with itself about where it began as a city and where it’s going’ (S. Smith 1996: 27). One public debate that is significant for our analysis of the remaking of Yonge-Dundas was held in the 1960s in the context of broader planning debates and characterizations of Toronto’s downtown core. This context could best be summarized as a tension between economic growth and preservation – a tension grounded not only in economic concerns but also in particular values and visions of the good city. A ‘pro-development’ mood had dominated Toronto until the mid-1960s, when a loose coalition of reformers began to protest against what they saw as excessive development pressures and the destruction of particular values and images of the good city.2 This came after several decades of the postwar population, economic, and physical growth of the city – growth that was evident in the expansion of manufacturing, finance, housing, and transit, a result of the redevelopment and intensification of the downtown core as well as the expansion of the suburbs. The reformers were mostly middle-class professionals who had moved into the downtown core and its surrounding neighbourhoods during the period of growth and expansion. They had taken advantage of the cheap housing and access to professional jobs in the public and private sectors, and they valued the cultural, social, and physical environment of medium-density inner-city living. Redevelopment pressures were threatening the stability and the quality of life that the reformers valued. A major source of their mobilization and unity was the proposed Spadina Expressway, which would have extended from north to south through the heart of the established, well-to-do, and very attractive neighbourhoods these people occupied. Their protest led to the cancellation of the expressway and helped elect many reformers to Toronto City Council in 1972, led by a reform mayor, David Crombie, whose mandate was to ‘preserve neighbourhoods’ in the downtown core by controlling the scale and density of redevelopment. A forty-fivefoot height zoning ordinance was imposed on the downtown core as a holding action to allow time for the development of new urban planning policies for the city. The focus was on policies oriented against inner-city expressways, highrise private apartment buildings, public housing ghettos, large-scale urban renewal projects, high-density office

16 The Moral Economy of Cities

towers, and low-density suburbs. The policies promoted in the mid1990s were oriented toward transit, medium-density mixed-income social housing, the decentralization of office development, and denser and more compact suburbs. The impact of this policy shift on planning in the downtown core was evident in the imposition of height restrictions. Yonge Street, for example, was significantly ‘down-zoned.’ This resulted in the scaling back of the Eaton Centre, which was first planned in the late 1960s and redesigned in the early 1970s and which finally opened in 1977. The final design still involved a structure occupying a full city block and still somewhat resembled a suburban mall, but it also included many unique features: its main structure now consisted of a four-storey arcade with street access, and Toronto’s Old City Hall and historic Trinity Church were to be preserved. However, the development of the Eaton Centre was not simply connected to preserving the historic built form and character of the downtown core by limiting the scale and density of redevelopment; it was also connected to concerns about the economic vitality of retail areas such as Yonge Street. The Eaton Centre was part of a broader campaign to compete with rapidly expanding suburban shopping malls and to attract the suburban middle class back to the downtown core. An earlier initiative that had also sought to revitalize retail activity on Yonge Street and to attract middle-class shoppers was the Yonge Street Mall. In the summer of 1971, three blocks of Yonge Street were closed to traffic for six days. This experiment succeeded so well that it was repeated in 1972 and 1973 for eleven weeks, with the zone extended to about a mile. But by 1973, assessments had turned negative; the mall was beginning to acquire a reputation as a gathering place for ‘degenerates,’ and the rate of arrests was rising (Myers 1977). In 1974, the mall operated for only eight weeks. The experiment was not repeated again. The alternative to the pedestrian street was the Eaton Centre. When it opened in 1977, it was largely hailed as a success but ‘had the effect of acting as a vacuum cleaner, sucking the successful businesses and the people off of Yonge street and internalizing them within the enclosed mall that covers the City block from Dundas to Queen’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry [OMBBI] 1998b). The Eaton Centre and the down-zoning of Yonge Street were blamed for the persistence of a motley collection of retailers surrounding the mall, from souvenir and sporting goods shops to restaurants and fast-food takeouts, not to mention ‘“sexploitation” cinemas, bizarre boutiques, taverns, nightclubs,

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 17

body rub parlours, strip joints’ (Myers 1977: 121). Some of these businesses did not last long. By the late 1970s, regulations had forced out the body-rub and massage parlours, but adult entertainment remained a focus, along with a growing number of discount stores. The surrounding area underwent little change in the 1980s; this was followed by a limited amount of redevelopment in the early 1990s, when some new and more upscale retailers moved in and a few live-theatre spaces were renovated. Even so, much of the area surrounding the Eaton Centre continued to consist of dollar shops (discount stores selling a variety of goods for one dollar), discount electronics and jewellery stores, pinball arcades, lingerie stores, and fast-food restaurants, the latter described in the media as ‘an ethnic hodgepodge,’ with such names as La Falafel and the Sushi Korean BBQ. All of this contributed to ‘the very picture of a tawdry, vice-ridden street’ (Immen 1998a). As noted, changes such as height restrictions and the development of the Eaton Centre were often attributed to concerns about preserving the economy and historic character of the downtown core, and Yonge Street specifically. But they were also bound up with other values connected to the promotion of a particular vision of the downtown core, of the good city – a vision that was usually expressed in distinctly moralized terms. In particular, when we look even deeper into the history of Yonge Street, we see how the perceived degradation and dark forces associated with the street have often served as warnings of decline that threaten to undermine the claim ‘Toronto the Good’ (e.g., see Brock 1998; Strange 1992; Strange and Loo 1997). At various moments in the city’s history, degradation has been blamed on particular retailers and on the groups they have attracted to Yonge Street, who have subsequently become the subjects of moralizing campaigns and the justification for intervention. In the nineteenth century these groups included drunks, rogues, rebels, waifs, and toughies; in the early twentieth century, prostitutes and working girls joined the list (Strange 1995). The reformers of the 1970s who sought to preserve Toronto’s historic core targeted homosexuals and johns (Brock 1998). By the 1980s and 1990s, attention was focused on drug users, dealers, and street youth, who had begun to congregate on the street and around nearby shelters such as the Salvation Army and the Evergreen Centre for Youth. The conduct of these groups was moralized – their drinking, prostituting, loitering, and begging. So too was the conduct of the owners and operators of businesses on Yonge Street, who were moralized for the products and services they sold (alcohol, massages, adult entertain-

18 The Moral Economy of Cities

ment) and for the gaudy and run-down properties they kept. The moralization of the conduct of these groups led to different cycles of improvement that have never quite succeeded in eradicating the perceived unruliness of the street: ‘Efforts to scrub Yonge clean were afoot as early as the 1970s, but most flopped’ (S. Smith 1996: 34). In many ways the ‘street’ – a euphemism for the presence and conduct of particular groups – has defied campaigns waged against its perceived degradation and dark forces and so has remained an ongoing provocation to manage, govern, and make good. For these reasons, economic and development issues must be understood in relation to moralizations, especially in the context of Yonge Street, the fabled ‘heart of the city’ and, according to some, the barometer for measuring the success or failure of the city as a whole. The most recent intervention, in the 1990s, needs to be placed against this backdrop, which both echoes and ruptures these cycles of moralization and improvement. The genealogy of these different classifications reveals particular moments of heightened problematization, which involve distinct classifications that do not constitute a progression but rather a reconfiguration of the objects and subjects of moralization. Although instrumental concerns about the economy and preservation of the street have always been part of calls for improvement to make Yonge Street good, these have been foregrounded by the moralization of conduct. Moralization has mobilized a variety of projects for cleaning up Yonge Street, which has always meant ridding the street of particular groups blamed for its degradation. This book is not an account of this change or of the different cycles of intervention and their successes and failures. Rather, it is an account of the most recent intervention to improve the street and to make it good – an intervention that began in earnest in 1994 and continued up until 1998 when a final plan for the redevelopment of Yonge-Dundas was approved. This account focuses on how the moralization of conduct underpinned a vision of the good city and good citizen and activated a number of professional practices that came to remake Yonge-Dundas. The Making of the Plan Last call for nostalgia fans: Load your cameras because the Yonge and Dundas area is changing, forever. Soon the run-down neighbourhood will become one big construction site with developers racing to erect retail and entertainment complexes featuring no fewer than four media

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 19 towers – massive add-on structures that promise enough advertising signage and video displays to rival New York’s Times Square ... Heavy machinery was used to punch a symbolic 3-metre hole into the rear of the World’s Biggest eyesore, the former blue jean store on the corner. As an added bonus, rusty fire escapes were then ripped from their moorings and came crashing down in a shower of bricks. This was music to Kyle Rae’s ears, the city councillor who more than three years ago struggled to get the Yonge Street Regeneration project off the ground. (Theobald 1999)

In 1994 the council of the City of Toronto began adopting policies to intervene in what it had labelled a ‘problem area’ – the fabled Yonge Street Strip, which, according to local politicians, business owners, residents, and professionals, had been suffering for many years from aesthetic, social, moral, and economic malaise. Over the years, the council’s rhetoric for ‘turning the street around’ changed from that of improvement to that of revitalization and regeneration, and eventually to that of reinvestment and redevelopment. Yonge south of Bloor had been problematized at various times in its history. However, the focus this time around was on the the Strip – that is, the stretch of Yonge between Gerrard and Queen, and specifically the corner of Yonge and Dundas streets (Map 2.1). This round of improvements to Yonge began in 1993 with amendments to the city’s Official Plan. In response to objections filed by the T. Eaton Company against the city’s recently adopted plan (CityPlan ’91), its general retail policies were amended to support measures to revitalize the downtown as a shopping, entertainment, and cultural centre (OMBBI 1998b). The first initiative related to this policy change was outlined in a 1994 report from the Commissioner of Public Works and the Environment to Toronto City Council. This report recommended that a comprehensive plan for Yonge be developed to address concerns about ‘illegal vending, noise, litter, street cleanliness, street litter receptacles, upgrading of sidewalks, etc.’ (City of Toronto 1994). The report stated that the run-down appearance of the area was contributing to ‘negative reporting’ and the proliferation of criminal activities. The location was described as a ‘chaotic mix of unauthorized vendors hawking a wide assortment of wares and any variety of other (sometimes illicit and undesirable) activities and obstructions. The situation not only contributes to the unsightly appearance and seedy atmosphere that this area has attained, but arguably results in negative economic reper-

20 The Moral Economy of Cities

Map 2.1

Downtown Yonge Street Improvement Plan Area, January 2002

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 21

cussions for the Eaton Centre itself as well as the City.’ Buttressing these concerns were the following assertions: the ‘Yonge/Dundas intersection is the most highly policed area in the city’; it had ‘the highest crime rate per square mile in downtown Toronto’; and it was the ‘focus of adverse criminal and social activities, the most severe of which is the problem with crack cocaine dealing and usage’ (OMBBI 1998a). At the same time, efforts were underway to establish the Yonge Street Business and Residents Association (YSBRA), which included representatives of T. Eaton Company as well as many Yonge Street businesses and area residents. The YSBRA began holding meetings with city staff and the local councillor, Kyle Rae, to identify strategies for improving the social and economic environment of the area. As a result of these efforts, in 1995 the City Council adopted the ‘Downtown Yonge Street Improvement Plan’ (City of Toronto 1995b), which designated the area on both sides of Yonge from Queen to College as a community improvement project area (CIP) under Section 28 of the Planning Act (see Map 2.1). This act defines a CIP as ‘an area within a municipality, the community improvement of which in the opinion of the council is desirable because of age, dilapidation, overcrowding, faulty arrangement, unsuitability of buildings or for any other reason.’ This designation empowers a municipality to undertake a variety of programs and actions, and it was through this designation that a definition of the good city came to be articulated. At first, the city focused on making aesthetic improvements – cleaning the streets, beautifying the streetscape, upgrading the facades of retail stores, and so on. Then in 1996, City Council took a further step by adopting a program ‘to promote the regeneration of Toronto’s Main Street’ based on the recommendations and report from the local area councillor, who had been meeting with city staff and the YSBRA. The councillor asserted that the steps presently being taken were only short-term initiatives to address immediate issues. A midterm and long-term agenda for revitalization was necessary, because the current efforts, although useful, would not be enough to ‘turn the street around.’ He stated that during meetings with the YSBRA and other members of the Yonge Street community, a strong consensus had emerged ‘that in addition to the City’s initiatives, the revitalization of the street will ultimately require a new image and that this new image can only be achieved by meaningful change’ (City of Toronto 1996d). The councillor reported that the YSBRA had hired a marketing consultant to develop a strategic plan for promoting and marketing the area

22 The Moral Economy of Cities

as well as options for reuse and redevelopment. He proposed that the city join the YSBRA in this effort by establishing a public private partnership. City Council endorsed the proposal, and on 4 March 1996 adopted ‘Downtown Yonge: A Program to Promote the Regeneration of Toronto’s Main Street,’ a public private collaboration between the city and YSBRA. This program was to be cofunded by the city and the private sector, overseen by a steering committee consisting of the local councillor, YSBRA, and city officials, and staffed by the marketing consultant. The consultant’s first report was submitted in September 1996. It identified the need for a ‘major redevelopment project’ to bring retail back to the street by creating an ‘urban entertainment centre’ with multiscreen cinemas, theme restaurants, and family entertainment attractions. This program would also involve the cross-marketing or ‘entertainment retailing’ of sports, cultural products, and consumer goods and would reflect the dominant market trend in retailing (City of Toronto 1996c). The report also recommended that an urban square be established to improve the area’s public amenities. City Council supported the report’s recommendations and started drafting Official Plan and zoning by-law amendments to permit the redevelopment of the lands required for the proposed project. The Official Plan and bylaw amendments included a change to the community improvement project (CIP) designation that had previously been adopted. This facilitated the redevelopment project by specifying that improvement included ‘new retail and entertainment premises’ and ‘improved public amenities’ as ‘key to maintaining the economic and social well-being of the downtown and the region’ (OMBBI 1998b). It also empowered the city to apply Section 7 of the Expropriations Act, which allows a government to take away the property rights of landowners, with compensation, in order to carry out a public purpose. Thus, with Yonge-Dundas now a CIP area, the city had the right to expropriate properties once it had demonstrated that existing ownership arrangements were preventing it from making community improvements (City of Toronto 1996e). These powers are rarely exercised on a large scale; most notably, they were used during the immediate postwar years for urban renewal and social housing projects such as Regent Park and New City Hall (Ex. 105). The proposed redevelopment project for Yonge-Dundas would require assembling land owned by the City of Toronto, Ryerson University, and twelve different private owners. The city therefore had to initiate a process of expropriating and compensating existing owners. In February 1997 the area was desig-

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 23

nated a ‘reinvestment area,’ Official Plan and zoning amendments were adopted, and the expropriation of lands was commenced as part of the ‘Yonge-Dundas Redevelopment Project.’ The main components of the project included a hundred-million-dollar ‘urban entertainment centre’ on the northeast corner of the intersection, to be named Metropolis. This would be a four-storey building containing 320,000 square feet of street-related retail, restaurant, and entertainment space and a cinema megaplex with as many as six thousand seats and thirty screens (Plate 4). Through a detailed agreement, the city gave development rights for this parcel to PenEquity Management Corporation, a Toronto-based property developer that developed and managed entertainment centres througout southern Ontario. As part of this agreement, PenEquity was required to ‘attract a major cinema exhibitor as its anchor tenant’; this led to an offer to lease from AMC Theatres of Canada (OMBBI 1998b). Leases were eventually signed with Virgin Entertainment, the Future Shop, and several theme restaurants and high-end retailers such as Perry Ellis. Another part of the development included a media tower with neon signs and a large video screen, to be built on the northwest corner (the site of a high-density mall/office complex, The Atrium on Bay, which had been built in the early 1980s). A third element was to be Dundas Square, a 3,250square-metre public open space on the southeast corner of Yonge and Dundas. This urban square was to be the focus of public reinvestment; it was considered a necessary first step to spur the redevelopment process and to upgrade the area’s public spaces. Two additional parcels of land to the east of Yonge Street were also included. Landmark hotel and retail uses were proposed for the northeast corner of Dundas and Victoria; at the southeast corner, additional retail and restaurant uses were proposed as part of the expansion of the existing Senator Restaurant. The city’s plan for Yonge-Dundas did not go unchallenged. In 1997, owners of the properties being expropriated for the urban entertainment centre and public square launched an appeal to the Ontario Municipal Board (OMB), a provincially appointed, quasi-judicial, administrative tribunal that resolves disputes that fall under the Ontario Planning Act.3 The appellants consisted of eight individual property owners, one retail tenant, and, initially, Ryerson University, the Salvation Army, and the Islamic Education Centre International.4 The latter three withdrew their appeals after reaching a settlement with the City of Toronto. Ryerson University settled after reaching an agreement that, among other things, allowed the university to use twelve theatres for classroom purposes

24 The Moral Economy of Cities

during specified hours and dates (OMBBI Inquiry 1998b). The Salvation Army reached a negotiated settlement with the Senator Restaurant for the purchase of its site at Dundas and Victoria (City of Toronto 1998c). The appellants did not reject change; in fact, they presented two alternative proposals for redevelopment: ‘the Pellow scheme’ and ‘the Walker scheme.’ Both involved assembling and developing properties for high-density mixed uses. The Pellow scheme encompassed all ten properties (the eight individual owners plus the City of Toronto) and other lands; the Walker scheme involved only the six properties north of Dundas and not including any lands owned by the city or by Ryerson. The Pellow scheme called for the development of two office buildings and two residential buildings with above-grade and below-grade retailing. The office buildings would be nineteen and twenty-one storeys in height and the residential buildings sixteen and thirteen storeys. The Walker proposal involved only six properties north of Dundas fronting on Yonge and presented three different scenarios, including a mix of retail and office uses at ten storeys, or, alternatively, retail and residential at twelve storeys. What the appellants objected to was the claim that the current state of the area required government intervention and that improvement could only be achieved by expropriating existing landowners. The appeal submitted to the OMB challenged both the CIP designation under Section 28 of the Planning Act and the use of Section 7 of the Expropriations Act. In cases where an appeal includes decisions covered by the Expropriations Act, a panel is constituted to sit as a joint board of the OMB and Board of Inquiry. The OMB was thus assigned the additional authority to act as inquiry officers to determine ‘whether the taking of land is fair, sound and reasonably necessary in the achievement of planning objectives’ (OMBBI 1998b). Not all disputes can be appealed to the OMB; the Planning Act specifies the types of decisions (e.g., amendments to an official plan) and the conditions under which a decision can be appealed (e.g., it does not have regard for provincial policies). The Yonge-Dundas redevelopment project involved a number of planning decisions that were appellable. The Administrative Hearing OMB hearings are less formal than court proceedings but more formal than a city committee or council meeting. The OMB makes decisions based on the adjudication of sworn testimony, documentary evidence,

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 25

witness statements, and the legal arguments and analyses of two opposing teams. Three main groups are typically involved in OMB hearings: legal counsel, expert witnesses, and ordinary witnesses. Through the adversarial process and within the framework of applicable legislation and government policies, the OMB makes an ‘administrative decision and order’ (Krushelnicki 1996). It applies two tests when rendering decisions to approve, deny, or amend a development application: Does that application comply with requirements of the Planning Act and with provincial and municipal policies? And is it based on ‘good planning and in the public interest’? The latter is described as a ‘judgement based on considerations such as the following: adverse impact; land use conflict; locational considerations; balancing private and public interest; appropriateness; character; density; ambience; special local or social values (e.g., local historic or environmental considerations)’ (Krushelnicki 1996: 48). The OMB has the authority to make any decision that a municipal council or another tribunal could have made, and its decision may be different. This is because a hearing involves a new presentation of the issues, which are reviewed ‘de novo,’ – that is, over again from the beginning. OMB members look at each appeal as if no decision had ever been made by a previous body such as a municipal council, a committee of adjustment, a land division committee, or the Assessment Review Board – that is, each party must prove its case all over again. Furthermore, the OMB is not required to adhere to precedent, although it often does refer to and rely on past decisions. A decision that dismisses an appeal (i.e., that allows a plan or proposed development to proceed) usually involves an order that imposes a set of conditions. Thus a decision of the OMB does not simply involve accepting or dismissing an appeal, or choosing between competing claims; it also shapes the definition of what constitutes good urban planning and the public interest. In this regard, the administrative hearing is part of the governance and making of the good city. At the hearing on Yonge-Dundas, legal counsel consisted of some twenty-one lawyers, who organized and presented the evidence of approximately thirty-seven expert witnesses, eleven ordinary witnesses, and twenty-eight citizens who made presentations at an evening public session conducted by the OMB. Most of the expert witnesses were professionals involved in city making – urban planners, designers, architects, marketing and financial analysts, management consultants, and the like. Ordinary witnesses were mostly local residents and busi-

26 The Moral Economy of Cities

ness owners, who submitted written statements to the hearing. Citizens (i.e., members of the general public) appeared at the evening public session to express their views about the project. (The differences between witnesses are elaborated in chapter 6.) The materials presented to the board consisted of around three hundred exhibits; these included professional affidavits, reports, statements of expert witnesses, all of the reports adopted by the City of Toronto, council and committee meeting minutes, and memoranda and correspondence, as well as opening and closing arguments put forward by each side’s team of lawyers (OMBBI 1998c). They also included media clippings, journal articles, visual materials (photos, plans, and artist renderings), crime statistics, and the sworn statements of ordinary witnesses. These exhibits represented the entire ‘official’ evidence placed before the OMB. These materials, along with media and City of Toronto reports relating to the redevelopment project and OMB hearing, and subsequent reports and studies prepared by the city as conditions imposed by the OMB in its decision, constitute the discourse on Yonge-Dundas analysed in this investigation.5 The OMB dismissed the appeal and approved the project. It based its decision on two central matters that were disputed in the evidence. The first was whether the city had made legitimate use of the provision in the Planning Act that enables a municipality to designate a CIP area. If it had, the OMB then had to judge whether the proposed expropriation of land was necessary in order to achieve the objective of community improvement – in other words, the good city. It follows that for both proponents and the opponents of the project, the hinge issues at the hearing were two: What was the area’s present condition? And what constituted improvement? Both proponents and opponents agreed that the properties should be redeveloped, but they disagreed over what improvement actually meant and how to achieve it. Should the redevelopment be privately led, or should the public sector involve itself through expropriation? Both sides supported improvement, but was government intervention necessary? And what kind of development was appropriate for the corner in terms of uses and densities? Opponents had ‘no objection to re-development of downtown Toronto for purposes of making Yonge Street more attractive to shoppers, residents and tourists. We do, however, object to being forced to sell our Property’ (Ex. 195). Indeed, the OMB noted in its decision that ‘the fact that those in opposition were not satisfied with the status quo, and had alternative development proposals that they presented to the Board, is confirmation of the recognition that these properties are in need of improvement

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 27

which cannot be achieved on a property by property basis’ (OMBBI 1998b). That the OMB supported the city’s plan and approved the project is not especially determining for the argument this book makes. One could certainly analyse the hearing and its outcome with an eye to explaining why the appeal failed. The impact of particular charismatic individuals or the influence of financial capital could be investigated. One could also argue that the OMB is a unique institution and that what should really be explained is its influence on the outcome. The OMB is indeed an exceptional institution in Canada and internationally, yet one could easily identify other exceptional institutional structures and arrangements elsewhere. For example, the structure of land use planning law and of government is considerably different in Canada than in the United States and the United Kingdom. Yet there are remarkable similarities between the arguments, rationalities, practices, and technologies that agents deploy at the OMB and in those other contexts where an OMB does not exist. There is also a remarkable similarity in citymaking projects, as I will note in later chapters, where I discuss Times Square and the Manchester city centre. One could also examine projects in other provinces in Canada. These comparisons would reveal that Yonge-Dundas is far from being a remarkable or unusual case. My concern here is not to explain the OMB’s decision or its effect on the outcome. Rather, in this book I am seeking to unearth the shared rationalities, reasons, logic, arguments, justifications, and forms of evidence that make proposals for urban entertainment centres or retail/ office/residential complexes possible – all those conditions of truth and rationality that usually remain out of sight or in the background. My objective is to identify the conditions that produced a common grid of intelligibility and that made the discourses of both proponents and opponents coherent, understandable, and reasonable. In other words, the particularity of Yonge-Dundas may lie in its institutional structure, but it is not to be found in the kinds of practices that operate within that structure, such as particular rationalities and technologies for making a city space good. Thus, the story of Yonge-Dundas is both particular and general, and the value of the OMB hearing for this analysis is that it offers us a unique opportunity to unearth and investigate the conditions that make Yonge-Dundas a general case. Proponents and opponents of the project advanced many arguments and claims. For example, the causes of decline and underdevelopment at Yonge-Dundas (city policies and the Eaton Centre, or disinvestment

28 The Moral Economy of Cities

and speculation by existing landowners), the best ways to achieve improvement (public-sector expropriation or private-sector land assembly), and the financial implications of redevelopment (costs to the taxpayer and the economic viability of different proposals) were disputed by different experts. However, the claim that united parties as well as the OMB was that the space was problematic and needed improvement. The rationalities, reasons, logic, and forms of evidence underpinning these claims are the focus of the following analysis. At their core, all of the claims were based on problematizations of the current condition of the street that involved evaluating it against a vision of the good city. In the end, what and who belonged at Yonge-Dundas? Classifying Yonge-Dundas The authority to designate community improvement areas dates back to 1952, when policies for redevelopment were introduced through the Planning Act. This allowed a municipality with an Official Plan to designate redevelopment areas and adopt redevelopment plans. This power made possible major land-assembly and clearance projects, especially in the 1950s and 1960s. This power remained virtually unchanged until the adoption of a new Planning Act in 1983, at which time the nomenclature of ‘community improvement’ was introduced. This change signalled a move away from activities focused solely on ‘the physical redevelopment of areas suffering from blight’ toward an ‘entire process of “community improvement” to reflect a broader range of activities than commonly associated with the term “redevelopment”’ (OMBBI 1998b). The broadening of these powers was also incorporated into the definition of an Official Plan. Earlier definitions focused on the physical development of the municipality; the 1983 act expanded that definition to include the social, economic, and natural environment of the municipality. This change in emphasis in planning law – from a physical to a more social assessment of decline – was evident in the OMB’s evaluation of whether Yonge-Dundas was in a state of dilapidation. The OMB decision noted that interpretations of community improvement should not be narrowly restricted to physical conditions. Counsel for the City of Toronto argued that this new approach was intended to be more flexible and to emphasize the improvement of economic and social conditions. In this sense, Section 28 was a tool for community improvement,

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 29

which was ‘not limited to curing physical blight’ (OMBBI 1998b). The OMB also noted that Section 28 allows designation ‘for any other reason.’ For Yonge-Dundas, these reasons included ‘economic and social benefits that will come with the creation of a catalyst which is intended to lead to the improvement of the community so delineated in the CIP area’ (ibid.). At the OMB hearing, notions of improvement and the good city often relied on commonsense understandings and metaphors of degeneration and renewal. Proponents appealed to a common medical metaphor: change would have to involve curing the area of the signs and causes of degeneration. This metaphor cut across different statements and voices, from media articles and public hearing minutes to the statements of expert and ordinary witnesses. For example, one expert witness declared in his affidavit that ‘Yonge Street is sick ... not healthy’ (Ex. 64), and a citizen at the public session called its problems a ‘cancer’ (OMBBI 1998g). In their closing submission, lawyers for the City of Toronto echoed these concerns when they stated that the area was suffering from ‘a perceived malaise’ (OMBBI 1998f). The same metaphor was reflected in the proposed course of action: radical surgery to make the patient well again, since Yonge Street had not ‘cured itself’ (ibid.). According to one local retailer, the street ‘doesn’t need a Band-Aid, it needs surgery’ (Barber 1996). ‘We have the scalpel in hand and we also have the plastic heart,’ said area councillor Kyle Rae, reflecting on the diagnosis and cure (Barber 1997). But identifying a cure would have to involve constructing a vision of the good and bad, the sick and healthy space – a duality that emerged simultaneously. The problematization of Yonge-Dundas involved constructing a classificatory system, which in turn required that the existing sick or bad space be constituted against an ideal of the healthy or good space. In this sense, what constituted the good city did not ‘pre-exist’ its designation; rather, Yonge Street had to be problematized before this vision of the good city could be articulated. In general, this involved the moral mapping and classification of Yonge-Dundas at three levels: in relation to itself, in relation to other spaces in the city, and in relation to spaces in other cities. Bound up with this classification of spaces was the identification of particular groups – a vision and division of conduct and groups corresponding to a vision and division of spaces. All of this served to establish the position of Yonge-Dundas within an order of good city spaces.

30 The Moral Economy of Cities

Moral Geographies of Yonge-Dundas Different spaces of the city are read and associated with particular moral meanings: they are interpreted as safe or dangerous, as downtrodden or exclusive. Connected to such classifications are the expectations of what conduct, activities, and appearances are expected to occur there, and what groups are expected to inhabit them. This moral mapping becomes most apparent when a mismatch is identified between what is expected or should be and what is actually found in a space (e.g., the locating of a strip bar in a middle-class residential neighbourhood). It also emerges when city-making practices articulate projects that express moral understandings of what and who belongs where in the city. In these ways, we can think of cities as having ‘moral geographies’ (D. Smith 2000) or ‘moral landscapes’ (Ley and Mills 1993) – spatial distributions of moral differences in values and practices, which are produced in different contexts and through specific practices. The moral mapping of city spaces is evident in the classification of areas of Toronto conducted for an annual real estate guide to the city’s neighbourhoods published by a local magazine, Toronto Life (Fulford 2001). A rating method is used to produce a ‘quality-of-life index,’ which ranks and compares 240 neighbourhoods in Toronto. The index consists of six categories that ‘make an area liveable’; these are weighted by their relative importance: safety (25 per cent), housing quality (20 per cent), habitat quality (20 per cent), commercial access (15 per cent), transportation (10 per cent), and social access (10 per cent) (Fulford 2001, Table B-5). Neighbourhoods are organized into six divisions so that ‘each corner of the city is considered in an appropriate context’ (i.e., to facilitate comparisons among similarly located neighbourhoods). However, although five of these divisions are described by their location (downtown, midtown, east-west midtown, uptown, and suburbs), only one, the ‘elite’ neighbourhoods, is described as ‘exclusive.’ The ranking criteria suggest what is considered to constitute a good neighbourhood. The negative criteria indicate that areas with a high population density, with many people who are transient (movers), with housing that is not renovated and that is close to industrial areas, and with high levels of crime and traffic, are bad. In contrast, areas where housing is expensive, where many people own their own homes, and that are close to open space, restaurants, and schools, are good. A final chart of all 240 neighbourhoods lists the scores for each

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 31

factor and the overall quality-of-life index, along with data on average household income, percentage of university degree holders, and percentage of households with children. The guide attempts to represent the criteria, measurements, and methods of ranking as objective and quantitative (it consists primarily of charts and maps), yet all of its evaluations are normative. Like the magazine that produces and publishes it, the ranking criteria are oriented specifically to the desires and tastes of particular groups in the city, such as professionals. This is reflected in the association of good neighbourhoods with both the characteristics of the people who live in them (settled home owners with university degrees, high incomes, and children – the readers of Toronto Life) and the characteristics of the spaces (renovated and close to open space, schools, and restaurants). Discursive constructions of specific types of places as bad are subtle and less direct forms of moralization than official constructions (of law and government policy, for example), yet they do have effects on city making (Adams 1994). Of course, such classifications are not stable; moral mappings of the city are always in flux and subject to reinterpretation as the social, cultural, political, and economic dimensions of the city change. For example, experts at the OMB hearing justified the Yonge-Dundas redevelopment project on the grounds that ‘the demographics of the central city appear to demonstrate a changing local market which Yonge Street appears to stand in contrast to’ (Ex. 55). Local residents also noted ‘with the growing number of condominiums and development in the area surrounding this project it is necessary to completely redevelop and improve this intersection and the blocks to the north and south of Dundas St. along Yonge St.’ (Ex. 262). Residential intensification had ‘increased the population of the Central Area by approximately 33% since 1981 with the youth population in decline in the downtown,’ which was ‘now dominated by late boomers aged 30 to 39.’ These social changes were connected to new values and preferences, such as ‘new household formation, leading edge tastes in consumer preferences and entertainment choices, and environmental and social concerns’ (Ex. 55). The claim was that new social groups were moving into the area around Yonge-Dundas, and that the area’s condition clashed with their preferences as well as with their visions of a good city. This claim was elaborated in a more careful siting of Yonge-Dundas within an order of good spaces in Toronto and other cities in North America and England.

32 The Moral Economy of Cities

Yonge-Dundas in Relation to Its Past, Present, and Future Was Yonge-Dundas a good or a bad space? It is generally accepted that both kinds of spaces ‘naturally’ exist in any city. So at the OMB hearing, the issue was where this street did and should fit in relation to the rest of the city. Dividing practices legitimize the differential treatment of divided categories (Foucault 1994). In this instance, a vision and division of the city legitimized the particular treatment of Yonge-Dundas in relation to other spaces in the city. Problematizations reflected popular representations of the street. ‘Canada’s Main Street’ and ‘the heart of downtown Toronto’ were common classifications of the street and the corner of Yonge-Dundas. Politicians described Yonge as the ‘main street of the town I live in’ (OMBBI 1998c) and as ‘the main street of Canada’s most important city.’ This assigned a symbolic importance to the street when city spaces were ranked. It was a Prominent Area (as designated under the Official Plan) and should be ‘sustained and enhanced as a highly visible area which contributes to the distinctiveness of the City and the downtown core’ (City of Toronto 1995a). The OMB was emphasizing this designation when it stated that ‘the intersection at Yonge and Dundas Streets in the City of Toronto has been labelled the “Main and Main of the Community”’ (OMBBI 1998b). And city reports, when it came to adopting the regeneration program, declared that ‘Yonge Street is certainly the “main street” for all Torontonians and visitors to the City. The intersection of Yonge and Dundas has become the unofficial heart of downtown Toronto’ (City of Toronto 1996b). Given this status, the problem, according to one expert planner, was an ‘incongruity between the street’s overall diminished role and appearance and the notion that Yonge Street is seen as Toronto’s “main street” and our “front door” to visitors to the City’ (Ex. 69). When people walked through the front door, what they saw was not befitting of a ‘main street’; according to another expert planner, its present condition was not ‘an appropriate presentation of our city to ourselves or to the wider world’ (Ex. 184). At the evening public session, citizens echoed these sentiments. What they saw was an area that was ‘dysfunctional,’ ‘a constant flea market,’ ‘a cancer,’ and ‘sick’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry 1998g). According to some local retailers, the area had once belonged to mainstream Toronto but now had ‘come to look like a third world coun-

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 33

try.’ The once glorious street had been ‘left with the residue of derelict stores and transient business that have quite simply tarnished our image’ (City of Toronto 1997a). The problematization of the street depended in part on a construction of it as a place once peopled by ‘respectable’ Torontonians – on the notion that at one time, what and who was to be found there lived up to the status befitting the ‘heart of downtown Toronto.’ Thus, powerful images of the past were used to rationalize and justify the intervention. These narratives constructed a ‘place myth’ (Lash and Urry 1994) about Yonge Street’s past that served as a powerful metaphor against which the present street could be compared. Like projects of moral regulation that involve a moral discourse of decline or degeneration (Hunt 1999), statements referred to the loss of an imagined age and a current threat to social order. The era most often referenced in this regard was the 1950s and early 1960s; Yonge and Dundas was described by the OMB as ‘“the” retail shopping strip, the people place, where sidewalks were full of people, the retail stores, restaurants and movie theatres vibrant and successful’ (OMBBI 1998b). One local retailer recalled growing up in the area and how families used to ‘stroll at any time of the day or night and the street was filled with commerce and vibrancy and diversity’ (City of Toronto 1997a). According to an urban planner, the vicinity around Dundas was at one time ‘known as a prime retail shopping location, an accessible and visible gathering place, and a centre for commercial activity’ (Ex. 55). He cited examples of upscale retailers and theatres offering ‘superior shopping and entertainment opportunities’ that had once made the area a vibrant, attractive, and safe place. The present street was compared to these constructions of Yonge Street’s good past, and, inevitably, it fared poorly. The street had at one time lived up to its standing as the ‘heart of downtown Toronto,’ but it had degenerated. There were now ‘twenty-nine dollar shops on Main Street Toronto’ – a fact often cited at both the hearing and in the media as one of the main causes of decline (Valpy 1998). Witnesses painted a picture of decline and degeneration and said that these conditions needed to be addressed if the street was to return to its main-street image and good status. According to one retailer, it had to again become ‘the envy of every urban metropolis’ and to become ‘Toronto’s street again before its too late’ (quoted in Wong 1997). Similar sentiments were expressed in media accounts of the OMB hearing – accounts that represented the task as one of recovery,

34 The Moral Economy of Cities

‘almost as an ecological issue, rather like bringing back the Don [River]. The idea is that by intervening in the natural processes – either environmental or urban – the organism can regenerate itself’ (Hume 1998b).6 Both expert and ordinary witnesses, as well as the OMB in its decision, spoke often and urgently about returning Yonge Street to what it had once been. This was reflected in comments such as we need to ‘restore its vibrancy and vitality’ (OMBBI 1998b), to ensure the ‘return of stability, prosperity, safety, and positive reputation to Yonge Street’ (Ex. 55); and ‘Yonge Street must be returned to its glory days – once a model for the Country, Yonge Street has deteriorated’ (Ex. 41). The street had a good past but a bad present, and action was needed to return the street to its proper moral standing. In particular, witnesses claimed that it had to be returned to them: ‘This was our place, the meeting place; from which Toronto’s name was derived. It is where we met our friends and families; we worked and played here. We even celebrated our Stanley Cups here. We may someday do that again’ (City of Toronto 1997a). Statements such as this explicitly established an alliance between proponents of the redevelopment – an alliance that expressed who were the public and owners of the space at Yonge-Dundas: it was ‘our’ place where ‘we’ – ’mainstream Toronto’ – celebrated, worked, played, and strolled, and ‘we may someday do that again.’ The classification of Yonge-Dundas as Toronto’s main street meant that it was placed relative to other spaces in the city or in relation to a generalized order of good city spaces. This was done not only to distinguish its status and place vis-à-vis other spaces, but also to identify other parts of the city to which it purportedly should correspond. Yonge-Dundas in Relation to Other Spaces in Toronto The ordering of Yonge-Dundas in relation to other parts of downtown Toronto was most evident in the comparisons between Yonge-Dundas and two other retail areas considered to be successful: Bloor Yorkville (classified as Toronto’s ‘mink mile or 5th Avenue’) and Queen West (classified as Toronto’s ‘Soho’), which one urban planner used as examples of good city spaces.7 These areas of the city were important counterspaces against which Yonge-Dundas was judged and against which it was described as a ‘poor cousin’ (Ex. 69; and Barber 1996). Bloor Yorkville and Queen West were noted as having well-established retail product specialization, with the former ‘dominated by white-collar groups and the latter a more diversified base’ (Ex. 69). The

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 35

urban planner went on to argue that in comparison, ‘Yonge Street attracts a different customer base dominated by blue collar, students and grey collar workers.’ This different customer base was then connected to the fact that ‘Yonge Street lacks diversity in terms of better restaurants, and is dominated by department stores, chains inside the Eaton Centre with polarized entertainment in terms of major theatre or “sleazy” night clubs.’ In its current state, Yonge-Dundas was unacceptable territory to the groups that frequented Bloor Yorkville and Queen West. The implication was that in the order of city spaces, Yonge-Dundas should be similar to these spaces and belong to these groups of people. Such comparisons had a significant impact on assessments of Yonge-Dundas. First, those characteristics of Yonge-Dundas which were problematized (discount stores, drug dealing, litter, illegal vending, graffiti) could be found in many other parts of the city, including areas of Yonge Street not directly touched by the redevelopment; it was their presence in this particular location that was problematic. One local journalist contended that although the space was ‘overwhelmed by tackiness,’ this wasn’t necessarily the problem, since ‘every city has an area like it’ (Hume 1998b). According to him, the problem was that Yonge-Dundas was at ‘the very heart of the downtown core’ and continued to be a place of symbolic significance to Torontonians. A marketing analyst at the hearing concurred, stating that: While there are tacky districts in all major cities, the situation along Yonge Street is unique because it besieges the city’s top tourist attraction (the Eaton Centre) and borders on the north end of the financial district (Yonge and Bay south of Queen) ... The reason for trying to upgrade the Yonge-Dundas area is not because of its ‘tacky’ appearance. Every major city has a tacky downtown district but not in the most central location and not at the front door of the most popular tourist attraction. Not only does the current situation have a significant negative economic impact on other areas within the city, it is clearly not the best use for the Yonge-Dundas area itself. (Ex. 64)

Indeed, if the criteria applied to Yonge-Dundas were applied to many retail strips in Toronto, large parts of the city could be classified as degenerate and in need of improvement. What mattered was that these criteria or characteristics were judged as not belonging in this particular space. And as the city’s social geography changes, those changes may

36 The Moral Economy of Cities

indeed render other spaces with conditions similar to Yonge-Dundas problematic at some later time. The point is that the problematization of Yonge-Dundas was bound up with revaluations of this inner-city space by groups claiming it both symbolically and materially. Also the urgency of intervening in Yonge-Dundas was heightened by further relating Yonge Street’s success to that of the entire downtown, city, and region. It was ‘not just the crossroads of our community but the entire country’ (City of Toronto 1997a). The well-being of Yonge Street was described as ‘key to maintaining the economic and social wellbeing of the downtown, the City and the region.’ According to former City of Toronto mayor, David Crombie, it was ‘not any old street,’ and no matter what work went into enhancing other parts of the city, what was done on Yonge Street would always be the benchmark for how well Toronto was doing (Moloney 1998). In these ways, improving YongeDundas and making it good was essential to achieving the good city. This classification of the space in relation to the rest of the city was extended to spaces in other cities, against which Yonge-Dundas was also compared. Toronto in Relation to Other Cities At the OMB hearing, rationalizations of good and bad were linked up with those of major inner-city regeneration projects in North America and England. In particular, New York’s Times Square and London’s Piccadilly Circus served as reference points for how declining centre cities could be fixed and also for what kinds of spaces were deemed successful in the twenty-first century. The condition of Yonge-Dundas stood in contrast to ‘what one might expect at a major tourist hub in a North American downtown’ (Ex. 69). More ‘enlightened urban centres’ were following the lead of New York mayor Rudolph Giuliani in taking ‘some pride and care in the presentation of their city’s most highly trafficked areas’ (Ex. 46). Similarly, media commentaries noted that Toronto’s initial campaign to beautify the street and store facades at Yonge-Dundas constituted ‘baby steps’ in comparison to New York City’s ‘enormous investment ... to rehabilitate Times Square and 42nd Street, another great public place in disarray’ (Barber 1996). Times Square became an especially important referent – so much so that the OMB elected to travel to see the area itself: ‘The trip to New York City and, specifically, Times Square and the 42nd Street redevelopment project area was of considerable benefit to the Board’ (OMBBI 1998b).

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 37

The OMB further noted that ‘New York has been successful in reestablishing an area which previously had been an area to avoid, and which now has re-established Times Square with a strong sense of place and strong sense of arrival which exists in an atmosphere of tremendous vibrancy and excitement.’ Other statements in the media asserted that ‘Time Square’s rebirth points way for Yonge St.’ (Theobald 1998), that ‘Yonge and Dundas could become our Times Square’ (Moloney 1996), and that Yonge-Dundas could be ‘Toronto’s answer to Times Square in New York or Piccadilly Circus in London’ (Immen 1998b). Echoing these sentiments, the general manager of the Eaton Centre said that ‘lower Yonge Street should be the Fifth Avenue, the Oxford Street of Toronto’ (Barber 1996). Visual representations were offered at the hearing in order to compare Yonge-Dundas to these other cities. A photo gallery of images of Times Square, Piccadilly Circus, and Leicester Square accompanied expert testimony (Ex. 185, 205, 187A, 187B). These photos showed clean, regenerated, well-ordered streets and buildings ‘signed’ by transnational entertainment retailers such as Virgin Records and Disney. Other regeneration projects cited as examples of how cities were making inner-city spaces more appealing to visitors included Covent Garden and Canary Wharf in London, Faneuil Hall in Boston, and Harbor Place in Baltimore (Ex. 139). American cities also served as warnings of the problems that could arise if governments failed to anticipate decline. One urban planner reported that he and other city planners had visited State Street and Michigan Avenue in Chicago to see for themselves how the failure to anticipate decline could lead to blighted areas, which would then require heavy government financial intervention to restore (Ex. 69). Illustrations from American cities were being used selectively to make both positive and negative comparisons. The impression left was that Toronto – and Yonge-Dundas in particular – was not keeping up with downtowns in comparable American cities, ‘including New York, Chicago, Denver and San Francisco’ – cities that were part of a growing trend to reinvest in downtowns by creating urban entertainment centres (City of Toronto 1996b). Regarding a public square for YongeDundas, one urban planner argued that Toronto lacked entertainment spaces of the sort that could now be found in Times Square in New York City and Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square in London, and that Toronto needed spaces similar to Exchange Square in Manchester and Post Office Square in Boston (Ex. 184). As further examples,

38 The Moral Economy of Cities

another witness cited Water Tower Park in Chicago, Union Square in San Francisco, Linear Park in Denver, and Central Square Westgate in Seattle (Ex. 64). Inner-city spaces in Toronto were being revalued in the context of developments in other globalizing cities in North-America and England. These were held up as examples of good cities, against which Toronto did not fare well. With the greater flow of information and images among cities, reflexive awareness of places in relation to others is increasing (Sparks, Girling, and Loader 2001). Place awareness tends more and more to be relational and comparative. For instance, from the diverse experiences of American cities, particular criteria were selected against which to measure Yonge-Dundas in either positive or negative terms. This was based on the belief that Toronto was in competition to be a good city, a world-class city worthy to be ranked among the globalizing cities of the world. If inner-city regeneration was the trend in other similarly ranked cities, then in order to ‘keep up’ and be good, Toronto of course would have to do the same. In this way, the problems of and solutions for Yonge-Dundas were construed in allied ways with sites in other cities. This was also the case with regard to the regeneration of inner-city Manchester, which was undergoing redevelopment at about the same time and which was also referenced at the OMB hearing. For both Toronto and Manchester, the remaking of Times Square in New York was a prominent comparator. This well illustrates how sites are connected by a broader discourse on the making of the good city – a discourse that is articulated in different ways at different sites. It is in this regard that the cases of Manchester and New York are introduced below and referenced throughout the book. They are not included for the purposes of comparing sites and cities, or to provide alternative cases to that of Toronto, but rather to identify the similarities among the problematizations, rationalities, and technologies that have been deployed and how professional agents have borrowed and exchanged practices in making ‘good’ spaces in these particular cities. Of Other cities: New York and Manchester New York developer George Klein once described Times Square as ‘a cancer, a blot on the city’ (Stewart 1998: 39). Like Toronto’s Yonge Street, it has been through many cycles of moralization and improvement. The most recent debate in the 1990s focused on 42nd Street between Seventh

Making Yonge-Dundas Good 39

and Eighth Avenues – a single block that had been portrayed as ‘blighted’ socially and economically, as both corrupt and corrupting (Chesluk 2000). It was dominated by souvenir shops, video arcades, cheap restaurants, porn shops and theatres, and massage parlours, and frequented by loiterers, hustlers, prostitutes, panhandlers, drunks, commuters, and tourists. This portrayal served as the justification for intervening in Times Square through a plan that sought to boost its ‘symbolic economy’ by rehabilitating it as an entertainment hub (Zukin 1995). Efforts began in the 1970s, but it wasn’t until the 1990s that the main components of this redevelopment got underway. These included the refurbishment of lowrise buildings for retail, the renewal of theatres, the building of state-of-the-art amusements with bright lights and displays, and the targeting of specific entertainment-oriented businesses such as Walt Disney, AMC, Tussauds, Virgin Records, and Barnes and Noble. In Manchester in 1996, the Irish Republican Army (IRA) exploded a bomb in the city centre. This initiated an aggressive program of redevelopment. The area had been scrutinized and problematized for a long time before then, and policies were already in place for regenerating the city centre to address concerns about its decline and disuse. It was described in the media as a ‘threatening area at night for too many of the sort of people – families, winers and diners, older people – required for it to emulate a Barcelona or Milan rather than a Deadwood or Dodge City’ (King 2000b). The popular conception was that the city centre was dominated by ‘hard-drinking young revellers at night with little visible sign of policing’ (ibid.). The area affected by the bomb had experienced falling rental values and decline for some time (Myles and Taylor 1998). It was also dominated by the ‘monolithic, modernistic bloc, “the Arndale Centre,”’ which had opened in 1976 on what had once been the city’s most prized shopping streets (ibid.). Like other mall projects, it was blamed for the decline and impenetrability of the surrounding area. Furthermore, many regeneration projects were already underway in and around the city centre (Mellor 1997). Arguments relating to blight were not needed to justify intervention; that said, the image of a new city centre rested on long-standing concerns about the future and fate of the city centre, not only in Manchester but also in other cities throughout England. The plans for rebuilding the city centre referred to the remaking of New York’s Times Square as an example of how major cities were successfully regenerating their downtowns. Indeed, many of the same

40 The Moral Economy of Cities

problematizations, rationalities, and technologies for improving Manchester’s city centre echoed those adopted for Times Square. For example, the primary aim of the master plan for rebuilding the city centre was to offer more high-quality and specialty retail and significant cultural activity (City of Manchester 1997c). A new urban square, Exchange Square, would be the centrepiece of the reconstruction. Existing retail structures would be refurbished with the focus on upscale and ‘high street’ shops and ‘carefully selected tenants.’ There would be a four-storey urban entertainment centre with a twenty-screen megaplex cinema, a 3-D IMAX theatre, a Virgin superstore, a health and fitness centre, and themed restaurants and bars; an ‘experiential’ multimedia gallery and visitor centre on the sights and sounds of cities; and an upmarket Marks and Spencer superstore (City of Manchester 1999a). The juxtapositions of Yonge-Dundas in relation to itself, to other spaces in Toronto, and to other cities established a vision of the space in the order of good city spaces. ‘Canada’s main street’ and ‘the heart of downtown Toronto’ were descriptions that well summarized the focus on classifying the street and the corner within the current and past order of spaces in the city. The incongruity between the current condition of the street and this classification of Yonge-Dundas was the basis of claims that the area qualified for community improvement. This classification was presented as natural and obvious: of course this was its rightful status, and of course improvement was necessary and would be in the interest of all citizens of the city. In the next three chapters I provide detailed empirical descriptions and analyses of how these classifications of Yonge Street – in relation to itself, in relation to other spaces in the city, and in relation to spaces in other cities – established standards against which Yonge-Dundas could be problematized and improved. These chapters will demonstrate how these problematizations involved the moralization of conduct, which professionals translated into a vision of the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city.

3 The Secure City

The good city is a secure city. Although consumption and aesthetics are also part of the vision of the good city, security was a central object in the remaking of Yonge-Dundas. This reflects the growing significance of crime and safety in city making, for which ‘governing through crime’ has become a prominent strategy (Simon 2000). However, although crime is often identified as an object of governance, for Yonge-Dundas the object was more generally conduct that created disorder and negative perceptions that the area was criminogenic and unsafe. It was the moralization of conduct such as squeegeeing, drug dealing, hanging out, and the discount selling of poor-quality merchandise, and inadequate investment in the maintenance and security of private property, and so on, that mobilized the remaking of Yonge-Dundas and that activated a number of technologies that professionals claimed would produce a safe and secure space. In the 1990s, problematizations of disorder and the fear of crime spurred a number of programs to make Toronto good. At the time the Yonge-Dundas redevelopment project was being planned and adjudicated by the OMB, a City of Toronto task force was developing a community safety strategy for the city. It identified ‘community safety’ as the top concern of Toronto citizens and safety from crime as the most important factor contributing to quality of life. Referring to public opinion polls, the task force asserted that crime was the top local concern, more important than taxes, the economy, or transportation. After noting that Toronto was safe compared to other cities, and despite stable or declining crime rates, the task force declared that ‘fear of crime is at unacceptable levels and 43% of Toronto citizens believe that in the past two years, crime has gone up’ (City of Toronto Task Force on Community Safety 1999).

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The fear of crime is recognized as a common and powerful object often exploited to manipulate public emotions. It touches ‘our rawest nerves and often calls upon some of our most visceral responses: to defend our own, not to surrender, to patrol our borders, to suspect the stranger; to exclude, reject and shun’ (Sparks, Girling, and Loader 2001: 885). Sparks and colleagues argue that much of this fear-of-crime discourse has been about the protection of certain places or territories (homes, streets, nations) against incursions from someone or somewhere else. This attention to fear is evident not only in urban discourses but also in the proliferation of academic studies in the social sciences – studies that investigate objects such as national, economic, Internet, social, food, and job security. The fear of crime, which received scant attention until the 1980s, is now recognized in the literature as a more widespread problem than crime itself. Ditton and Farrall (2000) conducted an on-line search of the literature and calculated that some 837 articles, conference papers, monographs, and books have been written on some aspect or other related to the fear of crime. Writings on city safety and security focus on the fear of crime. These writings, like the popular images in the media, on the one hand are infused with images of the city as a celebration of difference, but on the other depict the city as an unruly, unsettling, and disorderly place (Bannister and Fyfe 2001). Discourses of fear and urban decline have been pervasive in the popular media (Beauregard 1993) and in urban planning, which has long been saturated with attempts to manage various sources of fear in the city, such as disorder and disease (Sandercock 2002). Difference is seen as overwhelming and dangerous, as something to be excluded or segregated where possible – indeed, as something to be feared. Through discourses of fear, agents seek to create physical or symbolic boundaries, walls, and fences to ensure security. Fear is always constituted in relation to others who are feared and so is entirely relational and social. Since the eighteenth century, a series of figures have represented disorder and danger – the vagrant, the pauper, and the degenerate (Rose 1999) – or the ‘women, the working classes, immigrants, gays, youth, and so on’ (Sandercock 2002: 203). But although the identification of dangerous and suspicious groups may not be new (Body-Gendrot 2001), the construction of who is feared and fearing has been reconfigured, and so too have the strategies and technologies of governing. Whose fears get silenced or marginalized? Whose get articulated in the form of policy responses? These questions are central to any understanding of discourses of fear (Sandercock 2002).

The Secure City 43

Over the past few decades, besides legal and disciplinary technologies for reducing crime rates and the fear of crime, new strategies have been introduced that involve governing conduct of the sort that creates disorderly environments and conditions conducive to fear and criminality. Attention has focused on signs of disorder that indicate ‘dangerous situations when neither a crime nor a criminal is in sight’; such situations are commonly referred to as ‘quality of life’ crimes (LaGrange, Ferraro, and Supancic 1992: 311). Signs of disorder include ‘physical incivilities’ such as garbage, litter, and graffiti, and ‘social incivilities’ such as drinking, rowdiness, loitering, and panhandling. Such conduct is now the target of urban planning and design technologies, which act on space in an effort to guide and shape conduct and thereby reduce disorder and the fear of crime. The classification of Yonge-Dundas as a disorderly, frightening, and criminogenic environment underpinned arguments that it qualified as a community improvement project (CIP) area. The arguments contained in witness statements and the OMB decision focused less on physical blight and dilapidation as the rationales for improvement, and more on conduct that made the space disorderly and seemingly unsafe. At the OMB hearing, professionals, landowners, developers, corporate executives, local residents, storeowners, journalists, and politicians highlighted the impact of the environment on safety and the fear of crime. Their statements referred to perceptions of both safety and security – often interchangeably; however, in what follows I describe the object as the secure city. This term best captures the objective expressed, which was to implement measures for achieving a condition free from any feelings of apprehension, anxiety, or alarm.1 In this chapter I outline how problematization was based on reasoning that connected fear of crime to the disorder created by conduct moralized as ‘quality of life offences.’ This was what justified the redevelopment project and a number of security technologies that professionals claimed would produce a secure space at Yonge-Dundas. Then I discuss the specific technologies according to four strategies, which I organize in order of their prominence: design, management, punishment, and discipline. Problematizing Security A predominant concern expressed in the statements made at the OMB hearing was that Yonge Street was not safe. A brochure produced by

44 The Moral Economy of Cities

the Yonge Street Business and Residents Association (YSBRA) stated that ‘surveys indicate safety is the number one issue for Yonge Street: 83% state that safety is “vitally important” to them’ (Ex. 41). At community consultations in which he had been involved since August 1994, the area planner heard ‘relatively consistently, negative comments ... about perceptions of crime, safety, cleanliness and various social concerns’ (Ex. 69). Safety, then, involved more than the presence of criminal offences as recorded in crime statistics; it also involved perceptions that the area was unsafe and crime-ridden. Perceptions were blamed on the physical condition of the street. Visual cues made the space seem unsafe and made people feel insecure. This was best expressed in comments concerning ‘quality of life crimes’ – a term used to cover an array of conditions such as graffiti, litter, rundown buildings, and so on that made certain groups ‘feel’ uncomfortable, unsafe, and threatened: ‘So called “quality of life” crimes generate negative perceptions and fear and an increased perception of crime,’ and these conditions had not ‘assisted Yonge Street in attracting new tenants and broadening the merchandise and customer mix’ (Ex. 69). According to a licensed vendor operating in the area, the run down state of buildings and back alleys attracted criminals, and these conditions scared ‘off tourists and people who might otherwise visit, who are rightly concerned about their safety’ (Ex. 34B). Lawyers for the City of Toronto noted in their closing submission that one expert witness for the appellants, an urban planner, under cross-examination had ‘admitted that he would not let his wife drive on Dundas East at night, and that he would be even less comfortable with his wife walking there, and that this was not a healthy condition for a street’; yet another had ‘admitted to not being comfortable walking at night on Dundas Street’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry [OMBBI] 1998f). The lawyers also quoted area hotel managers who said that guests were complaining about criminal activity and that Yonge Street was ‘threatening and unbecoming.’ Judgements based on perceptions were often related to the presence of certain groups such as panhandlers and marginalized youth who created an ‘ecology of desperation’ (Ex. 184) and a ‘threatening environment’ (Ex. 74). The ‘concentration of persons with similar economic or social problems’ was turning Yonge-Dundas into a ghetto (Ex. 69). These groups participated in ‘intimidating street activity’ (Ex. 74) and ‘all kinds of aberrant behaviour that wouldn’t be tolerated in any other neighbourhood in the city’ (Barber 1996).2 Furthermore, the presence of these groups was an indi-

The Secure City 45

cator that the area suffered from ‘social blight’ (Ex. 69). In its decision, the OMB acknowledged these concerns and beliefs that ‘Yonge and Dundas is the Mecca for panhandlers, drug dealers and vagrants’ ... [It is] perceived as an unsafe area, an area to avoid’ (OMBBI 1998b). Judgments like these alluded to the presence of certain groups (e.g., vagrants) that made other groups (e.g., tourists) feel unsafe and insecure. Indeed, the local councillor related concerns about safety to the presence of ‘interlopers,’ whom he described as an ever-growing presence in his neighbourhood (Wheeler 1997). These concerns echoed a wider debate in Toronto about panhandling, squeegeeing and vagrancy. At the time that Yonge-Dundas was being planned and during the OMB hearing, a broader debate on the activities of these groups was underway and a crackdown was in progress. For several weeks in the spring and summer of 1998, a debate about their street activities dominated City of Toronto council meetings, professional reports, and the media. Newspaper articles documenting the debate, with titles such as ‘Can We Wipe Out Squeegee Folk?’ were being published during the OMB hearing and were being compiled in its files. This rhetoric depicted an escalating crisis of disorder in the city; as a consequence, an inordinate amount of time and media attention was paid to what was usually considered a minor issue. The dominant theme in these accounts was future lawlessness and disorder, not the immediate effects of certain behaviours. Small instances of incivility were seen as leading to social degeneracy. Commentators were claiming that disorder and minor crimes of various kinds must be controlled because they indicated to good, respectable people that their community was unstable and might decline. Imminent decline and social disorder were forecast if rules of ‘getting along’ in public spaces continued to be transgressed. Civility requires individual restraint, yet the claim being made in this debate was that the community must necessarily set checks and balances, especially to deal with the threats to an established order that strangers and newcomers represented. Themes of fear and intimidation were prominent in the media: ‘There are people like my wife who feel very intimidated when they come downtown’ ... People have a right to feel safe and not be harassed on city streets’ (Boyle 1998) and that ‘people feel uncomfortable and worried’ (Bossons 1998). The squeegeers were represented as newcomers, as strangers who looked and acted different: ‘Some people are frightened by their appearance, which often includes strange-looking

46 The Moral Economy of Cities

clothes and spiked hair. Others are unnerved by the aggressive behaviour of some, which has motorists gunning their cars to make a quick escape as soon as the light changes’ (Abate 1998). They were described by one politician as ‘dirty, untidy and in your face’ (Bossons 1998). Their appearance was disconcerting; so were their ‘encampments’ on sidewalks and street corners and in storefronts: ‘They’re back to blocking the sidewalks with straggling encampments, creating havoc with traffic and threatening drivers who refuse their services’ (Barber 1998). In this larger debate and in the one that focused on Yonge-Dundas, connections were drawn between appearance and security. An assumption was gradually articulated that safe and unsafe spaces could be identified by certain visual cues such as the presence of physical evidence (litter, graffiti) or groups (squeegeers). Furthermore, the two were related – that is, graffiti was a visual cue to the presence of certain others. In this way, particular groups were identified with particular visual cues. This reflects another aspect of the dominant theme cited in the evidence of all types of witnesses at the OMB – that fear of crime and feelings of security were related to cues in the physical environment (OMBBI 1998g). These perceptions were bolstered by references to police crime statistics, which defined Yonge-Dundas as a criminogenic location. The corner was classified by police detectives as having ‘the highest crime rate per square mile in downtown Toronto’ and as ‘the most highly policed area in the city’ (OMBBI 1998f). According to local journalists, this made it ‘a hotbed of criminal activity’ (Millar 1998) that led to ‘more than 1,000 arrests at Dundas and Yonge this year – and more then 2,000 charges laid’ (Valpy 1998). The following crime statistics provided by police were referenced in a number of affidavits: ‘Statistics from the Metropolitan Toronto Police suggest that crime, especially drug trafficking, is prevalent in the area. According to Detective Colin McDonald of the Metropolitan Toronto Police, 404 arrests and 818 charges were made in a 131 day period ending October 14, 1997. The great majority of these charges are related to illegal drugs’ (Ex. 184). However, crime statistics did not provide a definitive assessment of the problem and its source; rather, they became a focus of dispute. First, statistics revealed that in 1996 and 1997, all criminal offences had declined in 52 Division as well as in the city and metropolitan area as a whole (Ex. 37). At one stage in the hearing, lawyers engaged in a lengthy debate on the meaning of crime statistics, the OMB ordered additional data from the police, and many interpretations ensued. Part

The Secure City 47

of the dispute was whether the Eaton Centre itself was responsible for attracting and generating much of the criminal activity. Lawyers for the opponents of renewal argued that although drug-related charges were emphasized as a major problem, police incident reports indicated that more events occurred at the Eaton Centre than on the east side of Yonge (OMBBI 1998e). Indeed, reliance on police statistics became a losing proposition for the proponents of renewal. Lawyers for the city resolved the dispute over the interpretation of crime data in their closing submission by arguing that statistics only ‘tell part of the story’ and that to examine them in detail would overemphasize them in a way that was inappropriate. They argued that it did not matter ‘whether or not murders occur at Yonge-Dundas as a result of altercations which start in the Eaton Centre. The fact is that both the Eaton Centre and the strip are threatened by this adverse social condition’ (OMBBI 1998f). The negative social conditions of the area were the problem, not the Eaton Centre, which attracted over a million visitors per week and which contributed to the area having the highest daily volume of pedestrians in the city. Although variously criticized for its design and impact on Yonge Street over the years, the Eaton Centre was not a disorderly or adverse space, especially when compared to the spaces out on the street. How, then, was safety to be defined? It was not simply a lack of crime, or low rates of crime. It was not about whether crime rates were going up or down. Rather, statements focused on perceptions of disorder, which created adverse social conditions and made Yonge-Dundas a ‘problem area’ susceptible to aberrant and criminal activity. Furthermore, these perceptions could not be resolved simply by allocating more police resources: ‘In my respectful submission, it is not relevant to know how many drug arrests were made on each premise or on which quadrant a recent stabbing murder took place. The important thing to understand is that the intersection is a problem area which, notwithstanding the application of the highest concentration of police resources in the City, demonstrates a problem which has not been arrested’ (OMBBI 1998f). Police detectives emphasized that existing law enforcement measures were limited: ‘As long as the current conditions at Yonge and Dundas persist it is likely that it will be necessary to continue expensive and time consuming police measures’ (Ex. 34C). The ‘perception that [Yonge-Dundas] is unsafe’ and the idea that ‘the fear of crime [was] as great a problem as crime itself’ had become the focus. Atten-

48 The Moral Economy of Cities

tion now turned to ways of acting on the environment to make it look and feel safer (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998). According to the manager of the Eaton Centre, perceptions of safety and security would have to be strengthened if the public was ever going to return to the city centre (i.e., from the suburban malls): The public perception of the level of personal security and freedom from exposure to criminal activities at the Yonge and Dundas intersection is a critical component of its [sic] success of the Eaton Centre. My observation is that some members of the public are under the impression that, because of the perception of criminal activities at the intersection of Yonge and Dundas, that their personal security and that of their property may be exposed to greater risk when in that area than in areas adjacent to the, more suburban, regional malls. In my opinion that concern is almost entirely the result of the conditions at and to the east of the intersection of Yonge and Dundas. (Ex. 34D)

In sum, acting on shoppers’ perceptions and assessments of security was going to be crucial to ensuring the success of Yonge-Dundas as a shopping area: ‘People tend to feel safer, stay later or longer and shops tend to reinvest more when the perception of safety increases’ (Ex. 69). The reasoning, then, was that changing perceptions of the area was going to require changing its physical and social conditions; doing so would in turn attract ‘an appropriate demographic mix’ (OMBBI 1998f) and the ‘right demographics’ to Yonge-Dundas. A police detective, after noting that law enforcement was limited, asserted that the way to improve the area was to ‘target a different age group (25+) and people with disposable income’ (OMBBI 1998a). To produce a secure space, then, certain groups would have to be attracted and others would have to be repelled. According to a marketing expert, the two were in a conflict over space: ‘Likes attract likes, and unlikes repel; the unsavoury element repels families and those with higher disposable income’ (ibid.). In other words, this was an issue not just of reducing crime, but of securing the space for particular consumer groups who ‘should be assured of a level of comfort and safety that will create a positive impression of downtown Toronto’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 11). A number of different strategies and technologies were to be activated to achieve this objective. An urban planner contended that public safety could be increased ‘through the closure of hiding areas behind buildings in lanes, through the closure of businesses associated with safety concerns, through enhanced private security, through

The Secure City 49

proper management and community participation in street maintenance and security’ (Ex. 69). These changes would reduce opportunities for crime ‘because the concentration of people who take advantage of poor situations will be diminished.’ Physical design improvements would ensure that crimes would ‘be less likely and not as easy to commit.’ Security could also be enhanced through partnerships with local business and resident associations. These statements emphasize two of the main technologies that were activated to make Yonge-Dundas a secure space. Situational crime prevention was identified as a means to act on the environment to minimize the risk of conduct that created disorder. This form of governance works by shaping and guiding conduct in particular directions. A second technology was the local self-government and ongoing management of the street through the partial privatization of policing and the incorporation of a business improvement area (BIA) and a public private board of management for the urban square. These forms of ‘governance at a distance,’ were identified as means of governing day-to-day conduct in the area. However, punitive forms of governance were also identified – for example, legal sanction against conduct deemed bad or disorderly. Related to such technologies was the introduction of community action policing (CAP), which targeted sites across the city – including YongeDundas – as zones of increased police surveillance and action against disorderly conduct. Finally, disciplinary forms of governance such as training and employment programs to reform street youth were part of what came to be a multipronged approach to safety and security. All of these technologies are summarized in four strategies for producing a secure space: designing, managing, punishing, and disciplining. Design Strategies Criminal activity seemed to be the biggest social problem and most commonly cited theme in witness statements, yet acting directly against crime was not their focus. Instead, acting on the environment became the object. This involved shaping and guiding conduct away from activities that created disorder, fear, and insecurity. Design strategies concentrated on minimizing the risk of criminal opportunities and the fear of crime. Spatial conditions at Yonge-Dundas attracted opportunistic criminals and repelled fearful others. Regarding the former, the argument advanced by ordinary witnesses, for instance, was that criminals were attracted to the environment because of ‘the run down state of the surrounding buildings and the

50 The Moral Economy of Cities

back alleys which they can easily get to from the street’ (Ex. 34B) and the ‘poorly built and maintained housing stock’ (Ex. 34E). Police detectives confirmed these associations, noting that the operations and physical characteristics of the stores facilitated the drug trade (OMBBI 1998g). One detective contended that the design of the buildings created many hidden locations attractive to purchasers and sellers of drugs, such as ‘nooks and crannies, back alleys and garbage bins,’ and rooftops. These conditions attracted opportunistic criminals, who took advantage of the large numbers of ‘impressionable’ people drawn to the Eaton Centre, ‘including youth, and many persons that might be viewed by potential criminals as soft targets, including tourists’ (Ex. 34C). In sum, the physical conditions of the area enabled criminals to take advantage of vulnerable people. He noted that a change in the design of the space would probably just displace criminals who were determined to ply their trade, but added that they would at least be separated from these potential targets of crime ‘and the safety of the City as a whole would be enhanced.’ As long as the existing spatial conditions remained, expensive and time-consuming police measures would have to continue. This echoes the problematization outlined earlier: police enforcement and crackdowns were costly as well as limited in what they could accomplish. The answer, according to one urban planner, was to somehow redesign the space so as to reduce the risk of crime by removing opportunities for criminal activity. This would improve the image of YongeDundas: ‘The Project will create a safer place in the immediate and surrounding areas so as to remove the opportunistic criminal activities which take place in the Area and thus enhance its image. This will in turn attract a wider range of people to the Area, provide a much improved portrait of Toronto for the millions of tourists who visit the Area each year and, most importantly, will reclaim an area of the City for the general population’ (Ex. 184). People who were vulnerable but whose presence would make the space safer were being repelled out of fear arising from the visible presence of opportunities for crime and the resulting negative perception that the space was unsafe. In this regard, visual cues of opportunities for crime were seen as affecting the assessments not only of potential criminals but also of potential victims: ‘The fear of crime is as great a problem as crime itself, and the perception that a place is unsafe can prevent people from participating in, and enjoying fully the amenities that the city has to offer’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 1).

The Secure City 51

The solution, then, was to ‘design out’ opportunities for crime. This would dampen the opportunistic impulses of potential criminals and allay the insecurities and fears of the public. However, acting on the perceptions and fears of the public was the main focus; people’s actual exposure to crime was seen as secondary to their perceptions that the area was unsafe. The argument went that the public would read visual cues of order as indicators that the space was safe and would thereby claim it as theirs. That is, removing visual cues of disorder associated with criminal conduct would not only reduce the risk of crime but also, and more importantly, reduce people’s fears and attract them back to Yonge-Dundas. The environment of Yonge Street in general was a concern; that said, strategies came to focus on the proposed urban square, which was identified as the first step and as a necessary intervention not only to spur redevelopment but also to assert public control over the area and reclaim it for the public. One of the conditions of approval that the OMB imposed was that the city undertake a design study for the square, with participation and review by the Toronto Safe Committee and the Toronto Police Service (OMBBI 1998b). The OMB’s concern with design was also in part a response to the criticisms by opponents, who argued that the square could increase the likelihood of crime and loitering and function as a major gathering point for groups engaging in this kind of conduct (Ex. 212). For example, the director of a youth shelter located at Yonge and Gerrard streets, The Evergreen, stated in his submission that the square would ‘act as a magnet for street youth, and may in fact increase the number of street youth in the downtown core and those problems that accompany this increase including loitering’ (Ex. 220). Thus the square would have to be designed in such a way as to ensure that it would not be appropriated by the very groups whom the redevelopment project was supposed to repel. The city commissioned a private consultant to provide design criteria for the square. The result was the Report on the Dundas Square Safety and Security Focus Group for the City of Toronto. This study’s mandate was to ascertain conditions that would make Dundas Square feel safe and secure (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998). Seven of the twelve participants in the focus group were representatives of the Toronto police, transit and parking authorities and the Ryerson Safety and Security office; most of the other five belonged to associations (e.g., TEDRA) or municipal task forces (e.g., Task Force on Senior Citizens’).3 The study used photographs of physical conditions and activities for the purpose

52 The Moral Economy of Cities TABLE 3.1 Survey results: Dundas Square Safety and Security Focus Group Slide

Evaluation

No.

Category

Safe

Neutral

Unsafe

1 2 7 30 31 36 37 32 33 38 39 40 42

Existing mix of uses Yonge and Dundas Yonge and Dundas at night Sidewalk café Garbage storage – open Garbage storage – closed Surveillance camera Police presence Rear lane – mural Rear lane – graffiti Chained seating Fixed benches, phones Activities – hanging out Street performers

1 1 12 0 5 2 11 10 2 2 10 3 10

8 5 0 1 7 5 1 2 2 7 2 2 2

3 6 0 11 0 5 0 0 8 2 0 7 0

Source: Excerpt from Appendix C of Safe Cities Collaborative (1998)

of generating responses and perceptions from participants with regard to what constituted an unsafe space (the current situation) and a safe space (the future). The report amounted to an audit of all of the features believed to enhance perceptions of safety and security. Forty-three slides were presented to the group. These illustrated environmental ‘conditions that could be perceived as safe or unsafe. While some of the conditions presented were obviously safe or unsafe, other conditions presented were intentionally ambiguous in order to elicit personal perceptions of what “feels” safe or unsafe. The advantage of a visual survey is that it is easier for people to visualize safety concepts by seeing pictures of actual situations, design features, types of activities, including those with which they may already be familiar’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 3). As participants studied the slides, they rated each condition as safe, unsafe, or neutral on a chart that described each category. The participants’ responses were then tabulated to create overall ratings for each environmental condition depicted. Table 3.1 is an excerpt from the results of the evaluation. This methodology highlighted the significance of visual cues of disorder in the assessment of security and that safety could be visualized in the environment. The photographs established a particular norma-

The Secure City 53

tive order – one which presumed that safe and unsafe spaces could be visually recognized by placing them in relation to one another. For example, a laneway mural set in relation to graffiti, orderly garbage in relation to disorderly, activities of hanging out in relation to lounging at a cafe. An implication here was that these visual cues were the result of the conduct of particular groups. Graffiti, for instance, were not dangerous, but they signalled an illegal conduct and the presence of drug dealers or street youth. As a prohibited and illegal activity, they also signalled disorder, whereas murals, which are regulated and sanctioned, signalled order. The Yonge-Dundas safety and security report noted that this method of analysis and its recommendations were based on the basic design principles underlying situational crime prevention programs: seeing around and ahead (lighting, sightlines, entrapment areas); being seen and heard by others (reduction of isolation, movement predictors, land-use mix); and finding help (signage, activity generators, good management/maintenance, ‘legible design’ and definition of space). Based on the results of the survey, these principles were elaborated in a series of specific design guidelines. These guidelines can be organized into four main themes: encouraging informal and casual surveillance; incorporating subtle forms of policing in the design of the space; including activities and uses targeted to particular groups; and improving the attractiveness and cleanliness of the space to increase the sense of security. The first two sought to guide the conduct of both potential criminals and victims: the self-policing of potential criminals by reducing their opportunistic impulses (subtle policing, surveillance), and the self-governing of potential victims by engaging them in policing (surveillance). The latter two – activities and aesthetics – are elaborated in the following two chapters. What is important to note here is that security was linked to the governing and guiding of consumption choices (high-end retail and restaurants versus sports bars and video parlours) and aesthetics (clean and well-maintained appearances versus litter and run-down building facades). In sum, each of these four design guidelines was identified as necessary if Yonge-Dundas was to be made secure and good. Situational Crime Prevention The safety and security report recommended that the square and its surrounding area be designed and used so as to encourage casual surveillance and self-policing. It pointed out that this could reduce the burden

54 The Moral Economy of Cities

on police and would be a more effective means of guiding conduct than by-laws and enforcement: ‘While city bylaws were effective in restricting certain activities such as skateboarding, design measures and the presence of people were perceived as more effective controls than bylaw signs’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 9). For people to be able to see and be seen in all directions and locations was ‘perceived as critical to prevent both situational crimes and to reduce fear’ (ibid.: 7). Forms of casual surveillance could be achieved by establishing ‘eyes on the square,’ a phrase modified from urbanist Jane Jacobs’s well-known ‘eyes on the street’ metaphor (Jacobs 1961). Methods of surveillance included those which could be carried out by staff at a ticket kiosk on the square; by licensed street performers and vendors assigned to specific locations on the square; and by people in nearby retail stores, sidewalk cafes, and the like. Also, buildings could be designed with open and transparent facades to encourage visibility as well as overlook into and from the square. In this way, architecture and design would help prevent disorder by establishing a relationship between the insides and outsides of buildings, as expressed in a common urban-design phrase: ‘creating a relation between the building and the street.’ This design policy was already reflected in the city’s Official Plan as well as in past reports on building design along Yonge Street, which called for the removal of blank facades (Ex. 106). The report recommended against the use of closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras because these would give the impression that the area was unsafe. It is sometimes argued that surveillance cameras contribute to a greater sense of security; however, they can also accentuate fears by increasing paranoia and distrust among people (Ellin 1996: 153). The report noted that a more acceptable type of surveillance would involve the ‘participation by a television company, e.g., Citytv’s Live Eye, that could record and display activities within the square on a giant screen as part of the “entertainment” for the area.’ This would promote people watching other people (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 11). Also criticized were similar forms of overt policing, such as gates and window bars; instead, ‘other types of less visible security systems should be used’ (ibid.). Another set of recommendations for achieving visibility and casual surveillance included the following: providing clear and open sightlines to and from the surrounding area and minimizing visual obstructions; not creating hiding or entrapment areas; making sure the space was as transparent as possible; and installing even, consistent, regu-

The Secure City 55

larly spaced, publicly maintained lighting as well as designated, welllit pedestrian routes. At the OMB hearing, representatives of local resident associations emphasized that visibility was important and that opening up sightlines would enhance public safety by deterring criminal activity (Ex. 34E, 34F). Informal and casual surveillance is non-intrusive and attempts to shape conduct by modifying the interests and incentives of the agents involved – those of both the criminal and the victim. Design can reduce the opportunistic impulses of potential criminals by making them visible to all others – a form of self-policing. Also, design can increase the self-governing impulses of potential victims by making them active partners in the informal control of one another’s conduct – a form of self-governing. The report contended that conduct in the space could be shaped in subtle ways through specific design features: low-maintenance, easily cleaned materials of the sort that are ‘vandal resistant’ and that discourage unacceptable activities; the spatial organization of objects to discourage the use of the space for unacceptable activities such as skateboarding, rollerblading, and loitering; seating and streetscape elements chosen to discourage loitering and to encourage self-monitoring and maintenance of the space (e.g., grassy areas should not be provided, because they encourage loitering); and individual seats rather than benches, to prevent long stays. With these approaches to guiding conduct, coercion is achieved subtly. The report’s subtext was that design is a powerful tool for signalling to potential offenders the types of conduct that are acceptable and for deterring them from practising unacceptable activities such as loitering and tagging buildings. In other words, design was a way to mark out policed areas; it amounted to a kind of architectural policing that merged urban design and architecture with policing in an overall effort to establish security (Davis 1990). Based on the safety and security study, in its call for submissions to the design competition, the city proposed the following objectives for the square: it should be attractive, safe, and functional and should respond to the needs of a wide range of users; and it should respond to concerns about public safety, and should be designed with crime prevention in mind (City of Toronto 1997b). The finalists were directed to develop designs that would ‘create this as a memorable place of beauty and identity to enrich civic life, a highly animated place that contributes to the activity generated by surrounding developments and which projects a sense of safety and security’ (City of Toronto 1998b). The win-

56 The Moral Economy of Cities

ning submission was described in the media as ‘a minimalist design ... a model of restraint and good urban manners’ (Hume 1998a). These features were favoured since, according to the city’s mayor, Mel Lastman, ‘the open design offers more security than one that has places to hide’ and it will not be ‘full of bushes, not full of trees; you can look straight through it and it will be brightly lit’ (Valpy 1998) (Plate 5). CCTV cameras were not part of the original design recommendations for the public square. However, in July 2001, Toronto’s police chief, Julian Fantino, proposed that their use be considered as a means for deterring criminal activity in the downtown core (Toronto Police Service 1999). He cited examples of CCTV use in other big cities, and he suggested that the urban square and Yonge-Dundas would be good starting points for testing this technology. Then in 2002, after this study had been undertaken, he recommended against a police operated and monitored CCTV system in favour of one funded and operated by the city (Toronto Police Service 2002). Noting the costs as well as the concerns about the ‘Big Brother’ perceptions that a police-operated system would produce, he argued for a community/city/BIA partnership. In 2003 the city decided to install four security cameras overlooking Dundas Square, to be monitored by a private security firm (Gray 2003). Acting on the environment to reduce criminal opportunities was also deemed necessary to clean up Times Square in New York. A ‘discourse of spatial pathology’ linked social problems to the design and management of this space (Chesluk 2000). Discussions in New York focused on situational crime prevention and defensible space; this was reflected in zoning guidelines for the area. Criteria included maintaining active streetfront businesses rather than blank facades, and designing buildings in such a way that they established a ‘relationship with the street’ and thereby made it clear who ‘owned’ the street. Other initiatives included an extensive lighting scheme to illuminate landmark buildings and flood sidewalks and side streets with light. Although CCTV cameras were not part of the initial plans for Times Square, they were eventually incorporated as a measure to prevent crime. Six NYPD surveillance cameras were installed in Times Square in December 1999. The master plan for the rebuilding of Manchester’s city centre included safety and security initiatives such as an integrated city centre security system, the redesign of car parks, and better lighting. Safety and security were identified as vital elements: ‘Architecture and design can make a significant contribution to everyone’s sense of security’ (City of Manchester 1997c). An Architectural Liaison Unit within the

The Secure City 57

Greater Manchester Police was assigned the task of advising the city’s planning department ‘on the latest good practice and appropriate measures to ensure security for new developments.’ Design elements for achieving security were identified; these included the design of groundfloor frontages so that they ‘spill out’ onto the street, and the replacement of solid roller shutters with ‘security devices designed into shop fronts which allow them to remain of interest after normal opening hours’; and a targeted lighting scheme (City of Manchester 1997c). The objective was part of a general guideline for development in Manchester, one that connected security to ‘stewardship’ (City of Manchester 1997a). The policy stated that the risk and fear of crime could be minimized by measures such as designing buildings with windows that overlooked the street, and establishing off-street parking to foster informal surveillance of pavements and streets. Both of these measures would encourage passive surveillance of public spaces, as well as discourage an overtly defensive or ‘bunker mentality.’ As stated in Manchester’s overall crime and disorder strategy, the objective was to ‘build in crime prevention’: ‘The very layout of an area can encourage criminal activity. Criminals can hide in overgrown shrubbery, or escape through “rabbit warren” housing estates that the police find hard to patrol. We must identify and modify designs to make it more difficult for the criminal. New buildings and developments need to be designed to make life pleasant for the majority and difficult for law-breakers. Closed-circuit television (CCTV) systems need to be placed where they can make the most impact for example (City of Manchester 2001b). In the 1990s, CCTV was one of the key strategies for crime reduction, not only in Manchester but also in other cities in the United Kingdom (McKinnon 2001). In general, Britain leads in the rate of adoption of surveillance cameras in public spaces (Coleman and Sim 2000). In October 1998 a nineteen-camera CCTV system was established to cover some streets in Manchester’s city centre. By 2000, this network had been extended to fifty-four cameras covering most of the city centre; the images were relayed to a state-of-the-art control room. CCTV camera operations were seen as vital not only for documenting actual criminal activity, but also for identifying potential trouble and (through widespread publicity) for ‘ensuring that trouble makers know to stay away from the city centre of Manchester’ (McKinnon 2001). The ‘building in’ of CCTV was perceived as a deterrent in itself, and was promoted not only through the media but also through the visible presence of cameras. The reasoning was that opportunistic

58 The Moral Economy of Cities

criminals would be repelled from an environment covered by a visible network of surveillance cameras. Rationalities: Crime, Disorder, and Design The conduct problematized at Yonge-Dundas has long been the object of legal and disciplinary technologies; now it is also the target of urban planning and design technologies. Situational crime prevention became a popular technology of crime control and fear reduction in the early 1970s. This approach developed out of the ideas first suggested by urbanist Jane Jacobs in her classic book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (Jacobs 1961), and was further elaborated by Oscar Newman in his popular book, Defensible Space: Crime Prevention through Urban Design (Newman 1972). Newman, writing in the late 1960s, coined the term ‘defensible space’ to represent ‘the range of mechanisms – real and symbolic barriers, strongly defined areas of influence, and improved opportunities for surveillance – that combine to bring an environment under the control of its residents’ (Newman 1972: 3). Many studies developed these ideas further (e.g., Cornish and Clarke 1986; Glaser 1970; Poyner 1983), based on the assumption that there ‘is little doubt that the design and management of urban environments does have a good deal to do with crime’ (Poyner 1983: 4). A popular program of situational crime prevention came to be known as Crime Prevention through Environmental Design (CPTED); however, the appropriations and uses of the technology have been diverse. For example, in Toronto in the early 1990s, municipal agencies engaged in community-based, user-initiated processes focused on the right of women to have access to and be safe in public spaces such as parks and transit systems (Wekerle 1991). These approaches sought to bring about changes in the planning and design of public spaces so as to increase access for particular groups. These principles were echoed in the policies of Toronto’s 1991 Official Plan, which highlighted the initiatives of community-based women’s groups in ‘pushing the concerns of safety and security to the forefront of public awareness’ (City of Toronto 1991). That plan emphasizes combating public violence against women through planning and design instruments. Similar policies are found in the Toronto Safer City Guidelines adopted in 1997 (Wekerle and Whitzman 1997) as well as in many programs and services and in other cities. However, by the late 1990s, in Toronto and other cities, CPTED strategies were increasingly being used to govern the conduct and regulate the access to public spaces of targeted groups

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(panhandlers, youth, homeless people). The emphasis was shifting from inclusion to exclusion. All of this points out how technologies of governance can be invoked for myriad purposes and ends (e.g., as argued by O’Malley 1992). Situational crime prevention technologies place some emphasis on community cooperation and consultation, but the process involved is markedly different from the community initiated and defined one noted earlier. For example, Andrew (2000) contends that safety audits for women have been taken up in different ways, from oppositional practices in which women have been the primary agents to an expert version in which audits are used as specialized tools or technologies of security to be interpreted and analysed by expert agents. The formalization (‘professionalization’) of the technology has led to centrally controlled and administered programs that work in partnership with designated communities. The heavy use of CTPED in the 1990s redevelopment of city centres involved defensive and privatized approaches that sought to reduce risk by either responsibilizing or repelling particular groups. However, although there have been different appropriations of the technology, and although it has been used for different ends, a common rationality underpins them. As a technology, CPTED involves mapping, classifying, and surveilling territory by incorporating crime-control considerations into urban planning and design. It addresses specific sites and their unique spatial problems (Brantingham and Brantingham 1998). The object acted upon is the ‘criminogenic situation,’ which encompasses a variety of public spaces such as squares, mall corridors, and sidewalks (Garland 1997: 187). This is a risk-based form of governance, the purpose of which is to minimize the risk of crime and disorderly conduct by acting on the design of environments. That the risk of crime is the object of concern in situational crime prevention is suggested by a 1990 national study in the United States that attempted to distinguish between perceptions of the risk of crime and the fear of crime (LaGrange et al. 1992). LaGrange and his colleagues found that physical and social incivilities – such as littering and panhandling – were more strongly associated with risk than with fear. They concluded that incivilities and disorder have a direct effect on perceptions of risk; these in turn have a powerful effect on the fear of crime. Risk-oriented governance sets out to minimize risk and maximize security by indirectly shaping conduct. It is not concerned with people’s deviations from a norm, nor does it intervene directly in their lives to normalize them. Rather, it involves managing populations at

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an aggregate level by altering the social structures – in the case of CPTED, specifically the physical structures – within which individuals behave (O’Malley 1992). Strategies such as situational crime prevention thus operate according to a different rationality than punitive, disciplinary, and correctional measures. They draw their rationality from theoretical frameworks such as rational choice theory, routine activity theory, and crime-as-opportunity theory. The underlying premise is that crime is a commonplace event; it requires no pathology but rather is written into the routines of everyday life (Felson 1998). It is a risk to be calculated rather than a moral aberration. In the literature on situational crime prevention, the criminal is portrayed as an illicit, opportunistic consumer whose access to social goods must be barred; he is sometimes called ‘situational man’ (Cornish and Clarke 1986: 4), ‘one who lacks a strong moral compass or any effective internal controls aside from rational calculation’ (Garland 1996: 451). Situational crime prevention replaces the image of a criminal who has a particular social background and identity with the opposite – the image of the abstract and universal individual who is a rational-choice actor (O’Malley 1992: 265). This actor thinks in cost benefit terms; he or she weighs the risks, gains, and costs and then commits an offence when the benefits are perceived to be greater than the losses. The objective is not the moral regulation or reform of the offender, but reduction of the risk that his person will offend. This involves reducing opportunities to offend. This rationality moves the victim into the centre of concern, but it also understands victims as rational-choice actors who are responsible for prevention (e.g., household security practices, neighbourhood watch programs). Mechanisms of self-governing and surveillance are central to this rationality which seeks not only to act on space in order to make people feel secure but also to induce people to watch out for their own safety. This rationality represents a new mode of governing, one that involves ‘responsibilization’ – that is, the process of motivating and activating individuals and groups to take on greater responsibility for their own governance. Instead of acting directly through state agencies, the state acts indirectly through partnerships and in cooperation with individuals, non-state agencies, and organizations: ‘It is significant that many of the programmes of practical action which flow from these theories are addressed not to state agencies such as the police, the courts and the prisons, but beyond the state apparatus, to the organizations, institutions and individuals of civil society. The theories

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take it for granted that the state has a limited capacity, and they look to the everyday life world to bring about change’ (Garland 1996: 451). The state thus acts at a distance, through situational forms of crime prevention that involve reordering the conduct of everyday life. In this way it targets not only the deviant but also the norms, routines, and thinking of everyone (ibid.). These technologies are subtle and unobtrusive and not necessarily coercive. They often involve unremarkable, everyday processes that ‘work through the organization of space and time more than on the control of individuals, and that look not to punish past deeds but to ensure orderliness, risk minimization, and safety for the future’ (Valverde and Cirak 2001: 102). Non-intrusive controls that shape conduct – instead of coercively controlling it – preserve the commercial and social values of sites where crime occurs by not interfering with routine social and economic transactions and normal life. They permit business as usual (Garland 1999). CCTV is promoted as a non-intrusive technology and has been adopted as part of the CPTED toolkit. Some practitioners argue that this does not constitute a form of natural surveillance; others see it as part and parcel of the overall effort to secure public spaces. However, the upsurge in the number of corporations developing and marketing elaborate security systems has contributed to the advancement of the technology. In all three of the cases discussed (Toronto, New York, Manchester), CCTV cameras were either incorporated at the outset or adopted later in the redevelopment process. The rationalizations underpinning CPTED define criminals vaguely. This is reflected in the literature on CPTED, which describes it as a strategy for ‘policing and excluding undesirable populations’ (Ericson and Haggerty 1997), for ‘displacing groups’ (Cornish and Clarke 1986), and for attracting lots of ‘normal’ users (Zukin 1995). At the hearing on Yonge-Dundas, the concern was not focused on criminals but on groups who engaged in various kinds of threatening, disorderly, or aberrant conduct. Instead of criminals, the main targets were squeegeers, street youth, panhandlers, discounters, hawkers, loiterers, skateboarders, and so on. These groups were engaging in conduct that created a sense of disorder and that made the environment feel threatening for others. Management Strategies Management involved two main technologies for achieving the secure city: the incorporation of local authorities to govern conduct and main-

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tain the area; and the increased regulation of conduct through both the privatization of public spaces and the passing of a special by-law to restrict uses and activities in the urban square. Incorporation of Local Management Authorities Arguments that Yonge-Dundas qualified as a community improvement area often referred to the ‘lack of community leadership and participation.’ The street had for a long time ‘either lacked leadership or participation in addressing decline’ (Ex. 69). It followed that substantial redevelopment would provide the stimulus needed to ‘entrench local management of the street.’ The redevelopment was seen as a way to leverage or support community governance through the incorporation of a business improvement area; this would continue the momentum toward ‘a more permanent community role and responsibility in maintenance, security, marketing and promotion’ (Ex. 69). This was contrasted with the lack of commitment on the part of existing discount retailers, who were criticized for taking little interest in community governance: ‘I understand as well that the landowners affected by the Redevelopment Project other than Ryerson have not been participants in the community sponsored Yonge Street Business and Resident Association. Membership and funding for the Regeneration Program, outlined in the statement of another witness outlines the broad degree of support from the community. I understand that the landowners are also not active in the Toronto East Downtown Residents Association with the exception I believe of the Salvation Army’ (Ex. 69). A further argument centred on the fact that a BIA established in 1986, which had been dominated by discount jewellers, had failed to take hold and had been terminated in 1991. Expert witnesses at the OMB argued that the lack of community management could be resolved if the kinds of businesses in the area were changed to ones more committed to taking on responsibility for governance, and if a community governance structure was established to manage the area on an ongoing basis. In its decision, the OMB also acknowledged the importance of ongoing community management to ‘ensure that the principles expressed in the CIP [community improvement project] are fully realized’ (OMBBI 1998b). It encouraged ‘participation in the maintaining of the area as a safe and clean environment which attracts the tourists and visitors and citizens of Toronto to Yonge and Dundas.’ In particular, the OMB cited the success of the Times Square Business Improvement

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District as evidence of the success of local management structures in ‘providing for extra security on the streets and the cleanliness of the streets’ (ibid.). Business improvement districts (BIDs) are a relatively new model in the state of New York (the first was established in 1983). They empower business and property owners in commercial districts to tax themselves voluntarily with the goal of maintaining and improving public areas, and to take these areas under their control (Zukin 1995). BIDs are authorized by the New York legislature to manage publicly owned spaces; in 1994, in his address to the second annual NYC BIDs Association Conference, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani referred to them as a ‘tailormade form of local government.’ The Times Square BID was established in 1992 ‘to make Times Square clean, safe and friendly’ (Times Square Business Improvement District 2001). It enjoys a $6 million annual budget, raised by mandatory assessments on local property owners, and another $1 million in grants and sponsorships. It provides security and sanitation services; community development projects such as homeless outreach; and tourism services, which include a new Times Square Visitors Centre. The BID has fortyseven public safety officers, who are unarmed but fully trained and who patrol the district on foot and in vehicles. They staff a security booth seven days a week and are linked by radio to the NYPD. This BID also supports and cofunds the Midtown Community Court (discussed below). In 1998 it supervised more than 1,100 offenders, who were required to make reparations by supplementing the BIDs sanitation crews. Like New York’s BID, the Yonge-Dundas BIA was put forward as one of the elements necessary ‘to reclaim the streets so that they can be enjoyed by the general public in a safe, clean and unobstructed manner’ (OMBBI 1998b). Security was highlighted as a central reason for a BIA, but other ends – such as maintaining the cleanliness and appearance of the area – were also seen as requiring ongoing management by responsibilized businesses. A by-law establishing the Yonge Street BIA was passed by City Council in January 2001; its territory, which included the Yonge-Dundas CIP, extends from Richmond Street in the south to Grosvenor Street in the north (Map 2.1, p. 20). The BIA concept in Canada was pioneered in Toronto. The first one was established in 1970 as the Bloor West Village BIA (Toronto Association of Business Improvement Areas 2000). In 2002 there were 39 BIAs in Toronto, 230 in Ontario, and 300 nationwide. Incorporation involves

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business owners within a specified district joining together to form an association, which is authorized by a city by-law. This gives the association the authority to tax area businesses for specific improvement and management projects. BIAs undertake projects for increasing security (e.g., private security to complement the public police service), for cleaning up the area, for beautification programs and event planning, and so on. BIAs typically have the authority to govern the area and represent its interests to public bodies such as the Police Service Board and City Council. Area businesses demonstrate their acceptance of the BIA and desire for responsibility by initiating the process. The city does not start up BIAs; instead, it provides support and guidance to interested groups. In order to be incorporated, groups must develop a proposed program of activities and a budget, define precise boundaries, and conduct an informal poll to gauge how much interest there is within the district for establishing a BIA. If the city deems there to be sufficient interest, then all businesses within the defined boundaries are notified of the intention to designate the area a BIA. If the owners of one-third or more of the assessed land value of the area subsequently object, the intention to designate is automatically rejected. This process offers businesses a say in the incorporation of a local governing and taxing authority; it also enables the city to gauge that a sufficient degree of support for assuming such responsibilities exists. A similar practice for responsibilizing local businesses exists in England. There, during the 1990s, a comprehensive approach to the management and maintenance of town centres came to be known as town centre management (TCM). This approach is defined as ‘the effective co-ordination of the private and public sectors, including local authority professionals, to create, in partnership, a successful town centre’ (Evans 1997: 128). Partnership and multiagency approaches to city centre crime management reflect the principal approach to urban governance in Britain since the 1980s (Coleman and Sim 2000). With central government funding and policy support, TCM caught on rapidly. TCM structures have varied, the most popular have taken the form of public-private partnership committees (TCMCs). These have led to the creation of a new professional occupation known as town centre management. There were only a handful of these positions in 1990; today, very few of Britain’s major cities are without an appointed individual or in-house team (Oc and Tiesdell 1998). Funding comes mainly from the public sector, with minimal money from the private sector, mostly

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from retailers. Increasingly, TCMCs have been concerning themselves with the vitality and ambience of city centres; a crucial dimension here is the ‘sense of personal safety’ and the deterring of quality-of-life crimes (ibid.). A study of TCMCs found that management, policing, control, and design most often manifested themselves in CCTV networks and private policing as means of managing risk (Reeve 1998). The Manchester City Centre Management Company Limited was established as a public-private partnership for the ongoing management and maintenance of the city centre. The chief executive is the city centre manager, whose responsibility it is to oversee issues of street cleanliness, security, access, and image marketing. Central to his work is security measures – in particular, the management of the CCTV camera system and coordination with the police authority (City of Manchester 2001a). These incorporated management bodies form umbrella associations. The Toronto Association of Business Improvement Areas (TABIA) is an organization of thirty-nine BIAs, recognized by all levels of government. Its main goal is ‘collecting and exchanging information vital to the BIAs and addressing their concerns and issues’ (Toronto Association of Business Improvement Areas 2000). The association provides advice, support, and information to member organizations; it also undertakes citywide marketing campaigns. Similarly, New York BIDs formed the NYC BIDs Association in 1993 (Zukin 1995); in Britain, the Association of Town Centre Management (ATCM) was established in 1991. A second management body for Yonge-Dundas was eventually incorporated, with responsibility for the governance of Dundas Square. In November 2001 the city established a board of management for the square, with members from the BIA, the local residents’ association (TEDNA: Toronto East Downtown Neighbourhood Association), Ryerson University, and police and city services staff (City of Toronto 2001d). The city decided on this governance model rather than direct city management because the focus of the publicly owned square was on attracting fee-paying commercial events. Furthermore, this model would recognize the funding contributions of the BIA, ensure the involvement of community stakeholders who had a ‘vested interest in ensuring the Square remains safe, clean and active,’ and allow for the pooling of expertise between city staff and business representatives (ibid.). The board’s responsibilities would include operational management of the square, including marketing, event booking, logistical support, maintenance, and security.

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Legal Enclosure of Public Space The legal enclosure of public space was another technology of security. Two new public spaces were created by the redevelopment; these were to be regulated through different legal technologies. The privatization of the public spaces connecting retail stores within the urban entertainment centre enabled these spaces to be regulated by trespass laws and to be policed by a private security force; the introduction of a special municipal by-law enabled the public spaces of the urban square to be regulated by additional restrictions on conduct. Regarding the former, the common spaces and access points to the stores and cinemas were materially enclosed as well as legally enclosed through their privatization; this echoed what had occurred in the 1970s with the building of the Eaton Centre. Privately owned spaces like these are not governed by the same laws that regulate sidewalks, even though they are legally defined as public spaces; they are governed by different laws. Such privately owned spaces are defined as public spaces because the law does not consider ownership to be the basis for what makes a space public. When a space is provided to which people have ready access, the law considers it a public space. Once a space has been legally defined as public on this basis, ownership is not an obstacle to its public use, even if access is restricted (Madanipour 1996). Public space is defined in Canadian law as ‘a place where the public goes, a place to which the public has or is permitted to have access and any place of public resort’ (Vasan 1980). According to this definition, mall corridors are legally public places but are not public property. Access is the key to legal definitions in other countries as well. In England, public space is distinguished on the basis of access; the fact of access to a space, and not of ownership or of the legal right of access, is the determining criterion: ‘A public place means any place to which the public or any section of the public has access, on payment or otherwise and any other place to which people have ready access’ (Fyfe 1995: 185). On a similar basis, U.S. Supreme Court decisions have recognized that privately owned shopping centres represent new public spaces, replacing parks, squares, and streets (Zukin 1995). Although legally recognized as public space, privately owned space is subject to different laws, which give owners regulatory powers to prohibit and enforce conduct. Laws applying to privately owned public space – in particular laws against trespass – are generally more restrictive and exclusionary than those governing public property, so

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owners of private property such as malls enjoy greater latitude in policing and restricting access. Hopkins (1996) describes how private property rights granted in trespass laws have a broad reach, giving private property owners the right to expel people at any time, for any reason or for no reason at all. An owner has absolute discretion over who gets expelled, the grounds for expulsion, and the duration of the ban, be it a day, a year, or in perpetuity. In other words, those deemed undesirable can be expelled for no other reason than simply being there. Private security guards use trespass laws to regulate and enforce rules of their own design, with little accountability; this gives them a broad range of interpretations with regard to who is desirable.4 Undesirable conduct in privately owned public spaces is usually dealt with by threats or exclusion; enforcers rarely resort to the use of criminal law (Von Hirsch and Shearing 1999). Regulations governing privately owned public spaces are being challenged more and more often in the courts on the basis of civil and Charter rights. A central reason is that although privately owned properties are becoming ever more predominant and legally recognized as public spaces, the laws of private property have not been changed to reflect this new reality. Litigation has been the main recourse to clarify or change the balance between legally defined public space and the rights of freedom of expression and association in public space. The adjudication of specific conflicts sets precedents; however, such cases are usually too particular to a set of circumstances to have any general applicability and have been ineffective in bringing about regulatory change (Hopkins 1996). Changes to the kinds of businesses located at Yonge-Dundas also privatized security. In a submission to the OMB hearing, a police detective pointed out that larger, more sophisticated, higher-end retailers employ security devices and technologies and build structures designed with security in mind (Ex. 34C). Furthermore, it was assumed that collectively, the stores in the urban entertainment centre would take responsibility for their own security. Certainly, one of the expropriated retail premises at Yonge-Dundas, the ‘Shopping Mall,’ a hodgepodge of small discount stores within a single enclosed space, illustrated that marginal retailers did not adopt such practices, nor did they take responsibility for security (see Plate 2). As in the Eaton Centre, privatization of these spaces would lead to the establishment of a private security force to police the new public spaces. Businesses would take responsibility for their own policing, both through target-hardened designs and by organizing a private security force5 (Mahoney 1997).

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However, private security forces were not confined to the privately owned spaces of the Eaton Centre and the urban entertainment centre. The board of management for Yonge-Dundas Square, which was incorporated in November 2001, also hired a private security company, Intelligarde, to monitor and police the publicly owned square. In addition, a special by-law was proposed and eventually passed to regulate conduct in the square. One of the expert witnesses for the appellants argued that a public square would require ongoing and enhanced public policing above and beyond what would be required in a privately owned square (Ex. 212). For legal reasons, such as those outlined above, privately owned squares could be more successful in dealing with criminal and threatening behaviours. The contradiction – which the expert witness noted – was that the city was attempting to deal with criminal opportunities by assuming ownership of private land for the purposes of a public square, a conversion that would reduce rather than increase regulatory powers. In his submission to the OMB, the local councillor also noted this (Ex. 34A). He added that the legal mechanisms for protecting certain public spaces, especially streets, from vagrancy, begging, and squeegeers are severely restricted by the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. However, once the space was designated a public park, the city would be able to pass a special by-law to restrict activities. In its decision, the OMB accepted this as a necessary strategy, as indicated below (OMBBI 1998b). The Municipal Act gives municipalities the authority to pass bylaws for exercising all or any of the powers that are conferred on boards of park management by the Public Parks Act.6 This gives them the power to pass a by-law designating land as a public park and to manage, regulate, and control lands so designated. Besides prohibiting activities that would generally be allowed on sidewalks (e.g., skateboarding), the by-law can also restrict conduct as well as require permits for activities such as exhibits, entertainment, demonstrations, and fairs. Indeed, the OMB made the enactment of such a by-law one of its conditions of approval for the entire project. Most parks and public spaces are governed through general by-laws, but a few spaces, such as Nathan Phillips Square, have specific bylaws.7 The Nathan Phillips Square by-law served as the model for the drafting of a by-law for Yonge-Dundas Square, which the city adopted in October 1998. This by-law prohibited activities such as climbing any structure; standing on any receptacle or container for plants, shrubs, or trees; riding a bicycle; throwing objects; riding or standing on any skateboard, roller

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skate, or roller blade; releasing or handing out helium-filled balloons; and lighting or carrying any candle or torch except a light stick (City of Toronto 1998d). Activities requiring permission or permits included selling, performing, advertising, displaying, and demonstrating. Regarding the latter, the city’s public relations manager argued in her submission that permits could be used to regulate who would have access by targeting specific groups and therefore what audience would use the space (Ex. 34G). The by-law included a section on right of entry, which stated that ‘the right of any person to enter or be upon the square is conditional upon the persons refraining from carrying on, engaging in or doing any activity or thing that is prohibited under this chapter.’ Any person who contravened any provision of the by-law would be guilty of a provincial offence and subject to a fine. This system of prohibitions and permissions reflected the dual function of the legal structure: prohibitions on conduct to restrict undesirable activities and groups, and targeted programming to attract the desired activities and groups. In its closing submission to the OMB, the City acknowledged this dual recourse to restrictions and programming as a way to ‘create a certain ambience during the day and night to minimize undesirable activity’ (OMBBI 1998f). To gain a permit for one of the allowable activities, individuals or groups would have to fill out an application and submit it for approval to a special decision-making body. The board of management for Yonge-Dundas Square was assigned responsibility for this function. Approved events would be charged a fee similar to that charged in commercial outdoor spaces in the city. Rationalities: Incorporation and Legal Enclosure Like the incorporation of municipal governments, the incorporation of local BIAs is a technology for governing at a distance. In this instance, municipal governments devolve the authority to govern certain aspects of an area to either a private body or a partnership. Their powers and authority are circumscribed, but they are granted significant autonomy in the day-to-day management of everything from street cleaning to the policing of conduct. In this way, like the technology of CPTED, incorporation achieves governance through the privatization of public spaces, the mobilizing of businesses and communities to take responsible for their own policing, and the subjecting of these spaces to tighter regulatory controls. The same can be said of the site-specific by-law for

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governing the public square, which regulates the space by establishing additional prohibitions on conduct and access and by activating a local management board to take responsibility for its oversight. The city is governed by the municipality and also by responsibilized agents and incorporated bodies, which have been activated to take on greater responsibility for their own government and have been granted the authority to tax, manage, and police public space. The widespread activation and incorporation of local authorities to manage and govern conduct in public space is evident. Although there are differences in their make-up and funding (private in North America, public private in UK), they all involve cooperation and partnerships between private businesses and public authorities in the ongoing management, maintenance, and governing of territories. At the same time, such technologies of governing highlight the dispersion and atomization of the governance of public space among a multiplicity of bodies. Policing and other practices of security, in becoming privatized, are also becoming increasingly fractured, embedded, and decentred (Bayley and Shearing 1996). As Bayley and Shearing note, this plurality has a number of implications relating to equity in the way policing services are allocated and distributed; democracy, because the decision making of private and public-private authorities is becoming increasingly unaccountable; and rights, because laws are being applied in an increasingly intrusive and exclusionary manner. The same plurality also represents a managerial approach that is eroding the long-held ideal of free and open access to democratic public spaces (Simon 2000). Rose describes in detail how the rationality underpinning technologies such as incorporation contrasts with strategies of collective security achieved through universal means of the criminal law and a unified and socially funded police force (Rose 1996). Communities, partnerships, and associations are technologies of active citizenship and self-governance; Rose sees these as standing in sharp contrast to centralizing, patronizing, and disabling socialized government. No longer does government encompass a national territory or space; instead it is organized around smaller communities, and not simply as local territories of government, but as means of government. No longer is it simply that security or space is being privatized, but collectivized forms are dividing the city into differentiated spaces of security. As one moves through the territory of the city, different regulatory regimes and governance arrangements apply. The city thus becomes a network of spaces of permission and denial – spaces that serve to create spatial variations in the desirability of certain spaces (Poland 2000).

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It was claimed that these technologies of design and management would increase security at Yonge-Dundas, yet they were still considered insufficient to fully eradicate panhandling, squeegeeing and vagrancy, which at the time were all legal activities. Also, these activities were carried out on the sidewalks and streets, which were outside the jurisdiction of both the privately owned urban entertainment centre and the publicly owned square. As will be outlined next, besides these technologies, the state imposed new laws prohibiting a range of conduct, implemented targeted policing programs, and created new disciplinary programs to reform offenders. Expert witnesses at the OMB hearing identified all of these initiatives as necessary and complementary technologies for producing a secure space and making Yonge-Dundas good. Punitive and Disciplinary Strategies Opponents of the redevelopment at the OMB hearing argued that instead of launching design and management strategies, it would be more appropriate to address the causes of disorder and the fear of crime by enacting laws on panhandling and loitering and through a heightened visible presence of police (Ex. 212). Proponents did not disagree with this; rather, they saw the latter as something that needed to be addressed on a citywide basis and the former as complementary to these measures. Indeed, they argued not for one approach over the other, but rather for several complementary ones. Design and management strategies involved decentralizing and privatizing security; punitive strategies, in contrast, were under the jurisdiction of centralized public authorities at the municipal and provincial levels. Legislation In its decision, the OMB noted ‘the City could pass legislation modelled on the ... experience in New York, to take action to prevent undesirable uses of City streets that act as a deterrent to economic vitality’ (OMBBI 1998b). Under Mayor Rudolph Giuliani, actions taken on Times Square came to focus on protecting the community from quality-of-life offences, that is, from misdemeanours ranging from soliciting for prostitution to petty drug sales to drinking in public. Such behaviours were disorderly but non-criminal. A similar campaign had been conducted in the New York subways in the mid-1980s, when Transit Authority chief William Bratton led his zero-tolerance cam-

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paign against graffiti, panhandling, and sleeping in subway trains and tunnels – a strategy inspired by the theory of ‘broken windows.’8 This was then extended to specific areas in New York, where police undertook a systematic crackdown on loitering, public drunkenness, and graffiti. The point was to create an environment in which any kind of law-breaking was socially unacceptable. The New York experience inspired Britain’s zero-tolerance crime reduction strategy, as symbolized in a meeting between Prime Minister Tony Blair and Mayor Rudolph Giuliani in New York in 1998 (Blair Zeroes in on Crime 1998). In announcing the government’s Crime and Disorder Act, 1998, British Home Secretary Jack Straw laid out the basic arguments underpinning zero tolerance and the broken-windows approaches to crime: ‘Disorderly anti-social behaviour causes alarm and distress to the public, heightens the fear of crime, and, if left unchecked, can soon lead to more serious criminal behaviour’ (Straw Declares War on Community Crime 1997). The level of muggings and burglaries in a neighbourhood was linked to the amount of graffiti and litter, and disorder in a locality was connected to the incidence of street crime. The British law gave magistrates the power to issue antisocial behaviour orders against a person who acted ‘in an anti-social manner, that is to say, in a manner that caused or was likely to cause harassment, alarm or distress to one or more persons not of the same household as himself’ (United Kingdom 1998: 1). The prohibitions in the order could include anything necessary to protect people from further antisocial acts by the defendant in the locality. The same act called on local authorities to implement crime and disorder audits by establishing local crime and disorder reduction partnerships. Pursuant to this act, in August 1998 the Manchester Crime and Disorder Partnership was established, involving the police as well as probation and health services. This partnership produced a crime audit that detailed the main crime and disorder issues in Manchester; from this, it produced a Crime and Disorder Reduction Strategy. Governments in Ontario and elsewhere in Canada have passed many laws over the past decade that expand prohibitions on conduct in public spaces. However, municipalities have been faced with significant legal restrictions regarding the regulation or prohibition of panhandling, vagrancy, and squeegeeing on public streets. These were outlined by lawyers for the City of Toronto in their closing submission to the OMB (OMBBI 1998d). This brief noted that municipalities had no clear

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authority to regulate these activities. Furthermore, without special legislation there were three possible avenues: the Trespass to Property Act, the Municipal Act, and the Highway Traffic Act.9 However, significant doubts were raised about the legality and practicality of these various legislative approaches; and in any event, as the lawyers argued in their submission, more aggressive legal action against these activities ‘might be expected in the context of a wider programme.’ Here the lawyers were referring to broader efforts to regulate these activities underway in other municipalities, especially Winnipeg, Kingston, and Vancouver. The City of Winnipeg had recently passed a by-law that did not prohibit panhandling outright but rather prohibited the activity within 10 metres of entrances to banks, financial institutions, hospitals, ATMs, bus stops, and bus shelters, with a complete prohibition after sunset. At the time of the OMB hearing, the Winnipeg by-law was subject to a Charter challenge, which groups in Toronto were watching closely.10 The other part of a wider program that the lawyers were referring to was the Ontario government’s proposed amendment to the Highway Traffic Act to completely prohibit squeegeeing as well as restrict aggressive panhandling. Both of these aspects of a wider program emerged in the context of the broader debate about and problematization of squeegeeing discussed earlier – a debate that was underway at Toronto City Council and in the media at the same time that the Yonge-Dundas appeal was before the OMB. The debate centred on one of the options noted by the lawyers – the use of a section of Ontario’s Municipal Act dealing with the power of municipalities to pass by-laws for prohibiting and abating public nuisances.11 In 1997 the city drafted a by-law under this section to set limits on panhandling and squeegeeing. In the media, discussions about the proposed by-law focused on the danger that the city might degenerate and on whether laws were even capable of regulating civility and thereby ensuring safety: ‘Bylaws – minor laws by definition – are the ultimate form of non-coercive regulation. They outline all the little rules we need to observe if we want to get along, assuming that our communities are civilized and rarely need to rely on crude suppression. The point of regulating squeegeeists and panhandlers is not to jail them, but to encourage them to get along, too’ (Barber 1998). The solution for dealing with problem groups and for restoring civility came to be the creation of new rules of conduct. Outlawing an activity altogether was rarely suggested. Rather, discussion focused on

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limiting conduct, regulating it, and establishing rules for it. What was needed was a ‘description of an acceptable level of public behaviour.’ To this end, the city would have to place some limits on conduct and prescribe some basic rules for it. Commentators also noted that if the law could set limits on other activities, then it should do so in this case as well: ‘They seem to do it [squeegeeing] with impunity, knowing that a city that paints sidewalks to show exactly where a vendor can place a cart, within inches, will not dare lay down rules for the squeegee trade. Why not? If there are laws telling citizens how long they can grow their grass on private property, why shouldn’t there be laws dictating the terms under which they can use public rights-of-way for the business of washing windshields?’ (Barber 1998). But the law was viewed as limited in its ability to address such problematic conduct. Lawyers noted that the city could not criminalize the activity of asking for money (criminal laws are a federal responsibility and hence outside of a city’s jurisdiction), nor could it indiscriminately clear streets of certain types of people (this would be against the Charter of Rights and Freedoms). Also, the city could not completely outlaw the activities except to the extent that it could be demonstrated that they obstructed people or caused a nuisance. The task, then, was to define a nuisance. Specific attributes of nuisance were elaborated in the ensuing discussions – for example, the manner of requesting money (‘persistent’ and ‘aggressive’). This only led to further ambiguity regarding how such a condition could be measured. Because of the threat of constitutional challenges, the city eventually withdrew the by-law. But by this time, the provincial government’s Crime Control Commission had taken up the issue. The commission recommended legislation, which in 1999 was drafted and passed as the Safe Streets Act. This act amended the Highway Traffic Act to create new provincial offences, including squeegeeing, aggressive panhandling, and other types of aggressive solicitation and panhandling in situations where people cannot easily walk away (such as at ATMs). It would also be an offence to dispose of dangerous objects in parks, schoolyards, and other public places (e.g., needles). It gave police the power to arrest and the courts the power to fine offenders and to sentence repeat offenders to jail. The act was challenged under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms by a group led by the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty (OCAP) and the Canadian Civil Liberties Association (CCLA). An appeal was filed on

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behalf of thirteen people who had been issued provincial offence tickets under the Safe Streets Act. The two main arguments of the constitutional challenge were that squeegeeing and panhandling were subject to criminal law, which was governed by the federal Criminal Code and therefore beyond provincial power; and that the provincial law attacked freedom of expression. On 3 August 2001 the Ontario Court dismissed the challenge and found all of the defendants guilty as charged. The judge ruled that although the act infringed on people’s freedom of expression, that infringement was reasonable because it helped ensure public safety (Canadian Press 2001). One of the authorities the judge relied on was the work of urbanist Jane Jacobs, who ‘makes the point that the health and viability of a neighbourhood depend critically on the attractiveness of its sidewalks, streets and public spaces’ (R. v. Banks 2001). The judge cited a passage from Jacobs’s book that stated: ‘A person must feel personally safe and secure on the streets among all these strangers. He must not feel automatically menaced by them. A city district that fails in this respect also does badly in other ways and lays up for itself and for its city at large, mountain on mountain of trouble’ (ibid.). The judge wrote that this reflected the objects of the act and that ‘the problem that aggressive begging can pose to both the short and long term health of urban areas justifies legislating against it’ (ibid.). The court’s ruling revealed a significant distinction between provincial laws and the regulation of conduct under the Criminal Code. Although criminal law is under the exclusive legislative authority of the federal Parliament, it is within provincial jurisdiction to create offences in order to enforce standards imposed by provincial laws as they relate to matters of provincial competence (R. v. Banks 2001). For example, the regulation of roads and traffic is a provincial matter and case law has affirmed that the provinces have the constitutional right to prescribe rules of conduct on the roads. This power has not been narrowly confined to traffic safety; it has extended to parks, sidewalks, and other public places and has included pedestrian as well as vehicular traffic. Although some conduct that is regulated in provincial law – such as creating disruptions, obstructions, begging, and loitering – is often covered by federal legislation, the courts have ruled that as long as the laws are not in conflict they can operate concurrently. So ruled the judge in this case. The court also ruled that provinces and municipalities have long had wide scope to legislate, control, and promote a sense of safety and security for users of streets and public places – matters that have not been historically regarded as exclusively criminal.

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The law took effect in January 2000, and 2,300 tickets had been issued by August 2001. The law was having an effect; this was noted by police officers, who commented that the law was making ‘life “easier” for the public. You don’t have to go through being intimidated’ (Canadian Press 2001). The debate surrounding the introduction of the Safe Streets Act provides insight into the broader policy context of Toronto within which the proposal for Yonge-Dundas was produced and to which it was connected. Targeted policing was another citywide program introduced during the development of the Yonge-Dundas project – one that was also adopted as a technology to govern this space. Targeted Policing One of the first strategies to clean up Yonge-Dundas was the commencement in April 1997 of a targeted policing program called Operation Broom. In its decision, the OMB described this as a ‘concentrated effort of undercover officers to sweep the area clean of drug dealers and pushers’ (OMBBI 1998b). As a punitive technology, it involved mainly an aggressive campaign of harassing, charging, and arresting drug dealers and crack cocaine users. By October 1997, after 131 days, 404 arrests had been made and 818 charges had been laid – or, as a police detective put it to the OMB, an ‘average of 3.08 arrests per day and 6.24 charges per day’ (Ex. 34C). Most of the charges involved the sale or possession of illegal drugs; others related to shoplifting, breaking and entering into vehicles, and theft perpetrated ‘by persons trying to obtain money to buy illegal drugs.’ A more extensive citywide targeting program was initiated in 1999, referred to as community action policing (CAP) or targeted policing. It was designed around the principles of strategic crime management, a process the Toronto Police Service implemented in the late 1990s. This involved identifying crime, public safety, and disorder problems at an early stage, prioritizing these problems, and developing strategies for the coordinated deployment of resources (Toronto Police Service 1999). The Toronto police described CAP as follows: Community Action Policing (CAP) is a ‘target policing initiative’ in which uniform officers are specifically assigned to work with the community to resolve locally identified issues involving crime, disorder, and other safety concerns. The purpose of high visibility target policing is to enhance pub-

The Secure City 77 lic safety by providing immediate relief to a neighbourhood from a variety of ‘street-crimes’ such as youth gang activity, prostitution, drug trafficking and disorderly behaviour. This program is a unique short term, tactical approach to identifying these issues, and dealing with them quickly and efficiently. It is hoped that CAP will effectively ‘jump-start’ long term solutions to these and similar problems (Toronto Police Service 2000a).

The program ran in the summers of 1999 and 2000, with budgets of $1.8 million and $1.4 million respectively. Funds went to each police division, but with double-funding allocated to three – including 52 Division, where Yonge-Dundas is located. These three ‘divisions have historically (and presently) experienced the highest concentrations of street crime, disorder issues, and pedestrian traffic in the city’ (Toronto Police Service 1999). By the end of the program’s first year, 52 Division had laid 327 provincial offence charges (jaywalking, trespass, liquor, vehicle), made 63 arrests (prostitution, drug, violence, property, and other), and written 2,016 contact cards compiling information such as name, address, description, and names of companions; these were kept in police records for future reference. Added to the police arsenal was the Safe Streets Act, which enabled police to crack down on squeegee hotspots – this, even though one officer commented in the media on the Ontario Court ruling that ‘the law clearly isn’t designed to target individuals. It is designed to improve the safety of the streets’ (Canadian Press 2001). Police officers supported the legislation, contending that they were being ‘asked to do something about this type of behaviour on a daily basis’ and that the legislation would give them the tools they needed to deal with concerns about public disorder (Ontario, Premier’s Media Office 1999). The CAP program arose from the final report of the city’s Task Force on Community Safety, Toronto. My City. A Safe City which was released in the spring of 1999. Building on the report’s recommendations, the city formed the Safer City Task Force specifically to consider how to deploy police officers in problem areas. The task force recommended the implementation of ‘high visibility target policing projects, utilizing teams of officers on foot, bicycle and in patrol vehicles where appropriate’ (City of Toronto, Safer City Task Force 1999). The purpose was to provide ‘immediate relief to a neighbourhood or community [as] an effective way to reduce fear, crime, and improve the quality of life quickly’ (ibid.). Although this had been developed as a general program, it was organized in a way that allowed for ‘tailor-made’

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approaches to the unique characteristics of each targeted site: ‘The strategy at each location will be tailored to meet the demands of the targeted illegal activity. Specific strategies for each target site will be tailored to meet the specific challenges facing the community. If the targeted illegal activity moves to another part of the City, CAP will follow it. Most of the efforts are expected to focus on drug trafficking, prostitution, youth gang activity, disorderly conduct and related criminal activity’ (ibid.). Twenty sites were targeted. The police reported that the program led to ‘significant reductions in perceived social/crime disorder problems (i.e., vandalism, assault, teenagers swearing in public, graffiti, loitering, intimidation, use of alcohol and drugs in public view)’ (Toronto Police Service 2000b). Of course, not all of these problems were criminal offences; this highlights that CAP was taking a broad-brush approach to combatting disorder. The Safer City Task Force and the police emphasized that CAP was ‘a community based response that works with communities to identify problems.’ However, unlike the community-based initiatives of the early 1990s, which focused on preventive and risk-based measures and issues of inclusion, this approach involved a punitive policing campaign to discriminate against particular groups and exclude them from neighbourhoods. This was evident in the response of community organizations and social activists at the end of the program’s first year. They expressed concern that the program was targeting specific people, including the young, First Nations, immigrants, people of colour, gay men and lesbians, substance users, and people with mental health problems or who were homeless or living on low income (Committee to Stop Targeted Policing 2000). Following the police chief’s report on CAP at a November 1999 Toronto Police Services Board meeting, eleven organizations made deputations that pointed out that the chief was ignoring how CAP had led to harassment, intimidation, fines, and confiscation and destruction of personal property. The police actions were perceived as less about cracking down on criminal offences and more about intimidating and harassing particular groups. These forms of harassment included selectively enforcing municipal by-laws such as the one against spitting.12 This points to another aspect of municipal by-laws and targeted policing – not only are neighbourhoods targeted, but so also are certain groups and the laws that get enforced. The CAP strategy was not only spatial but also temporal: it focused on the peak summer months, when schools were closed and when the city’s

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public spaces were used more intensely, and on the mid to late evening hours (six-hour shifts, four evenings per week, over eleven weeks). Furthermore, the targeted action involved not only the police service but also other agencies. It went beyond policing as a ‘police’ action; it came to involve many different agencies that regulate city space. Besides the police service, the CAP program involved three other civic departments. This multipronged approach brought together different forms of governance: punitive, risk-based, and disciplinary. The Parks and Recreation Division focused on risk-based approaches such as an intensified park-cleaning program and specific park safety audits to identify improvements such as new lighting, appropriate use of boundary fencing, pruning and removal of vegetation that caused blind spots and poor visibility, and the development of local ‘park watch groups’ to encourage community stewardship. The Municipal Standards and Licensing Division concentrated on a punitive approach that involved enhanced enforcement of liquor-related offences at bars and restaurants. Finally, the Community and Neighbourhood Services Department strategy involved disciplinary forms of governance through special outreach to the homeless to engage them in community safety discussions and assist them in accessing shelter and housing as alternatives to street life. Targeting is a common strategy used by cities to deal with areas perceived to have the greatest problems of crime and disorder. Plans to revitalize Times Square began in the late 1970s and early 1980s with ‘Times Square Action Plans’ (TSAPs) released under Mayor Edward Koch (Chesluk 2000). The first plan, issued in 1978, had as its cornerstone a call for increased police presence as well as social services outreach and financial incentives and aid to developers. Under the TSAPs, a new NYPD program called Operation Crossroads was developed, which included an enormous increase in the number of uniformed and undercover officers on patrol to disperse loiterers and deter petty street crime. The Manchester Crime and Disorder Partnership identified ‘hotspots’ where enforcement of legislation and crackdowns on minor misdemeanours should be focused. According to the partnership, ‘crime and disorder happens when a motivated offender targets a suitable victim in a conducive environment,’ and ‘hotspots occur when these three elements combine repeatedly in a small area’ (City of Manchester 1998). Manchester’s two city centre beats were among twenty-seven identified crime hotspots, and were separated out as they presented unique problems. In particular, with respect to alcohol and drug use, the strategy for

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the city centre hotspot included all of the aforementioned components of town centre management: rebuilding of the city centre, CCTV surveillance, City Centre Rangers, and the Street Care Team. It also included the passing of an alcohol by-law in August 2000 to address street violence by banning drinking in public in the city centre, as well as a City Centre Safe scheme that involved education programs and the identification and targeting of trouble spots in the city centre (City of Manchester 2001b). Another punitive measure was the introduction of an exclusion order scheme: repeat offenders were identified and targeted with surveillance; if subsequently arrested for reoffending, they were then issued with an exclusion order to ban them from all eighty stores that were members of a program called the Retail Crime Operation. By 2001, thirty-two of the best-known thieves in Manchester had been banned from entering the shops in the city centre – ‘not quite a ban from the city centre itself, but almost as good’ (McKinnon 2001). In all of the instances cited above, targeted policing involved heightened surveillance and action against disorderly conduct that contributed to perceptions that a public space was unsafe. In some cases, not only was disorderly conduct punished, but programs were also set up – for example, to reform the habits and conduct of street youth. Reform Achieving a secure space at Yonge-Dundas, and downtown Toronto streets in general, also involved implementing a disciplinary program to reform squeegeers. In the city’s closing submission to the OMB, this program was acknowledged as an additional mechanism. In November 1998 the city dedicated $250,000 to implement a squeegee diversion strategy. A consortium of agencies ran the employment preparation program, which targeted ‘the unmet and complex needs of streetinvolved youth, in order to divert them from the squeegee trade’ (City of Toronto 2000b). Squeegee Working Youth Mobilization (SWYM), which was operated by a group of youth agencies in cooperation with the City of Toronto and Human Resource Development Canada (HRDC), began in the summer of 1999. This was described as a program for addressing barriers standing in the way of the ‘lifestyle stabilization of street-involved youth that use squeegeeing as a form of employment:’ ‘These [barriers] generally include homelessness, substance use, and less than a grade 12 education. These barriers have created difficulty for these youth to access existing youth employment services and

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mainstream employment opportunities. The main purpose of the Project is to help youth in all areas of pre-employment preparation so that they can eventually enter the labour market’ (Squeegee Working Youth Mobilization 2000). Lifestyle stabilization was achieved by means of ten-week modules facilitated through a partnership of community agencies. Youth were connected to relevant employment/education programs available in the city to support their next steps toward long-term employment. An interim report on the program noted its successes in stabilizing young people’s lives by finding them stable housing, helping them acquire personal identification, returning them to school or home, and finding them places in residential and outpatient treatment programs. Regarding employment, youth were enrolled in pre-employment preparation programs, linked to other support services, engaged in full-time or part-time employment, or enrolled in training. Employment opportunities included food preparation, office work, auto body repair, and janitorial work, as well as training in the restaurant business, the construction trades, and Web page design. It was highlighted that 51.5 per cent of the participants said they intended to stop squeegeeing (City of Toronto 2000b). This disciplinary program was similar to those deployed for Times Square and Manchester city centre. As part of the cleaning up of Times Square, a neighbourhood court was set up in an unused theatre in the area to speed up the disposition of cases against minor offenders accused of crimes such as prostitution, shoplifting, and trespassing (Zukin 1995). This court, which was funded by city, state, and federal grants, private foundations, and the BID (Chesluk 2000), took the decentralization of decisions about public space into the administration of law. The court dealt only with ‘quality-of-life defendants: turnstile jumpers, graffiti artists, illegal peddlers, prostitutes and some smalltime drug dealers’ (Times Square Business Improvement District 2001). Judges were encouraged to apply more imaginative and productive sentences than fines or jail time, such as sentencing offenders to streetcleaning duties. After the court was established in 1994, community service sentences of ten to twelve days were carried out in the Times Square area. If a defendant pleaded guilty, the judge could sentence that person to cleaning graffiti, painting fire hydrants, or sweeping the streets, thus supplementing the BID’s workforce. In effect, this created slave labour for BID businesses. Besides community service, the court could also sentence quality-of-

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life offenders to a mix of counselling and drug and medical treatment; some of this was made available within the court building, which included a drop-in centre and meals (Chesluk 2000). The court presented itself as a ‘kind of gateway through which the disenfranchised and the excluded can pass in to the world of the legitimate economy of the city,’ as a site ‘where individuals are recuperated into the revitalized Times Square: urban renewal for the soul’ (ibid.: 198). The Midtown Community Court was concerned not only with the offender’s reparation, but also with his or her future through a job and life-skills training program called ‘Times Square Ink.’ The program involved classes in job skills, training and experience in a copy centre, and assistance in job searches, including instruction in how to write a résumé and how to dress, speak, and conduct oneself at an interview. In Manchester, the ‘Change for the Better’ program was instituted as that city’s strategy for tackling street nuisance in the city centre (City of Manchester 2000). The program was set up under the Crime and Disorder Initiative to tackle social problems causing street nuisance in the city centre. The main sources of nuisance were identified as street drinking and aggressive vending and begging, which had a ‘negative impact both on those who wish to use the city for retail and social activities and the image of the city itself’ (ibid.). Members of the partnership included the city, the police, the probation service, the health authority, the City Centre Management Company, The Big Issue (a newspaper produced by unemployed and homeless people), the Chamber of Commerce, Counted In (the city’s outreach and resettlement service for rough sleepers), and the Rotary Club. The core of the program was an alternative-giving scheme that encouraged members of the public to give to organizations working with the homeless rather than to individuals on the streets. Their money would go toward ‘appropriate services for the most vulnerable’; this would ‘help people move on from the streets ... rather than maintaining people there.’ Rationalities: Punishment and Discipline As a technology of governing, the law reinforces and asserts state control over space. The appeal to law indicates a desire to establish certainty about conduct in public and to counter instability and change in the city. In the face of the apparent difficulties in providing for the physical security of citizens, states have sought to strengthen their authority by replacing the rehabilitation of offenders and underlying

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causes of crime with exaggeratedly punitive policies and morally and emotionally driven policies and practices (Stenson 1999). The oppressive power of law is still exerted through police ‘roundups’ and the intimidation of perceived transgressors (e.g., homeless people) (Wright 1997), yet the law has a slippery hold on everyday conduct. Legislation has been persistently undermined through court appeals, constitutional or Charter challenges, and the inability to collect fines. However, the law often works symbolically by valorizing particular moral and political interests (Hunt 1995). For instance, when the definition and enforceability of Toronto’s nuisance by-law against squeegee and aggressive panhandling was challenged, appeals were made to the symbolic importance of many municipal by-laws in establishing community standards of conduct. Indeed, many councillors and municipal staff acknowledged that nuisance by-laws and other types of city by-laws could not be enforced, yet they still pressed for a law because of its symbolic import. It was claimed that after a law was put in place in Vancouver, the amount of panhandling declined even though no enforcement followed. In the face of challenges regarding enforcement, appeals to the symbolism of the law became a means of promoting a particular moral conception of civility. Municipal by-laws thus became symbolic rules for validating a particular conception of civility and conduct. In this regard, the municipal by-law was similar to situational crime prevention; the design of space was intended to have not only a material effect in shaping conduct but also a symbolic effect by marking space with an image of good design and what constituted the good city. Municipal nuisance by-laws, by inscribing a concept of good conduct into law, often have symbolic as well as material outcomes, whether they are enforced or not. These symbolic effects were heightened when the Ontario government made conduct deemed inappropriate a higher-level offence. Any person contravening a municipal nuisance by-law was now guilty of a provincial offence. These are considered relatively low-level breaches of the law, but the provincial legislation turned them into higherorder provincial ones. The municipal by-law would have given the police the power to warn and advise that future infractions could result in a fine as well as enable them to eventually issue tickets. In contrast, the provincial legislation gave police the power to arrest offenders and the courts the power to sentence repeat offenders to imprisonment or parole. Imprisonment could be for up to six months,

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and parole conditions could include prohibiting repetition of the offence, community service, restitution and/or participation in training programs, and drug or alcohol counselling (Ontario, Premier’s Media Office 1999). Targeting, as a strategy, underpinned both legislation and its enforcement. Municipal by-laws and provincial laws spoke of prohibited conduct, but they targeted enforcement not only at specific sites but also at the activities of particular groups such as panhandlers and squeegeers. Bound up with the rhetoric of safety was the moralization of the appearance, conduct, and attitudes of these groups. So although it established general prohibitions, like other laws, the Safe Streets Act was both constituted and enforced selectively by focusing on the conduct of particular areas and groups within the city. Targeted governance is becoming a popular approach in North America. From the profiling carried out by immigration officers to the concentration on ‘flashpoints’ by police forces, the emphasis is not on the policing of the nation or city as a whole but rather on the rational selection of high-risk spaces and people (Valverde 2001). In this way, the governance of society is achieved through regulation of the choices made by different and autonomous communities (Rose 1996). Disciplinary strategies act directly on differentiated populations and bodies. Deviation from accepted norms is addressed by acting on the lives of subjects to reform them. Moral aberrations are ‘cured’ by incorporating people into the formal economy of work – that is, by engaging them in legitimate occupations. Agents are equipped with the capacity to take responsibility, show their ability to take action and make choices, and shape their lives according to a moral code of individual responsibility and community obligation (Rose 1996). In this context, empowerment involves equipping subjects with the resources and skills (cognitive, emotional, practical, ethical) to take personal responsibility for their own governance and incorporating them into legitimate economic practices. Moralizing Conduct Agents at the OMB hearing moralized conduct connected to particular groups in the city; professionals then rationalized, justified, and translated these problematizations into a vision of the secure city. This created a division between good and bad conduct and groups – a division that came to structure the different solutions or technologies that pro-

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fessionals claimed would produce a secure space at Yonge-Dundas. Good groups conducted themselves properly; they were willing and able to take responsibility for security and for governing themselves. Bad groups were unwilling or unable to do so; and for them, design, punitive, and disciplinary technologies were invoked or intensified. This division is often the approach of contemporary technologies of governing; the result is a dual society (Castel 1991). Individuals who do not take responsibility constitute the new ‘dangerous classes’ and are subjected to more ‘inefficient’ and coercive forms of sovereign power (O’Malley 1992; Rose 1999). Indeed, all of the technologies invoked to govern security at Yonge-Dundas reinforced a division between selfgoverning and responsible groups and their others. The responsible groups would govern their own conduct and that of others, according to rules of civility and decorum. The conduct of irresponsible groups would be shaped by the design of the environment, punished by the law, or reformed through disciplinary programs. Punitive and disciplinary technologies were part of the project of shaping conduct and erasing disorder; these, however, were secondary to design and management strategies that attempted to build security into the routines and practices of the everyday. The punitive and disciplinary technologies could have been implemented without redeveloping Yonge-Dundas; however, only through redevelopment of the area could design and management strategies be deployed effectively. Redevelopment was also seen as a way of replacing irresponsible landowners and retailers with businesses that could be mobilized to take greater responsibility for the day-to-day management and security of the area. Furthermore, the groups that would be attracted to these new businesses would take responsibility for governing themselves and others. Design and management strategies were the central foci of the intervention; other approaches were judged to be both limited in their effectiveness and costlier to implement.13 The effectiveness of responsibilization is that it takes conduct that has often defied or stayed beyond the reach of law and renders it governable. Informal surveillance and subtle policing built into the environment, and the presence of responsible groups, extend governance into the everyday, by not only acting on crimes after the fact, but also acting on all the minor transgressions that make a space seem disorderly and risky. The reasoning is that environmental design can guide the irresponsible away from risky and inappropriate conduct and toward appropriate conduct.

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In these ways the key strategies of design and management were aligned with a broader political rationality. Although not entirely coherent and consistent, they were oriented and adapted to a neoliberal rationality on crime, a mentality of governing that has emerged over the past few decades and that appeals to the efficiency of markets, the importance of accountability, the liberty, enterprise, responsibility, and independence of individuals, and the virtues of the non-interventionist state (O’Malley and Palmer 1996). Cause was eliminated from discussions of crime and antisocial conduct; the focus was now on promoting individual and community responsibility and on reducing reliance on the state. This reflected a more general trend in city policies – a shift to strategies that seek to activate citizens, individually and collectively, to take greater responsibility for their own government (Raco and Imrie 2000). In Ontario these strategies became dominant with the election in 1995 of a provincial government called ‘progressive conservative’ but politically aligned with neoliberal programs. Although also to some extent socially conservative (e.g., it promoted family values and the introduction of disciplinary reform programs for youth), its policies and legislation emphasized reduced reliance on the state and greater individual responsibility. As part of a multipronged reform agenda, the provincial government radically reformed the finances and structure of local government in Toronto; this included amalgamating the six constituent municipalities in the former Metropolitan Toronto into one ‘megacity.’ As a result of these changes, conservative-minded suburban politicians came to dominate Toronto City Council, and local policies on crime shifted in the direction of neoliberal and economic rationalist programs. The impact of these changes in political programs was evident in a number of local policies on crime. For example, the focus of the Task Force on Community Safety shifted from reducing violence against women in the 1980s to designing neighbourhoods to prevent crime and insecurity in the 1990s. While noting that the underlying cause of crime was economic/social – that is, poverty – the task force’s 1999 recommendations focused on ‘strengthening neighbourhoods’ through the preparation of safety audits to identify features that might be contributing to crime or making people feel unsafe in communities and public buildings and spaces, and especially in high-crime areas. Other recommendations included by-law enforcement on problem properties, encouraging small businesses to improve amenities and safety,

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and community policing initiatives such as CAP (City of Toronto, Task Force on Community Safety 1999). Neoliberal technologies of city making are normative in the sense that they serve the interests of some groups in relation to others where the basis of the division is the moralization of conduct. Through the social construction of what constitutes risk and security, particular conceptions of danger and order are operationalized. These downplay other conceptions of insecurity (e.g., the shopper made insecure by the appearance of a homeless person is problematized rather than the insecurities of a homeless person; see Coleman and Sim 2000). O’Malley (1998) argues that risk-based technologies do not in fact signify a shift away from a moral basis of governance toward an instrumental one; quite the opposite – the problematizations underpinning the adoption of neoliberal crime control strategies are based on the moralization of conduct. Thus, the rise of technologies needs to be understood not as a dichotomy between the moral and the instrumental, as suggested in some of the literature (e.g., Shearing and Stenning 1985), but rather in terms of the relation between technologies and moralization (e.g., Coleman and Sim 2000). However, unlike programs of moral regulation and discipline, neoliberal technologies seek not to reform agents but rather to responsibilize them to achieve various ends. For Yonge-Dundas, a moral division was drawn between responsible and irresponsible groups; this also made the different technologies coherent. Herein lies one way to understand how technologies are valued and activated through the moralization of conduct rather than through the efficiencies of the technologies themselves. There are certainly many differences between Toronto, New York, and Manchester; if there were any similarities, they concerned the vision of what conduct – and in turn, who – belonged in the centre of these globalizing cities. Connections made during the OMB hearing with sites such as Times Square were based on how conduct was moralized in ways similar to that of Yonge-Dundas. These similarities can be understood in relation to the changes in the economic and social geography of inner cities leading to the revaluation and resettlement of their spaces by particular groups such as middle-income suburbanites and inner-city professionals (e.g., Neil Smith 1996; Wright 1997; Zukin 1995). These groups are beginning to make claims to inner-city spaces and are confronting groups that present a threat to their notions of security. They desire the chaos, diversity, and excitement of the inner city, yet at the

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same time they fear the uncertainty and threat that otherness presents. In a nutshell, they seek to make the inner city a space of ‘safe danger’ (Chesluk 2000). It follows that the strategies and technologies proposed and adopted for Yonge-Dundas were connected and must be investigated in relation to other practices in Toronto and elsewhere. In these ways, the making of the secure city went beyond the technical; essentially, it was a moral enterprise. A particular conception of the secure city – a conception defined in relation to the moralization of conduct, not economics – justified the redevelopment project and made it possible. It is certain that economic, cultural, and political returns were relevant and valued, but these were bound up with the moralization of conduct, which activated and justified the project. Furthermore, the moralization of the conduct of particular groups was the basis on which these different valuations converged on a shared vision of what makes a good city. It was professionals who articulated, justified, and rationalized this shared vision. It is in this regard that we can say that specific professional practices are involved in making the good city and shaping good citizens, and that their authority is derived in part from the moralization of conduct.

4 The Consumer City

The good city is a consumer city. We have seen how the moralization of conduct underpinned the vision of the secure city, mobilized and activated professional practices, and justified the remaking of Yonge-Dundas. In particular, the vision of safety came to mean securing the space for particular consumer groups. In this way security was connected to consumption; although considered separately, they were understood to be interdependent facets of the good city. More generally, consumption has become a key strategy of redevelopment projects and increasingly central to city economies. It has also emerged as one of the key concerns of the social sciences, having replaced production as the central explanation of identity and subjectivity (Miller 1995; Miller and Rose 1997). Much of this attention, especially in urban studies literature, has focused on the city as the prime site of consumption. Changes in the material and symbolic fabric of cities have altered past conceptions of consumption as a residual category of urban political economy; as a consequence, cities are no longer seen as landscapes of production, but rather as landscapes of consumption (Zukin 1991, 1998). At one time, studies of gentrification and its effects on social-class polarization dominated the literature on urban lifestyles. Here consumption was not a cause but an indicator of spatial and class reconfigurations. By the end of the 1990s, attention had turned to consumption as a major engine of urban social change. Present-day studies take three main approaches to understanding the centrality of consumption for urban change: consumption as the content of economic production, as the focus of urban redevelopment projects, and as the marker of urban lifestyles. Studies of consumption that investigate the increasing cultural con-

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tent of products examine how these products make themselves felt in the growth and development of particular places (Featherstone 1991; Scott 2000). This is described as a convergence between the spheres of cultural and economic development whereby ‘an ever-widening range of economic activity is concerned with producing and marketing goods and services that are infused in one way or another with broadly aesthetic or semiotic attributes’ (Scott 1997: 323). The localized agglomerations of place-based ‘image-producing complexes’ within cities act as engines of local economic development and global competition. These complexes consist of myriad interdependent firms involved in the production of goods and services such as clothing, jewellery, and entertainment. A second stream examines consumption as the focus of urban regeneration projects – projects that involve either the commercialization of local heritage or investment in collective cultural institutions (e.g. Bianchini and Parkinson 1993; Griffiths 1995; Landry et al. 1996; Philo and Kearns 1993; Wynne 1992). In particular, since the 1980s, cultural strategies have become central to urban economic development and regeneration projects, which are dominated by transnational retailers and entertainment corporations. Consumption is now a central part of what Zukin has coined the symbolic economy of cities, especially the cultural strategies of redevelopment based on the interrelated production of cultural symbols such as art, food, fashion, and tourism: ‘Strategies of urban redevelopment based on consumption focus on visual attractions that make people spend money. They include an array of consumption spaces from restaurants and tourist zones to museums of art and other cultural fields, gambling casinos, sports stadia and specialised stores’ (Zukin 1998: 832). Evidence of this is the revitalization of shopping through the dramatization of the retail experience, which involves nonshopping forms of entertainment such as sports and interactive video (ibid.). These entertainment centres have become the new landmarks and have replaced the great department stores. Economic objectives are described as the key rationale for cultural strategies. Through these strategies, local authorities are seeking to compete with other cities in attracting investment and tourist dollars and investors are seeking to create profitable spaces for urban consumption. A third area of study examines consumption choices as markers of urban lifestyles (e.g., Featherstone 1991; Wynne 1998; Zukin 1998). Featherstone (1991) refers to the connections between consumption and lifestyle as the aestheticization of everyday life and considers them a

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defining characteristic of postmodernism. Drawing from Bourdieu’s work, he argues that groups compete for control in particular social fields and use their relative amounts of accumulated economic and/or cultural capital to promote their own symbolic ordering. Cultural producers promote their cultural and economic productions in order to establish their relative position. This reflects a world ‘which judges people by their capacity for consumption, their standard of living, their lifestyle, as much as by their capacity for production’ (Bourdieu 1984: 310). These ideas echo those of Thorstein Veblen (1994), who investigated consumer goods as markers of social prestige and status. In his classic study, he contended that a new leisure class in late-nineteenth-century America was emulating the lifestyles of upper-class Europeans, who were constantly updating their consumption habits in order to stay one step ahead of the nouveaux riches. He described an elaborate system of markers of consumption, which expressed a person’s place in the social hierarchies of the leisure classes. As the accessibility of consumer goods expanded in the 1950s and as consumer lifestyles became more diverse, consumption as a field of study began to have a more general relevance (Miles and Paddison 1998). Post-Fordism, flexible specialization, and market segmentation have all been linked to the diversification and aestheticization of consumption. However, approaches based on Veblen’s theory of conspicuous consumption presume that consumption is a conscious and deliberate search for distinction.1 The presumed intentionality of distinction is also present in the literature on consumption that represents the consumer as either an empowered subject for whom consumption practices are a means of creative identity formation (e.g., Shields 1992) or as an automaton for whom consumption practices are largely determined by powerful producers who impose their meanings and values on others, as Featherstone and Miller and Rose have convincingly argued (Featherstone 1991; Miller and Rose 1997). Instead of engaging in this debate, Miller and Rose approach consumption as a complex technical process – one that involves ‘productive features’ that are ‘less a matter of dominating or manipulating consumers than of “mobilizing” them by forming connections between human passions, hopes and anxieties, and very specific features of goods enmeshed in particular consumption practices’ (Miller and Rose 1997: 2). Targeted marketing and retailing strategies simultaneously seduce and attract consumers and ‘exclude their undesirables, the underclass of non-consumers, would-be consumers or flawed consumers’ (Lyon 1994, cited in Rose 1999: 245).

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I take up Miller and Rose’s conception to examine how professional practices valued retailers that marketed forms of consumption which mobilized the desires of groups that had ‘leading edge tastes and preferences’ and that conducted themselves according to accepted standards of urban civility. I outline how this valuation was underpinned by the moralization of the conduct of existing retailers and the groups they attracted to Yonge-Dundas. So, although the project could also be seen as a means of achieving urban economic development and stimulating urban regeneration, and as a marker of particular consumer groups, these were not the activating forces that justified it. Rather, it was the moralization of existing retailers and consumers and the vision of what constituted a good consumption space and consumer that underpinned arguments that Yonge-Dundas qualified as a community improvement project area. In this chapter I outline how problematizations of Yonge-Dundas moralized the conduct of existing retailers and against this articulated a vision of what constituted improvement and good forms of consumption. This was the activating force that justified the redevelopment project, which professionals rationalized and translated into a number of technologies they claimed would produce a good consumption space at Yonge-Dundas. The specific technologies will be discussed according to three strategies: zoning, licensing, and permitting. Problematizing Consumption As shown in the previous chapter, the problematization of YongeDundas as expressed in statements made before the OMB connected issues of security to existing retail operations. The kinds of businesses operating on Yonge Street were cited as causes of degeneration and insecurity. The retailing was described as marginal and ephemeral; as based on the sex trade, providing little entertainment, and consisting mostly of fast-food outlets and discounters (Ex. 69). These contributed to the ‘low level and quality of retail activity and the ambient criminal character of the Area’ and were inhibiting a healthy transition to a new retail future (Ex. 184). Most often mentioned were the presence of twenty-nine dollar shops between College and Queen and the presence of transient and temporary businesses (e.g., Valpy 1998). The consensus was that existing retailing at Yonge-Dundas was outmoded, in decline, and dysfunctional. Discount retailers were singled out for having ‘seriously eroded the

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quality of retailing’ (Ex. 184). By some accounts, these businesses were vibrant and successful. One expert witness for the appellants accepted that the area had its problems and required intervention (e.g., he supported the need for land assembly and a retail/office complex). But he also declared that the existing businesses were all viable as well as ‘reasonably healthy from a retail perspective’ and that the city’s evaluation ‘seems to be critical of businesses such as those carried on by our client and in particular jewellery exchanges’ (Ex. 212). Proponents’ claims that the area was not vital were merely expressions of their aversion to ‘the quality of some of the retailing.’ But statements like this were deflected or dismissed by arguments that discount retailers and landowners were irresponsible and that their conduct – especially their neglect of their properties – was the cause of the street’s decline. Although there were some ‘committed retailers who have spent many years in the area and take pride in their stores’ (Ex. 74), the owners of premises tenanted by discounters were ‘speculative landowners’ who were not investing in their properties and who were holding out for a large and profitable redevelopment (Ex. 55). These owners were blamed by a commercial real estate agent for having ‘opted for the quickest dollar at the highest rate with little regard for the nature of retail use ... Without this municipal initiative, and expropriation, we will remain held hostage by irresponsibility and greed for yet another decade’ (Ex. 46). A marketing analyst contended that these owners were investing little capital in their properties, as evidenced by canvas signs, lack of uniform fixtures, and out-of-date decor. All of these things were contributing to a temporary appearance that sent a negative message to both shoppers and prospective retailers (Ex. 64). This was most strongly asserted through the cross-examination of existing landowners who were appellants in the case. One witness was ‘proven’ to be ignorant about criminal activity on his property.2 Another landowner ‘was not aware of the tenant at 301 Yonge Street being charged with violations of municipal ordinances or of a court order prohibiting loud speakers playing into the street [and] agrees those premises are run down.’3 One ordinary witness, a professional photographer, submitted a binder of photographs illustrating the condition of existing retail premises (Ex. 34H). Black-and-white photographs depicted building facades with worn-out signs, store floors and ceilings in disrepair, boarded entrances, and garbage-filled stairways. Claims that the street was declining were supported by black-and-white photos taken when the street, sidewalks, and stores were empty. Also, police detectives

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submitted a number of colour photos showing graffiti and garbage in the back lanes of existing retailers. The police detective who argued that small, low-end businesses were more lax about security drew a connection between criminality and marginal retailers: ‘[The] properties in question are divided into a number of small ownerships. My experience is that many of the tenants and the landlords are not highly motivated or organized to prevent and discourage criminal activities. For instance, the operations in the property described as “shopping mall” allow for congregations of people in areas which are not well monitored or controlled to prevent crime’ (Ex. 34C; see Plate 2). In his next statement the detective noted that high-end and larger retailers take responsibility for their own security and do not attract criminals. They ‘employ sophisticated security devices and technologies to discourage criminal behaviour and behaviour which may be perceived by customers as threatening.’ He saw little or no evidence that existing businesses were adopting any such technologies. If they were ‘replaced by more sophisticated and larger retailers and if the buildings were replaced by structures designed with security in mind ... the Yonge and Dundas intersection would become much less attractive to the drug trade and to other criminals and would become much less of a law enforcement problem’ (Ex. 34C). The problematization of the streetfront retailers also involved contrasting them with retailers in nearby malls: the Eaton Centre, Atrium on Bay and College Park.4 It was strongly suggested that the marginal retailers at Yonge-Dundas had polarized retailing on Yonge Street. The tenant mix in the surrounding malls was predominantly fashion and restaurants; both these uses were lacking on the street, which was dominated by discount and fast-food outlets. This point was understood by comparing the polarization at Yonge-Dundas with the lack thereof in the Bloor Yorkville and Queen West areas (Ex. 69).5 These comparisons were visualized by juxtaposing photos of Yonge-Dundas against photos of Queen West and Bloor Yorkville (Plate 3). Comparisons were made with areas that had enjoyed investment and upgrading; against these, Yonge-Dundas fared poorly. Experts used this to argue that Yonge-Dundas qualified as a community improvement project (CIP) area. Proponents described lower Yonge Street in general as having a destabilized retail environment, and said that it was because of a lack of reinvestment in the area. Successful retail environments required constant upgrading of ‘individual stores and district

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ambience’ (Ex. 184). How did Yonge-Dundas fare? The street had not seen substantial reinvestment in fifteen years, since the building of the Eaton Centre; except for the city’s Facade Improvement Program and some other YSBRA and city initiatives, there had been little improvement activity in the area.6 And despite these projects, ‘entire stretches of Yonge Street frontages have seen little change other than signage of unremarkable quality being altered as tenants have come and gone; it is apparent that certain building interiors have not been rehabilitated in decades’ (Ex. 69). Some present landowners provided evidence of investment and improvements (e.g., Ex. 195), but according to proponents, these were not the kinds of changes and upgrades that were necessary to improve the area. Other destabilizing influences cited included a vacancy rate of 5 to 10 per cent over the past twenty years; a high turnover rate, which had a destabilizing influence on consumer perceptions, and which tended to disrupt ‘continuity and momentum’; short-term tenancies, which meant no capital investment, which led to run-down appearances; and few owner occupancies (Ex. 69). The consequences of this lack of investment were summarized in the closing submission of the city’s lawyers, who cited the evidence of a marketing analyst noting he had ‘inspected every building within the subject area and determined that, generally, physical quality, retail quality, structural qualities of the premises were substandard, vacancy rates were high, rents were low, and the perception of the City was negative’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry [OMBBI] 1998f). During cross-examination, an urban planner defended his claim that Yonge Street was dysfunctional (Ex. 128). In his reply report, he related dysfunction to the ‘general narrowing of the merchandise mix on the street.’ He provided a table of retail uses on Yonge between Gerrard and Dundas Square for five-year periods between 1957 and 1997. There had been ‘a decrease in the “main street” retail categories such as home furnishings, restaurants, men’s and ladies’ apparel and various services and an increase in discounters, fast food outlets and adult-oriented outlets. While it has been recognized that electronics and music have been successful and have come to characterize the street, it is clear from the evidence that the street itself has a significantly changed retail orientation, a less diverse merchandise mix and is, therefore, less likely to attract a broader range of shoppers and visitors.’ Discounters were problematized for having replaced apparel, shoe,

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and gift stores (even though all of these goods were sold in discount stores); fast-food outlets for having replaced restaurants; and discount electronics for having replaced home furnishings. Thus, the class of businesses rather than the narrowing of retail came to be the main criterion of dysfunction. Marginal retailers were not the only problem. Unlicensed vendors were also identified as contributing to a negative and disorderly environment. One of the earliest reports on the clean-up campaign by the Commissioner of Public Works and the Environment pointed to the area around the Eaton Centre, especially the southwest corner of Yonge and Dundas, as the focus of a ‘chaotic mix of unauthorized vendors hawking a wide assortment of wares and any variety of other (sometimes illicit and undesirable) activities and obstructions. The situation not only contributes to the unsightly appearance and seedy atmosphere that this area has attained, but arguably results in negative economic repercussions for the Centre itself as well as the City’ (City of Toronto 1994). He noted that the Eaton Centre was a major tourist attraction and that ‘the above-noted unauthorized activity and general environment in the vicinity of its main entrance detract from the Centre and certainly do not project a positive image for the City.’ A later report argued that illegal vending was detracting from the positive attributes of legal street activities (City of Toronto 1995b). According to one ordinary witness, ‘the perception of Yonge Street is further degraded by the presence of illegal vendors’ (Ex. 34I). Other activities and obstructions were identified as problematic in city reports. Panhandling and squeegeeing in particular were identified as problematic forms of making money on the street, especially since at the time, there was ‘no express regulation or prohibition’ of these activities (OMBBI 1998f). The province’s Safe Streets Act (discussed in Chapter 3) would not come into effect until 1999. Although these undesirable commercial activities were (unfortunately) legal, two others commonly problematized were not: solicitation for the purposes of prostitution occasionally entered the debate, but drug dealing was the overriding concern. The area had become the ‘focus of adverse criminal and social activities, the most severe of which is the problem with crack cocaine dealing and usage’ (ibid.). According to the police, the Yonge-Dundas corner was ‘well known by both purchasers and sellers of illegal drugs as an established market place’ (Ex. 184). Not only was drug dealing occurring at the corner, but also, and more significantly, according to the local councillor, its marketplace was con-

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nected to an extensive informal economy that included the legal businesses of discount stores: ‘The criminal activity in this area of Yonge Street is complex and has evolved into a self-contained ghetto economy. Break-ins at Ryerson, with thieves in search of hi-tech equipment, and car break-ins, are epidemic. The stolen goods are sold at dollar stores on Yonge Street, and the proceeds are used to buy drugs at certain known Yonge Street properties’ (Ex. 34A). The area planner also suggested that there was a degree of complicity between illegal vendors and existing businesses: ‘There is likely a degree of cooperation between owners and illegal vendors, given that 44 fines were issued between 1992 and 1997 in this area’ (Ex. 69). Enormous resources had been invested in fighting illegal trades, but policing was not the only solution. As discussed in chapter 3, the police were clear that enforcement and crackdowns were not only costly but also limited in their impact. If the wrong groups constituted the market draw of the existing retailing at Yonge-Dundas, it followed that the right groups were being repelled or kept away by existing businesses, which did not ‘serve to broaden the range of consumers who shop on the street’ (Ex. 69). A space would have to be established that would mobilize and attract certain groups and repel others. The market draw of the area did not include ‘a balanced mix of consumers (including families)’ but rather ‘a disproportionate number of teenagers and those interested in drug dealing, theft, and prostitution’ (Ex. 64). According to another expert witness, the current retailing was ‘a magnet to a younger market with fashion and retail types targeting teens and people in their twenties.’ The goal of redevelopment was to ‘create a merchandising mix that draws a broad range of visitors into the mix that appeals to a broader demographic range’ (Ex. 74). Changing the area’s retail mix to attract desired groups was also a cornerstone of the safety and security study, which asserted that improving safety in the area would have to involve a ‘greater number and variety of more appropriate activities and uses that would appeal to a broad range of users’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 4). New forms of outdoor entertainment were seen as a means of establishing a family orientation for Yonge Street. These would include sports parades honouring Toronto’s professional teams, theatrical previews, summer festivals, and so on (Ex. 41). In particular, activities in the public square could be programmed and ‘used to create a certain ambience during the day and night to minimize undesirable and crim-

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inal activity’ (OMBBI 1998f). ‘Good’ activities in the public square would lead to a change in the kinds of groups that frequented the area. Throughout the discussions the term ‘broad range of people’ was often resorted to in suggesting that the objective was inclusion. This term was emphasized especially in city reports, which stated that the objective was to ‘substantially increase the proportion and range of the residents of Greater Toronto and visitors who use Downtown Yonge Street’ (City of Toronto 1996b). Indeed, the second most common theme in all the evidence heard by the OMB – a theme that was emphasized in expert and ordinary witness statements as well as in public presentations at the evening public hearing – was ‘the need to change the demographics of the area’ (OMBBI 1998g). Both expert and ordinary witness statements were always more specific than official city reports about what changing the demographics meant. Statements centred on getting the demographics ‘right’; this meant ‘diluting the bad demographics’ (Ex. 64). In other words, attract residents and tourists with high levels of disposable income who were older than twenty-five and who were married with children – or, as one expert witness put it, ‘an established and affluent customer base’ (Ex. 176). This was the profile of leisure tourists and business travellers, from both outside and within the ‘average’ Toronto market. For example, leisure tourists were identified as men and women between twenty-five and fifty-four, travelling as couples or families, with above-average education and average household incomes higher than the Toronto average (Ex. 139). Business travellers were described in terms of their access to expense accounts, which typically enabled them to spend almost double the amount spent by leisure tourists. This income profile fit with that of Toronto residents, who were thought to have the highest average household incomes in Canada, much of that income discretionary. Yonge-Dundas did not attract this group and therefore represented a missed commercial opportunity. Furthermore, the profiles suggested ‘that this market would be attracted to facilities of a good quality, and would likely be deterred from visiting those of a poor quality or located in an unattractive or unsafe area.’ This comment echoed city reports where they asserted that the urban attractors of the desired demographic consisted of ‘a supply of good quality premises and a better environment on the Street for retail and entertainment facilities’ (City of Toronto 1996b). The arguments of proponents of redevelopment did not just make a case against discount stores; they also identified the types of retailing

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appropriate to the street’s classification and the kinds of groups that belonged there. An argument made throughout the evidence was that ‘by changing the retail draw, one changes the quality of that traffic’ (OMBBI 1998g) and that ‘the mix of tenants [is] the chief determinant of the ultimate shopper profile’ (Ex. 176). So the issue, then, came to be one of identifying the kinds of retail and entertainment that would attract and mobilize the desired demographic – for example, that would bring families to the area at night. Groups identified as part of this demographic were most commonly referred to as consumers, whose desires and habits were changing in the direction of entertainment retailing: ‘The ageing of the population and the maturing of the consumer market are combining to promote retail developments that sell “experiences” as opposed to concrete products. In this sense there is a blurring of the distinctions between shopping, entertainment and tourism. One of the more recent manifestations of this development has been the emergence of so-called urban entertainment centres’ (Ex. 64). According to a management consultant, this represented ‘a trend towards the meshing of leisure, entertainment and retailing, of shopping as also entertainment’ (OMBBI 1998g). This sort of activity was found in urban entertainment centres consisting of multiscreen cinemas, theme restaurants, and family entertainment attractions – places that cross-marketed sports, cultural products, and consumer goods (Ex. 74). This trend was viewed as the result of a change in consumer preferences, from a desire for home entertainment and cocooning to a desire for a ‘comprehensive evening entertainment experience, typically at a nice restaurant and a state of the art movie theatre complex, located in a pleasant public environment’ (Ex. 55). Also, these consumers now had a ‘preference for locations which offer a quality moviegoing experience coupled with related dining and shopping offerings’ (Ex. 176). Expert witnesses often resorted to demographic data when defining the kind of person attracted to an urban entertainment centre. For example, one expert witness compared moviegoers and non-moviegoers and demonstrated that the former were more likely to be under thirty-five and to have children under eighteen, a household income over $60,000, and a university degree (Ex. 64). Although a variety of demographic profiles were provided, they generally described young, married, middle-income couples with children – characteristics generally reflective of suburban groups. All profiles referenced relatively

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affluent families as a prominent group that the redevelopment should attract. Expert witnesses for the appellants disputed these demographics, arguing for example, that families actually constituted a small proportion of moviegoers at multiuse centres (Ex. 68; [OMBBI 1998e]). However, proponents successfully argued that other elements of the project, such as theme restaurants and high-end retailing, would ensure that the right demographic mix would be achieved. Classification then turned to define the specific kinds of retailing that would mobilize and attract the desired groups. The central component was the urban entertainment centre identified above. The urban entertainment centre was claimed to be a way to attract the desired demographic rather ‘than teenagers and young adults.’ There was a ‘demonstrated link between megaplex attendance and higher incomes and education and ages’ (OMBBI 1998g). The tenant mix could be ‘engineered,’ not to ‘necessarily exclude any one segment, but to make the project more appealing to the most productive customer segments’ and to the desires of ‘an established and affluent customer base’ (Ex. 176). Urban entertainment centres were depicted as representing an inevitable stage in the evolution of retailing: Change in the retail sector is the norm. Its evolution since the 1950s has included numerous adjustments by various formats and retailers. Retailing and retail development has evolved from traditional downtown ‘main street’ retailing (independent merchants along retail strips and in central business districts) to supermarkets and department stores followed by shopping centers and malls to discount merchandising to big box formats, and recently, to current retail trends including a diverse competitive marketplace with numerous global players, and entertainment and non-store formats. (Ex. 64)

The trends identified as significant to Yonge-Dundas were the rise of new-format multiscreen theatres, the rebirth of main street retailing, the use of retailing for socializing and entertaining (entertainment retailing), the development of theme restaurants serving as entertainment themselves (eatertainment), and the move towards large-store formats by specialty retailers (e.g., Club Monaco, HMV, Chapters). All of these characteristics merged in the urban entertainment centre, which combined cinemas with large-format multinational retailers oriented to main streets. The same trend was referred to in the redevelopment of Times Square.

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During the 1980s, redevelopment plans had focused on building office space. But by the early 1990s, the New York real estate market was in the throes of the recession, office developers were going bankrupt, and no leases or sales had been secured. Building on a growing historic preservation movement and interest in the economic spin-offs from the theatre industry, cultural elements of an entertainment zone were resurrected from the office development plans of the 1970s and 1980s (Zukin 1995). A new plan sought to spur the symbolic economy of Times Square by rehabilitating the area as an entertainment hub rather than an office node. Mainly, this would involve refurbishing lowrise buildings for retail, renewing theatres, and building state-of-the-art amusements with bright lights and displays. This redevelopment targeted, solicited, and invited specific entertainment-oriented businesses such as Walt Disney, AMC, Tussauds, Virgin Records, and Barnes and Noble. The master plan for rebuilding Manchester’s city centre also included entertainment retailing as a key strategic principle. The primary aim was to offer more specialty retail of high quality, significant cultural activity, and a varied and interesting entertainment centre (City of Manchester 1997c). The master plan focused on the following: refurbishment of existing retail structures, with the focus on upscale and high-street shops and ‘carefully-selected tenants’; new developments, to include a four-storey urban entertainment centre with a twenty-screen megaplex cinema, a 3-D IMAX, a Virgin entertainment centre, a health and fitness centre, and themed restaurants and bars such as the Hard Rock Café (Printworks); an experiential multimedia gallery and visitor centre on the sights and sounds of cities (Urbis Centre); and an up-market Marks and Spencer superstore. A targeted marketing and tenant selection campaign was orchestrated to attract and ensure the right mix of retail tenants (City of Manchester 1999a).7 Rather than more CCTV cameras, changing the kinds of commercial activities to include, for example, ‘top-of-the-range restaurants’ was identified as the most effective way to attract ‘more mature suburbanites’ (King 2000b). In all three projects, consumption was not only identified as a means of mobilizing particular consumer groups but also promoted as the touchstone for urban economic development and as the source of urban regeneration. Entertainment and retailing were the uses that fit with both the commercial past of these areas and their future in the new economy of transnational retailers and entertainment corporations. With consumption problematized and classified in these ways, attention then turned to specific technologies for regulating and orchestrat-

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ing the kinds of retail stores that would be needed to mobilize the desired consumer groups and attract them to Yonge-Dundas. The solution was to be found in technologies for regulating economic activities and opportunities in space: zoning policies and regulations would set out standards and requirements to direct commercial development; the licensing of economic activities would regulate trade and at the same time govern city space from a distance; and permits would regulate the timing and kinds of events occurring in the urban square, thereby guiding and shaping entertainment choices and opportunities. Zoning Strategies Once the desired retailing was identified, expert witnesses examined how the existing buildings and spatial arrangement of land parcels and ownership stood in the way of achieving this form. The infrastructure of Yonge-Dundas was deemed deficient according to the criteria of contemporary building formats. The existing building stock was poorly suited to the needs of the desired forms of contemporary retailing. Deficiencies included a number of physical features such as low floor-to-ceiling height, lack of escalators for vertical circulation, limited space, lack of well–laid out interiors, and ‘limited opportunity for imposing, high image and quality facade treatment’ (Ex. 69). Furthermore there were few opportunities left for renovation and for producing a critical mass of new street retail in one location, in that buildings were dispersed and not strategically located ‘or in significant enough quantity to create momentum and a change in the perception of the street.’ The kinds of physical conditions suited to discount stores, such as small floor plates (building footprints), stood counter to this trend, which had its own particular site and structural requirements: Much has been made of the trend towards multiple level, larger stores with more of an attempt to keep the customer in the store longer with the implementation of different activity centres (e.g., Starbucks/Chapters). While this is true, very few footprints on Yonge are large enough for today’s retailer without folding in adjacent properties to provide the required impact and merchandising space, in addition, ceiling height is equally if not more, important. The trend is towards double height (over 24 feet) in the front 1/4 to 1/3 of the ground floor store area, and also for height extension for the facade and related exterior signage (Le Chateau on Queen West, HMV, The Gap, etc.). Adequate height for a new single

The Consumer City 103 level store would be a minimum of 15 feet. Additionally the wooden flooring, poor electrical systems and inadequate loading facilities in most of the existing buildings add to the problems of prospective new inhabitants of Yonge Street. (Ex. 46)

The area was characterized as having a fractured land ownership pattern with no significant assemblies evident; this ‘frustrates the ability to bring larger scale, contemporary and category retailing to the street and entertainment uses such as multi-screen cinemas’ (Ex. 69).8 Along the same lines, small, narrow lots meant that sites were not available for larger and speciality retailers; this ‘seriously affects the potential economic competitiveness of the Yonge-Dundas area as a commercial and entertainment centre’ (Ex. 184). Furthermore, because the area was a strategic regional asset, such conditions, although suitable in areas serving a local retail function, were not acceptable at Yonge-Dundas. Therefore, community improvement designation was necessary. The OMB accepted this connection between the form of consumption appropriate to the classification of Yonge-Dundas and its qualification as a community improvement area. ‘Age, faulty arrangement and the unsuitability of buildings’ were the main criteria the OMB recognized when evaluating whether the area qualified for community improvement. This was significant: the OMB was accepting a broad definition of community improvement – one which went beyond conditions that could be classified as physical blight. The OMB found that ‘these properties do not fit the description of dilapidation or deteriorization [sic] in their purely physical form so as to represent blight’ (OMBBI 1998b). Rather, the OMB agreed with the arguments of expert witnesses that the properties ‘do not have the ability to respond to the demands of today to be able to effect a major change at Yonge and Dundas as is occurring in downtown urban areas throughout North America.’9 That is, the condition, configuration, and ownership of the properties stood in the way of achieving a public good – the urban entertainment centre. In this regard, the board dismissed the argument put forward by the opponents that it was inappropriate to use the powers of Section 28 of the Planning Act (the ones relating to community improvement) to achieve a specific use – the urban entertainment centre. In sum, the incongruity between the existing condition of buildings and configuration of land ownership on the one hand, and the desired form of consumption on the other, was sufficient evidence of the need for the community improvement designation.

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This judgement could be arrived at only because existing retailing was being contrasted with desired retailing, and because a particular form of consumption was being cast as a public good. A specific image of good consumption was being defined; technologies could now be deployed to achieve that form. Zoning was the principal strategy through which this change was enacted. I use the term zoning broadly to cover a number of technologies that govern the classification and use of land. The term is often narrowly confined to zoning by-laws; in fact, zoning is the general activity toward which most specific planning technologies are directed. In general, it means ‘to divide (a city, land, etc.) into areas subject to particular planning restrictions; and to designate (a specific area) for use or development in this manner’ (OED, 2nd ed. 1989). The segregation and division of cities is the outcome of myriad government policies, directed at land use control (Frug 1999). Cities have used incorporation laws as well as by-laws relating to zoning, licensing, and properly taxation to control development – that is, to classify and segregate land uses through codes of access and exclusion that shape the geography of cities (Blomley 1998). Planning technologies such as official plans and zoning by-laws, and similar types of regulations such as secondary plans, community improvement projects (CIP), design guidelines, and development agreements, all do this by designating different rules and requirements for different zones of land. The various types of zoning are differentiated by their degree of specificity. For example, Toronto’s Official Plan establishes eight broad land-use classifications (neighbourhood, apartment, mixed use, parks and open space, regeneration, employment, utility corridors, and institutional areas) as well as general policies for city making (e.g., to complement an area’s built form and character, to preserve heritage resources) (City of Toronto 2001a). Based on these general classifications and policies, Toronto’s zoning by-law details the criteria relating to density and built form (e.g., height limits, building setbacks, and parking requirements) for specific zones of the city. The following sections discuss three key zoning technologies that were activated in order to produce a good consumption space at Yonge-Dundas: plans, by-laws, and expropriation. Plans and By-laws A fundamental principle of land use zoning is that it cannot compel the development of property; it can only guide and constrain it. In the

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words of one marketing analyst at the OMB hearing, urban planning powers can pull and restrict forms of development but have a limited ability to push and stimulate (Ex. 207A). The limitations of zoning plans and by-laws become evident when existing rules do not stimulate redevelopment in a desired direction. With inner-city redevelopment projects, change often requires amendments to reduce constraints (pull) and increase incentives (push). Such was the case with Yonge-Dundas. However, amendments and incentives must be rationalized by demonstrating that existing policies and regulations impede a recognized public good and are incongruent with achieving it. In order to turn thoughts into reality, experts at the OMB had to rationalize amendments to both the existing Official Plan and the zoning by-law. The existing Official Plan contained a number of broad policies for the downtown area, and proponents argued that the redevelopment project conformed to them. These policies included the designation of the intersection of Yonge and Dundas – and Yonge Street in general – as a Prominent Site and Area; the designation of the area around Yonge and Dundas as a Parks Acquisition Priority Area; the encouragement of development at transit-served locations; the strengthening of entertainment, retailing, offices, and cultural facilities; the designation of Yonge Street as a Mixed Commercial Residential Area to allow for a wide range of commercial uses at varying densities; and the maintenance of the low-density character of development in the vicinity of Yonge and Dundas (OMBBI 1998b). No changes to these general policies were advocated. In contrast, the appellants sought major changes to these policies. This was reflected in their two alternative proposals for redevelopment. Both entailed high density and mixed uses. One proposal (Pellow) called for the development of two office buildings and two residential buildings with above-grade and below-grade retailing. The office buildings would be nineteen and twenty-one storeys in height and the residential buildings sixteen and thirteen storeys. The other proposal (Walker) presented three different scenarios, including either a mix of retail and office uses at ten storeys or retail and residential at twelve storeys. Both proposals were major departures from existing Official Plan policies with regard to uses (retail to office and residential) and densities (low to high).10 The appellants contended that these densities were more in line with a defining feature of Times Square, which Yonge-Dundas was supposed to emulate: high-density buildings surrounding the intersection of two streets (OMBBI 1998e). However, the OMB’s mandate was not to adjudicate and approve these

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alternatives, but to assess whether they represented viable, private sector–led alternatives to the city’s public-private partnership. In its decision, the OMB stated that the alternatives would require major policy changes and the assembly of land by the private sector, and that this was a significant hurdle that would severely delay and possibly prevent redevelopment. Instead of seeking amendments to the Official Plan policy of lowdensity retail, proponents focused on technologies for stimulating changes to existing forms of retail. After demonstrating that the area qualified for improvement, they proposed a regulatory change that would stimulate and reward the ‘right’ and ‘good’ form of development for Yonge-Dundas: the urban entertainment centre. The regulatory change would establish an incentive system that would permit relatively small density increases for comprehensive developments that included retail and entertainment facilities (Ex. 200). This would be achieved through an amendment to the Official Plan relating to the passing of by-laws under Section 37 of Ontario’s Planning Act. That section authorizes municipalities to provide development incentives in the form of increases in height and density in excess of what is permitted by the Official Plan, in exchange for particular public goods. This is referred to as bonusing. To make use of this power, municipalities must define within their official plans public goods that qualify for bonusing. Section 16 of Toronto’s Official Plan permitted bonusing with regard to heritage preservation and the provision of parks, social housing, and non-profit community, cultural, and institutional facilities. An amendment to the Official Plan was proposed to expand this definition so as to authorize facilities provided as part of a comprehensive redevelopment ‘which will enhance Downtown Yonge Street as a pedestrian oriented retail and entertainment area including the provision of public open space and parking facilities accessible to the public’ (Ex. 69). In the past, this section had been used to secure social housing benefits and open space; this amendment would in effect expand the definition of the public good to include particular commercial operations: retail and entertainment facilities.11 The amendment was rationalized on the grounds that it constituted community improvement as previously defined. Bonusing, which provided a system of economic rewards for private developments that contributed to this definition of the public good, was implemented through amendments to the zoning by-law. These amendments doubled the commercial density (from 2x to 4x coverage),12 increased height limits (from 18 to 20 metres), and removed parking and

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common outdoor space requirements (thereby increasing the amount of possible development area).13 These incentives, which were contemplated prior to the specific development proposal, were described as a conventional approach to reinvestment incentives through regulatory change, of the sort taken elsewhere in the city (OMBBI 1998e).14 The approach generally consisted of allowing increases in as-of-right permissions, with the proviso that developments provide for benefits defined in Official Plan policies.15 This shifted regulatory emphasis from density to built-form controls, and thereby achieved a better fit between built-form controls and a potential or expected range of uses. It also reduced or eliminated parking requirements and other regulations (Ex. 69). However, these were very general incentives. The city’s planner argued that on their own, they might lead to land speculation and the continuation of existing uses. Opponents supported this argument as evidence that the density increase was insufficient to spur reinvestment and development. They also contended that an increase in density to 8x and 12x was necessary to spur development (Ex. 245, 212).16 The city’s planner argued that in order to ensure that these general rules would lead to the desired outcome, it would be necessary to enter into a public private partnership based on a specific regeneration project. The Yonge Dundas Redevelopment Project would be the catalyst for redevelopment in the desired direction. Yet the reinvestment initiatives could only have a limited impact because of the fractured ownership of the land parcels involved. Expert witnesses argued that in order to achieve the desired form of development, land assembly by expropriation would be necessary. The city and Ryerson University together already owned 62 per cent of the lands necessary for the redevelopment, but these lands were fragmented and dispersed, just like the privately owned lands. So land assembly would be necessary for the purposes of both the urban square and the urban entertainment centre. However, unlike major urban-renewal initiatives in the past, which involved the state expropriating and assembling land mainly for public projects, this would involve the taking of land for a public square and private redevelopment. Municipal Expropriation and Public-Private Partnerships The redevelopment plan called for the expropriation of eleven properties, their assembly into four development blocks, and the sale of two of these blocks to private interests through specific development agree-

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ments. Besides the designation of Yonge-Dundas as a community improvement project area, this was the second major issue the OMB adjudicated. Experts rationalized expropriation and land assembly on the grounds that it was ‘particularly difficult to assemble high-visibility, high-traffic downtown properties’ where the large-format, streetrelated urban-entertainment centre form of development ‘can benefit a wide range of other retailers’ (Ex. 64). Most urban entertainment centres were not located in downtown locations, ‘partly due to the availability of land in suburban locations, and the inability of developers to aggregate parcels in downtown environments’ (Ex. 176). In sum, the only way to build an entertainment centre in downtown Toronto was by assembling land. Ontario’s Expropriations Act gives municipal governments the authority to take away the property rights of landowners in order to carry out a public purpose. Owners are entitled to compensation at fair market value and have the right to challenge and appeal the exercise of this authority. Large-scale expropriations are rare, as they represent for city-making the most significant infringement of individual property rights. Expropriation for the urban square could have been accomplished under the Municipal Act, which permits assembly for municipal purposes; however, it was disputed whether land for the urban entertainment centre could only be acquired under the Expropriations Act, since it involved taking property rights from one set of private owners and then selling those rights to another private entity. The authority for this land acquisition was not at issue; the OMB ruled that the Planning Act does not specify which authorizing legislation a municipality must rely on for land acquisition. Neither the Expropriations Act nor Section 28 of the Planning Act (relating to community improvement) prohibits a municipality from acquiring or expropriating a property and then reselling or leasing it to private interests. The OMB cited a history of precedents where an expropriating authority took property that was ultimately used for commercial purposes. However, most of these involved small parcels of public land in the form of streets, which were either exchanged or contributed as part of private developments. Examples in Toronto included the Chelsea Inn, College Park, and the Eaton Centre.17 One significant precedent, however, was cited. In the early 1970s the city had expropriated properties on the south side of Queen Street in conjunction with the development of Nathan Phillips Square and New City Hall. In turn, the expropriated lands were leased to the developer of the Sheraton Centre

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for private development.18 In its decision, the OMB noted this as an example of a public-private initiative (OMBBI 1998b). Experts pointed out that transactions like these exemplified the increasing use of public-private partnerships in urban redevelopment (Ex. 69). At one time, development interventions were the sole purview of governments; nowadays, those same interventions for the purposes of community improvement are more diverse and focus on private investment. The Yonge-Dundas project was described as a ‘balance of public planning and land acquisitions with private marketing and development’ to achieve community improvement (Ex. 69). The OMB cited a number of problems inherent in a solely privately led initiative – problems that impeded the friendly assembly of private property in a timely manner and the achievement of community improvement objectives. One expert witness noted a number of international examples where expropriation was deemed necessary to accomplish redevelopment objectives, and emphasized that public-private partnerships were now commonplace (Ex. 184). For instance, in the context of the City of Toronto’s exercise of expropriation, the OMB referred to the redevelopment of New York’s Times Square. It noted that ‘the forceful and comprehensive use of condemnation powers was made necessary by the failure of previous partial attempts at subsidized redevelopment, which had been frustrated by their inadequate scale and seriousness to overcome the endemic problems of the area. Once those conditions were corrected, private investment showed vigorous interest in the area’ (Ex. 184). This echoed the witness statement of an expert who had worked on the Times Square redevelopment: ‘Fundamental and structural social and economic problems cannot be successfully addressed through a single development, but requires public intervention to facilitate the participation and investment of numerous private sector interests in a regeneration program’ (Ex. 34J). In the 1970s the redevelopment of Times Square became the object of intense planning debate. In 1976 the New York State Development Corporation set up a subsidiary, the Forty-second Street Development Corporation, a public-private development agency, for the purposes of regenerating 42nd Street (Zukin 1995). This corporation had the authority to override local zoning and execute plans without public approval. In the 1980s the corporation sought to spur redevelopment through major changes to zoning by-laws that would allow for large increases in density. Plans at that time called for an office tower canyon. However,

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convinced that this alone would not be sufficient to spur redevelopment, the corporation also developed a plan to use the right of eminent domain, which it had been granted by the state. This enabled the corporation to condemn and acquire properties, bulldoze old properties, and stimulate office development by offering private capital the highest returns with the least possible risk (Bianco 1996, in Ex. 228). Grounds for condemnation were based on arguments that the area had the highest crime rate in Manhattan and that this was linked to the presence of some fifty pornography outlets (Ex. 34J). The strip of cheap restaurants, martial arts supply stores, clothing boutiques, souvenir stands, sex shops, and action and pornographic movie houses was declared a blighted area by the Corporation (Chesluk 2000). This move was challenged in American courts by a number of property owners, tenants, and office developers; in the end, though, all lawsuits were resolved in the corporation’s favour. By 1990 the corporation owned the thirteen-acre block of 42nd Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues – an area that included Times Square. Public-private collaborations and partnerships were also central to the redevelopment of Manchester’s city centre and Yonge-Dundas. The Manchester Millennium Task Force, a public-private partnership established by the central government, spearheaded the rebuilding of the bomb-damaged area of Manchester’s city centre. A public-private partnership also spearheaded Yonge-Dundas (see chapter 2, ‘The Making of the Plan’). The city-appointed steering committee, consisting of the local councillor, the YSBRA, and city officials and staffed by a marketing consultant, developed the proposed project and agreement with the ‘developer of choice,’ which was then approved by the city.19 The agreement committed the developer to the construction of the desired form of consumption space (urban entertainment centre) and called for ‘payment to the City for lands which will be utilized for either private redevelopment in accordance with Zoning Bylaw provisions or lands which will be used for an underground parking garage and public park in the form of an urban square’ (Ex. 69). The contribution of private funds to the development of the square and public parking was made possible by the amendments to the Official Plan regarding bonusing (see above). It also involved the implementation of a site-specific zoning by-law governing the parcels that would form the urban entertainment centre. This by-law related to matters such as density, height, and the arrangement of development parcels. Opponents put forward two main arguments against this process. First, they objected to the fact that the public-private partnership (which

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did not include any of the property owners whose lands were to be expropriated) was making use of a confidentiality agreement during the development of the proposed project. Between June and December 1994, the members of the partnership had agreed to hold confidential discussions about the project. However, the OMB accepted that this secrecy was necessary in order to eliminate speculation and uncertainty (OMBBI 1998b). It noted that municipalities often adopt confidentiality agreements when preparing studies that could have significant ramifications for property rights, densities, and values, although it is essential that once accepted, a study be made public. Opponents also argued that expropriating private land and selling it to another private landowner meant that the city was selecting certain businesses over others and that this was unfair and a discriminatory use of powers (Ex. 212). In particular, they contended that small property owners were being deprived of their right to redevelop their own lands and had never been provided with the opportunity to do so because of the city’s restrictive zoning policies (OMBBI 1998e). Proponents and ultimately the OMB replied to this that existing owners had made no effort on their own to improve the area and that certain businesses – transnational retailers and entertainment corporations – were aligned with a public purpose and good, which in this case involved a particular form of consumption. Once again, a public purpose was being linked to the development of a particular form of consumption. As in the case of the criteria qualifying the area for community improvement, experts had to make similar rationalizations that the taking of land was necessary to achieve a public purpose: ‘The existing barriers which inhibit the regeneration of Downtown Yonge Street and Dundas Street East including fractured land ownership, lack of assembly, dysfunctional buildings, the lack of a critical mass of the right kind of space in a strategic location necessary to support new forms of retail, lack of “ownership” in the street’s renewal due to short term tenancies, various problematic economic and appearance concerns, the lack of amenities and the negative perceptions of the area’ (Ex. 69). The question to the OMB was whether the expropriation was ‘reasonably defensible’ in light of the public objectives of the expropriating authority. The issue, then, was whether this was the best location for the proposal and whether the taking of land was fair and sound policy as well as reasonably necessary. That expropriation was necessary in order to achieve the objectives of community improvement was further emphasized by linking the success of the public square to the urban entertainment centre and vice

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versa. Proponents argued that the two aspects of the project were interdependent – in particular, that ‘a public square without the development adjoining it on Parcel A, the northern block, might, in the current circumstances, have a negative, rather than a positive, impact on the area’ (OMBBI 1998b). The city summed this up in its closing submission by stating that ‘a public square may not function appropriately without a healthy active edge, the major component of which is a new significant urban entertainment draw’ (OMBBI 1998f). Producing a square in isolation from other improvements would do little to change the environment of the street or address the broader array of concerns (Ex. 69). The same problematic groups and not the public would use an urban square if it was surrounded by existing uses (Ex. 184). Experts warned that without the urban entertainment centre, the urban square might be taken over by undesirable users and uses. In other words, the entertainment centre was necessary to draw the right demographics to the urban square. To sum up, a particular form of consumption – that of an urban entertainment centre – was rationalized as a public good. Public goods had traditionally been defined as social housing, community service benefits, and open space; regarding the Yonge-Dundas redevelopment, the definition of the public good was being expanded to include rewarding developments that provided not only for parking and a public park but also for a particular form of consumption: retail and entertainment facilities. Rationalities: Zoning The central rationality of zoning is that land uses must be segregated and that particular land uses belong in particular spaces in the city. Zoning laws differentially classify, segregate, and regulate land and do so relationally; that is, each land use and its proper place is classified and segregated in relation to all other uses and places. This is achieved through administrative laws that govern the orderly development of land by imposing constraints. This is a risk-based technology insofar as the rationality is to prevent potential harms or externalities of the sort that can result if particular land uses are juxtaposed or in the wrong places. But zoning is not simply about organizing space into correct categories and relationships; it is also about how land users, as social categories, are to be situated and related to one another. This argument was

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advanced in the 1970s by anthropologist Constance Perin: ‘What have been thought of as singularly technical concerns in land use matters I take to be value-laden, that is, moral. American land use classifications, definitions, and standards – alongside all their concrete tasks – name cultural and social categories and define what are believed to be the correct relationships among them’ (Perin 1977). In contrast to studies of land use that examined social relationships in terms of political economy (power), law (rights), ideology (interests), and governance (authority), Perin approached land use from a cultural and social perspective to examine the moral values underpinning the categorization of land – values that in turn defined relationships between people. In this way, she examined how zoning spatializes moral distinctions. The rationality of zoning is evident in the founding arguments of zoning by-laws prohibiting the integration or juxtaposition of certain land uses. The first zoning by-law in Canada was passed in Kitchener, Ontario, in 1924. Its purposes reflected those of the practices that preceded zoning: nuisance by-laws that prevented certain noxious industries from locating in residential areas, and restrictive covenants that protected particular elite neighbourhoods from incursions by lowincome or ethnic groups (Wolfe 1994). The use of restrictive covenants ended in 1944, when Ontario passed its Racial Discrimination Act; even so, discrimination against particular land uses and users is still often the objective and outcome of zoning rules. For instance, choices in the economic class of housing are often restricted through rules setting out the lot size and density of housing.20 Zoning by-laws have been used to prevent certain forms of housing from locating in particular neighbourhoods altogether. For example, in 2001, Toronto’s City Council sought to remove long-standing restrictive zoning regulations that prevented municipal shelters from locating in certain suburban neighbourhoods. Many critics of urban land development patterns have argued that income segregation is implicit in the functioning of the housing market, which allocates housing by wealth. However, market-based analyses ignore how the valuation of land is guided by moral judgements that support and reinforce segregation. For example, investor arguments that low-cost housing depresses the value of upscale housing are based on the judgement that classes of housing should be segregated and that different groups belong in different neighbourhoods. Real estate appraisals – the process of assigning value to property – penalize housing near low-income/minority areas, and industrial areas, commercial

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areas. It also penalizes unusual kinds of housing – that is, mixtures of land uses or income groups, or any innovations.21 So although zoning is often attacked as a restriction on property rights, it is just as much an effort to protect certain rights and moral distinctions (Frug 1999). Together with other development controls (e.g., building codes, property standards), zoning policies support moral distinctions and reinforce barriers to the integration of different classes of housing. The most aggressive zoning technology is expropriation. Although not typically understood as zoning, expropriation is legitimized in much the same way as other forms of land use regulation: land can and should be classified in the name of a public good. For example, in the postwar era, large-scale expropriations in major urban centres took place; these sought to eliminate poor neighbourhoods that were classified as slums and that stood in the way of urban renewal. Through expropriation, large tracts of land were reordered in the image of a specific definition of what constituted improvement. However, expropriation and redevelopment were based on social-welfare planning principles, and on the direct involvement of government in the provision of social housing through takeovers of private property (Lemon 1985). Displacement was certainly one of the outcomes, but the objective was to maintain these neighbourhoods as zones of low-income housing and to improve the living conditions of the residents. In this way the rationality was at root the same as that of current zoning practices: that particular uses and groups should be segregated. Zoning is also used to classify and segregate commercial areas of cities. Zoning by-laws specify the kinds of businesses that can operate through general land-use categories such as commercial, as well as particular types of uses (grocery stores, cinemas, and so on). Zoning rules cannot specify the economic category of a business, but through rules about lot size, density, scale, allowable floor space, and the like, particular economic categories are usually targeted. The technology of expropriation is also used to classify commercial areas in the name of a public good. Expropriation at Yonge-Dundas was used to displace retailing classified as ephemeral, destabilized, dysfunctional, and blighted. Although the prevention of (often speculative) harms is the central rationalization of zoning technologies, those technologies are also used to achieve particular public goods. The many interconnected technologies deployed for Yonge-Dundas directed and constrained the possible forms of commercial development. Taken together, all the different technologies ultimately constituted what could be described as a devel-

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opment licence. Collectively, the nested rules produced a number of requirements identified as public goods; these requirements ranged from design elements concerning the exterior appearance of buildings to elements for enhancing security in adjacent public spaces. In this sense, zoning regulations act much like licensing, in that they micromanage by imposing conditions that regulate positively and that impose norms (Valverde and Cirak 2001). As we have seen, improvement was rationalized not only on the basis of desired land uses, but also on the basis of desired users, or the consumers who rightfully belonged at Yonge-Dundas. Zoning rules classified and segregated land uses and people; they ordered groups as well as things. Expert witnesses often made it plain that certain uses were desirable because of the users they would attract. The official city reports couched this in broad descriptions such as ‘the public’; in contrast, most statements by expert witnesses were specific about which groups were worth attracting. So although the classification of land and the right ordering of space seemed mere technical matters, the rationalizations rested on moral judgments relating to what constituted improvement and who belonged at Yonge-Dundas. Technical matters were of course important, but the judgments and classifications of improvement rested on an image of a desired form of consumption and image of a good consumer. This is one way that zoning practices shape the moral geography of the city. Rationalities: Public-Private Partnerships The remaking of Yonge-Dundas was led by a public-private partership, just as with Times Square and Manchester’s city centre. Professionals at the OMB hearing declared that such partnerships were the main technology of urban redevelopment. In contrast to the major forms of government-led urban redevelopment that took place in the 1950s and 1960s, the most common approach now involves public-private agreements or structures for developing and managing major projects (Zukin 1995). There are a number of different partnership models, but all of them marginalize local authorities and insulate decision making from processes of public accountability and even from political debate (Cochrane, Peck, and Tickell 1996). These management structures do not have the same democratic mechanisms of deliberation, accountability, and responsibility as public bodies, and they are often criticized for being undemocratic and exclusionary (Wynne and O’Connor 1998).

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Also, it is often debated whether public goods are being replaced by such partnerships, which often involve the private ownership and regulation of public spaces. However, notwithstanding the implications for democracy, arguments about the loss of public goods ignore how the state pursues certain governance objectives through partnerships and private development. Public goods and governance objectives pursue ends other than just economic ones.22 Obligations and restrictions have long been imposed on owners of private property based on the assertion that privately owned spaces contribute to the public good (Hopkins 1993). This is reflected in building codes, property standards, and zoning by-laws that impose conditions on the development of private property.23 All of these technologies acknowledge the public goods that private developments serve, although such goods typically do not pay in the sense of having direct economic benefits or exchange values (Lefebvre 1991; Waltzer 1995). Since their inception, zoning codes have been sustained not on the basis of public health or public safety (which underpinned earlier regulatory initiatives regarding housing and sanitation) but rather on the broad and sweeping ground of ‘general welfare’ (Fischler 1998). However, the definition of the general welfare has always been disputed, modified and changed in an ongoing re-evaluation and renegotiation. This is evident in the changes to and expansion of new obligations on private development. For example, private developers can be required to contribute to social benefits such as open space, daycares, public art, and so on as part of incentive systems where the provision of a public good is exchanged for greater height and density and (in turn) economic profits (Cybriwsky 1999; Loukaitou-Sideris 1993). Other tax and financial benefits are provided in recognition of the contributions that private spaces make to public goods (Deutsche 1988). For example, through a system of tax breaks and low-interest, long-term loans from the state, the Forty-Second Street Development Corporation in New York was able to lease or sell properties to developers. In this way, public goods are pursued not through public-sector investment and development, but rather through private development. This involves incentives such as subsidies, concessions and guarantees, land acquisition, infrastructure upgrades, financing and tax benefits, and regulatory relief (Hannigan 1998). At the OMB hearing, many expert witnesses noted that through a partnership with private-sector developers, a number of public benefits would accrue to the city – for example, in the form of revenues to fund the urban square (e.g., Ex. 184). But

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they also contended that through a particular form of private development, significant governing objectives and public goods could also be achieved. The recognition that certain public goods and objectives are achievable through the private sector was perhaps most evident in the exercise of expropriation. Expropriation can be viewed as a reconfiguration of property rights to achieve particular public goods. As outlined in chapter 3, one public good was security. It was argued that through a change in ownership, private management would enhance the security of the public space for particular consumer groups. Furthermore, a change in ownership from discount retailers to transnational retailers and entertainment corporations would attract those groups. What supported or justified this change in ownership was the recognition of a particular form of consumption – retail and entertainment facilities – as a public good. This underpinned (a) the rationale for expropriation, and (b) what constituted improvement and qualified for bonusing.24 Government policies are often criticized for being in the service of private-sector developers; here we can see how through private development the state seeks to achieve particular governing objectives. That the state is seeking to generate public goods through private enterprises is evident in a number of other practices, which together represent a shift away from the government of the city by the welfarist public sector toward the management of the city by the entrepreneurial private sector (Ruppert 2000). This shift is not bringing an end to public goods; rather, it is redefining public goods and asserting that those goods can be better attained through private means. Here, entrepreneurial forms have replaced the social welfare zoning and expropriation approaches of the 1950s and 1960s. In his closing submission, a lawyer for the city said: ‘We are no longer dealing with block clearing, but with targeting a specific project to trigger, foster, or encourage private redevelopment’ (OMBBI 1998f). Grand plans and visions for making the good city are still produced, but in practice, development and investment are usually being targeted to particular projects, which are led by either the private sector or public private partnerships. However, the redefinition of public goods and their pursuit through private development has social consequences (Wynne and O'Connor 1998; Zukin 1995). Governments are less engaged in citywide initiatives driven by social welfarist and distributional concerns; instead they are targeting specific sites for both public attention and leveraged by private investment. One consequence is ‘uneven development’

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(Deutsch 1988) and inequity in the investment of resources across the city. Licensing and Permitting Strategies Governing consumption at Yonge-Dundas also involved regulating vending and street entertainment. A report on the establishment of the Yonge Street Revitalization Committee in 1995 noted that city commissioners were considering by-law changes to ‘accommodate and regulate street musicians and artists,’ as well as the feasibility of an areaspecific vending regulation (City of Toronto 1995b). This report seemed ambivalent about street vendors and performers. On the one hand, informal street activity was seen as enlivening the street, as giving it a special character. This sort of activity helped make Yonge-Dundas was Toronto’s version of Times Square or Piccadilly Circus. Perhaps this natural disorder should not be overly controlled and beautified. On the other hand, these activities produced an ‘image problem for the downtown which needs correction.’ Illegal vending in particular was seen as detracting from the positive attributes of street activity. The tension could not be addressed by either prohibiting vending or leaving it unrestricted; the public interest ‘requires a balance between preserving safe and active street life and suitable conditions for private business opportunity’ (City of Toronto 1995b). The solution was to regulate vending by cracking down on unlicensed vendors and by adjusting the zones where vending was permitted. The licensing of vending is the standard approach to regulation throughout Toronto. The regulation of business and the licensing of trades and professions are matters of provincial jurisdiction, and are either exercised directly or delegated to municipalities or to provincially constituted boards, commissions, and professional governing bodies. Municipalities have the delegated authority to regulate street vending by creating the offence of vending without a licence, as set out in Section 315 of the Toronto Municipal Code. This code also authorizes the issuing of vending licences based on a system that connects the licence to a particular location in the city.25 A vendor has to meet the particular physical and administrative requirements of a licence. These include specifications about location, sanitation, and maintenance.26 Bylaw enforcement officers routinely monitor all licensed vending locations to ensure compliance with these conditions. In these ways, like land-use zoning, vending orders and classifies space.

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The second part of the strategy involved cracking down on illegal vending through stricter enforcement. Through sweeps such as Operation Broom, police and storeowners mobilized in unison to rid YongeDundas of people selling watches out of suitcases and displaying jewellery on rugs. Only licensed vendors escaped. The regulation of vending in the public square was to be achieved through a proposed special by-law. A permit zone was to be established to regulate vending as well as to contribute to the safety and security of the square. For example, the safety and security report recommended that ‘a limited number and type of street performers and vendors should be encouraged and accommodated within the square to provide “eyes on the square”’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 9). Street entertainment was another activity identified as both problematic and desirable. This was a legal activity, like panhandling, and not so easy to regulate. Busking and street entertainment did not require a licence and were seen as a more acceptable forms of begging or panhandling. As part of its review of locations for artists, vending, and busking, the city passed a by-law restricting the times that buskers would be permitted to perform on the sidewalks on the grounds that they created obstructions during peak pedestrian hours (City of Toronto 1995a). Within the urban square, buskers, like vendors, would be assigned to permitted locations. The legal status of the urban square made it possible to impose tighter restrictions than what was possible on sidewalks. Restrictions such as these were acknowledged as a way to ‘create a certain ambience during the day and night to minimize undesirable activity’ (OMBBI 1998f). Including provisions in the by-law for the programming of events and the issuing of permits further regulated entertainment on the square. The by-law for Nathan Phillips Square was used as a model. This led to recommendations that policies be established specifying how often the space could be programmed and who could program it; whether or not community groups would be given access and allowed to program events; and how the targeting of groups for city-sponsored events could be used to attract particular audiences. In also led to specifications as to how the square could be used, as well as to guidelines for sponsorship and signage (Ex. 34G). At first, it was recommended that use of the square be overseen by an events committee, which would be responsible for the number, quality, and types of events as well as the maintenance and clean-up of the space. To gain a permit for one of the allowable activities, an individual or group would have fill

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out an application and submit it for approval to a special decisionmaking body. Eventually, responsibility for all of this was assigned to the Board of Management for Yonge-Dundas Square, which was incorporated in November 2001. As noted in the previous chapter, part of the rationale for the Board of Management governance model was that ‘unlike public squares attached to City-owned buildings where programming is geared toward community events, the Yonge-Dundas Square was intended to be used largely for commercial events for which a fee would be charged’ (City of Toronto 2001d). The square was seen as an integral part of ‘the rhythm of the retail environment’ and as connected to the commercial success of the area. If followed that entertainment and events in the square should be commercially oriented as well as a source of revenue. Events approved by the board would be charged a fee similar to the one charged in commercial outdoor spaces in the city, with a discount for non-profit and charitable organizations; however, there would be no charge for city-operated special events. In the mid-1990s in New York, new vending laws were promoted and supported by the Times Square Business Improvement District and other BIDs. New York’s mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, established the Street Vendor Review Panel (SVRP), out of which came a new law that required all vendors to obtain a licence, a permit, and a warrant; street artists would only require a permit and a warrant. The licence allowed operation of a business; the permit allowed the use of a display or stand approved by the city; the warrant allowed the setting up in an actual location on the street. On each unrestricted block of the city, only one vendor was warranted to sell. The city decided which vendor or artist would be given a warrant for each block. Vendors and artists appealed the regulations, but the courts upheld the city’s right to regulate the vending industry. In making its case, the city argued that it recognized the importance of vendors to the economy and that ‘sidewalk vendors are vital to our streetscape. They help to define New York – and offer hot dogs, pretzels, bagels, coffee and more to people throughout the City’ (City of New York 1997). However, ‘it is vital that restrictions be placed in areas where vending would diminish the quality of life or threaten public safety’; and it was necessary ‘to clear congestion in a few specific areas – primarily a few blocks in Midtown Manhattan and the financial district.’ The review panel established restrictions on the basis of petitions from businesses to close particular streets to vending. Besides regulating vending, BIDs

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also took over responsibility for the permitting, regulating, and organizing entertainments in their separate jurisdictions. In 2000, Manchester City Council undertook to deal with the ‘clutter and scruffiness’ of streets in the city centre by banning street traders (King 2000a). One of the central streets in particular, Market Street, was described by the city’s CEO as in such poor condition that it would ‘detract from the multi-million improvement schemes’ underway in the city centre. Moreover, ‘stalls and kiosks get in the way of pedestrians and make the street look scruffy’ (ibid.). The council implemented a prohibition by refusing to renew the licences of traders in the prohibition area when they came up for renewal. Manchester’s Change for the Better program also included the tighter regulation of Big Issue vending in the city centre.27 This program was aimed at the aggressive conduct of ‘rogue vendors’ and at vendors who begged or were under the influence of alcohol or drugs. To tackle these problems, a limited number of stands, sponsored by the City Centre Management Team, were set up in the city centre where legitimate Big Issue vendors could be situated. This was seen as a way to differentiate between authorized and unauthorized vendors. The Big Issue was also encouraged to change its scheme to make it clearer that being accepted as a vendor of the paper was meant to lead to permanent accommodation and training/education/job opportunities. Also, all vendors had to sign a code of conduct. Licensing and Permitting Rationalities The licensing of vending regulates an economic trade; it is also a means of regulating space and ensuring order from a distance. It is a form of control through administrative regulation as opposed to regulation by the judicial, legislative, or executive branches of government (Hogan 1983). Like situational crime prevention, it is a form of governance that is oriented not to punishing past deeds but rather to managing future risks and harms. It governs at a distance by reproducing order on an everyday basis in much the same way as municipal bylaws, public health regulations, and liquor regulations (Valverde and Cirak 2001). Through vending licences, the city regulates commercial activities and the spaces they occupy. It does so by attaching conditions relating to the location and arrangement of vending equipment. Such licences also require that the surrounding area be maintained in a clean and

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sanitary condition. Although often considered a minor administrative practice of governing, the municipal licensing of trades involves the governance of space and people through the imposition of standards and norms on business operations. There is an ongoing debate over what municipal governments should be able to license (Bossons et al. 1984). The Municipal Act is not specific about the purpose of licensing; also, it only grants authority to license with respect to trades. The granting of licences is at the discretion of a municipal council, and there are relatively few statutory restrictions on the use of this power. Municipalities can limit the number of licences for particular businesses (e.g. body rub parlours, adult entertainment, taxis), define and impose conditions on different classes of businesses, impose special conditions on a business that have not been imposed on all of the businesses in the same class, and restrict hours of operation. These conditions can apply not only to the business but also to the place or premises used in the carrying on of the business, to the people carrying on that business or engaged in it, and to vehicles and other personal property used or kept for hire in connection with the carrying on of the business. The reasons why municipalities license businesses become clear when we examine how this authority has been exercised. For example, there is often an economic rationale – that is, licensing is a revenueraising strategy. The regulation of public morality is another purpose, especially with regard to establishments defined as adult entertainment.28 Licensing has long been used in this way to curtail undesirable social activities and to suppress what is constituted as morally offensive conduct. Yet another reason for licensing is to regulate externalities by setting performance standards. This is sometimes referred to as ‘performance zoning.’ The benefits of this include flexibility – that is, licensing can be applied on a case-by-case basis, ensuring compliance with other laws (Ontario Building Code, property standards, zoning). Also, licences are an additional mechanism for controlling land use. In the sense that it helps govern morality and performance, licensing is a mechanism for achieving particular public goods and ends through the imposition of conditions that regulate positively and that impose norms. That the purpose of licensing is to achieve public goods was recognized in the 2002 amendments to Ontario’s Municipal Act, which specified that the purposes of licensing included health and safety, nuisance control, and consumer protection. The permitting system that has been implemented for entertainment

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on Dundas Square operates on a different rationality. Licences are permissions for ongoing activities; in contrast, permits are short-term and temporary. In this regard, they are a means of controlling and targeting entertainment choices and opportunities that will attract and mobilize particular groups. In these ways, both licensing and permitting were used to achieve certain public goods and objectives through private economic activities. Governing objectives such as the policing and maintenance of space were pursued through regulated vending and entertainment. Together with zoning, the technologies also sought to mobilize and attract the desired consumer groups to Yonge-Dundas. Moralizing Conduct Particular commercial activities at Yonge-Dundas were problematized: retailing such as discount stores, jewellery exchanges, and fast-food outlets; criminalized transactions such as drug dealing and solicitation; and unregulated sales relating to vending, busking, panhandling, squeegeeing, and so on. The conduct of the retailers, dealers, vendors, panhandlers, and squeegeers engaging in these commercial activities was at issue and was moralized. In particular, existing retailers were moralized for being speculative, greedy, and irresponsible; for lacking commitment to the area, as evident in their temporary appearance and short-term tenancies; for engaging in low-level retail activities; for being outmoded, in decline, and dysfunctional; for breaking municipal property standards and by-laws; and for supporting and facilitating illegal activities such as unlicensed vending and drug dealing. But even more than this, existing retailers attracted a bad demographic – all of the different groups whose conduct was also moralized: street youth, drug dealers, panhandlers, loiterers, and so on. Furthermore, existing retailers stood in the way of a ‘healthy transition to a new retail future.’ In this regard, large-store formats and entertainment retailing were described as inevitable. Against the moralization of conduct emerged the image of good forms of consumption: high-end and entertainment retailing, theme restaurants, and regulated vending and entertainment. Good retailers invested in their properties, were committed to the area, and marketed cutting-edge retail. More importantly, they would mobilize and attract the right demographic to Yonge-Dundas: families, shoppers, tourists, and middleclass and higher-income adults.

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It is interesting to compare these problematizations of Yonge-Dundas with earlier campaigns to clean up Yonge Street (see chapter 2). By the 1990s, the targets were no longer drinking and sex-related businesses; instead, they were discount stores, video parlours, and fast-food restaurants. The different campaigns identified different problematic groups, but were perhaps more consistent when it came to defining the desired groups as principally middle-income and suburban consumers. For example, Eaton College Street (now College Park) in the 1920s was the first attempt to build a modern department store in Toronto (Wright 1993). The Eaton News heralded this emporium as ‘a store for everybody’ yet it targeted a very specific idea of the consumer. For decades Eaton’s clientele had mainly been working and middle class; this new store was opened to attract Toronto’s well-heeled shoppers: the new middle classes and married women, or ‘Mrs. Toronto and her daughters.’ Similarly, the development of the Eaton Centre in the 1970s focused on attracting the suburban middle classes away from rapidly expanding suburban shopping malls and back to the city centre. Now, three decades later, an urban entertainment centre was being identified as a way to draw middle-class consumers back to the downtown and away from suburban multiplexes, which had been expanding in the 1990s. In this most recent era, redevelopment has been identified also as necessary in order to meet the interests of people with ‘leading edge tastes in consumer preferences and entertainment choices.’ These people were moving into the gentrifying neighbourhoods of the inner city, especially to the east of Yonge-Dundas, into newly built condominium lofts geared toward urban professionals. As noted in chapter 2, experts and local residents have been arguing that the demographics of the central city demonstrate a changing local market to which Yonge Street stands in contrast. As was the case with other contemporary examples of urban redevelopment, improving the symbolic economy of Yonge-Dundas was seen as a means of mobilizing and attracting particular consumers to Yonge Street. The definitions of improvement and of ‘good’ consumption were clearly aligned with the activities and offerings of large, transnational retail and entertainment corporations. But, this was not the rationale for favouring this form of retail over what already existed. Rather, the arguments made by both ordinary witnesses and various professionals (i.e., urban planners, marketing analysts, security consultants) all saw the benefits of this form of development in strongly moralized terms: these retailers were good and committed and would mobilize and attract

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middle-class consumers who would conduct themselves according to accepted standards of civility. Through the moralization of existing retailers and the consumers they attracted, a vision emerged of what constituted a good consumption space and the good consumer-citizen. If consumption spaces are cultural objects, then assertions about what kinds of products and retailing belong are also claims about who belongs in the city. These same assertions raise questions about the right to sell and the right to be seen (Zukin 1995). It is often implied that shoppers should be segregated by social class; the consequence is that lowincome residents whose appearance and conduct do not conform are virtually disenfranchised from what are constituted as the public areas of the city. So while cities like Toronto promote diversity, they do not embrace diversity when it comes to the spaces representing the public of the city. Instead, different cultures of class and identity are assigned to their segregated neighbourhoods while the public spaces value a particular image of the consumer citizen. In a city that obsessively valorizes its multiculturalism, this is more than an irony. It is almost as if multiculturalism is permissible only when it shapes good consumer citizens. There are certainly many social differences between the problematic others constituted in Toronto, New York, and Manchester; if there is a commonality, it is to be found in the visions of what forms of consumption make the good city and shape good citizens. The vision of the consumer city was underpinned by the moralization of the conduct of particular retailers and consumers. It was on this basis that different valuations of the space (economic, political, cultural) converged. It was professionals who articulated, justified, and rationalized this shared vision and who defined a number of strategies and technologies for achieving a good consumer space. In this way, professionals’ practices were in part authorized by the moralization of conduct. These practices served as a necessary bridge between knowledge and making the good city and shaping good consumer citizens.

5 The Aesthetic City

The good city is the aesthetic city. Since the City Beautiful movement of the late nineteenth century, aesthetic strategies have been part and parcel of modern city-making practices and the creation of the orderly and good city. In the 1890s, strategies focused on major public investments in monumental boulevards, ceremonial squares, civic buildings, and public gardens and parks (Hall 1988). These strategies connected aesthetics with the social order and with the well-being of the city as a whole. By the late twentieth century, consumption and aesthetics had become more central to the economy of city centres, and buildings, neighbourhoods, and shopping districts were being treated more as aesthetic objects (Boyer 1988). Like consumption, images and symbols are now seen as cultural products that can be marketed but also manipulated to assert what and who belongs in particular spaces of the city. The search for the good city is now less concerned with creating beautiful spaces than with manipulating images and perceptions to create aesthetic spaces (Relph 1987). In the literature on city making, the aesthetic city is discussed from two perspectives. One focuses on aesthetics as a new venue of capital accumulation and as central to the practice of selling places to make them attractive to economic enterprises (e.g., Crilley 1993; Hannigan 1998; Philo and Kearns 1993; Ward 1998). The other examines aestheticization as a strategy and process through which groups seek to mark and claim space in the city and symbolically define spatial identities. For example, the design and aesthetics of space – especially the space of gentrified and redeveloped inner-city centres – are examined as forms of cultural production and as expressions as of the symbolic and economic interests of dominant groups (e.g., Beauregard 1993; Bourdieu

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1984; Featherstone 1991; Ley 1996; Neil Smith 1996; Zukin 1995). A common thread in these studies is that city making reflects the lifestyles, tastes, and aesthetic preferences of the groups that dominate the resettlement of inner-city areas. Against a narrative that claims an end to old cultural hierarchies of high and low and good and bad, Featherstone (1991) points to the persistence of classification, hierarchy, and segregation within the city, as represented in recently gentrified middle-class enclaves and in redevelopment projects designed to exclude others. Similarly, Ley (1996) illustrates how the interests and concerns of the middle and upper classes with regard to city form and development have been dominated by an aestheticism – by a language of lifestyle and a culture of consumption. The inner city in particular is seen as a location that serves as a credential – a mark of distinction in the pursuit of an urban identity. Zukin (1995) suggests that cultural symbols, space, and social power resonate together in ways connected to the cultural strivings of the highly educated, urban middle class. In contrast, Jacobs (1998) suggests that these studies tend to focus on how dominant groups control the aestheticization of the city and to deemphasize the potential for aesthetics to be appropriated for alternative agendas. She argues that although culture has been placed centre stage in late capitalism, it is often depicted as working only negatively, as overriding more real cultures, generating inauthentic diversity, or contributing to the intensification of difference and social polarization (see especially Harvey 1989; Jameson 1984). Through examples of the cultural politics of space, she argues that a situated politics of difference is acted out in a multitude of ways; this complexity cannot be reduced to the narrow script of capital accumulation and should not be seen as only working negatively (Jacobs 1998). The examples she offers to support her point concern the resistant cultural practices of marginal groups in the making of good spaces; that said, the general argument she advances is that aesthetics are often deployed positively and for political as well as economic ends. Jacobs’s challenge is a hopeful and nuanced one, but it does not address a fundamental question that arises from studies of the power of aesthetics: How are aesthetic strategies activated and justified in making the good city? In other words, how are the dominant able to dominate the making of the good city through the deployment of aesthetic strategies? The central argument of this chapter is that aesthetic strategies are activated and mobilized by the moralization of conduct revealed in

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the appearance of space, and that the moralization of conduct underpins visions of the good city and unites dominant groups. I investigate aesthetics as a field of regulation that involves manipulating symbolic codes to mark out spaces for particular groups. That is, city-making practices involve the production of a culture of image that symbolically enhances the appeal of certain places to particular groups. As in the analysis of consumption, here we examine how the valuation and targeting of aesthetics was a positive strategy for mobilizing the desires of those groups which fit an image of civility and which engaged in good forms of conduct. Visual cues such as litter, unkempt properties, and graffiti signalled bad manners and antisocial behaviours, whereas clean sidewalks, beautified storefronts, murals, and an advertising aesthetic signalled good city etiquette and civility. Appearances and images were a field of regulation that involved imposing visual norms that symbolized and signalled who and what kinds of activities did and did not belong at Yonge-Dundas. In this way, like security and consumption, aestheticization was a strategy for mobilizing and attracting particular groups and claiming the space for them. Most ordinary and expert witnesses agreed that Yonge-Dundas needed upgrading and that the ‘lack of investment in appearance’ was feeding negative perceptions. The rationale was that visual cues signalled the presence of groups that did not belong and that these cues needed to be replaced by visual norms that would mark the space for groups that did belong. In these ways, particular modes of conduct revealed in the appearance of Yonge-Dundas were problematized. This activated and justified the redevelopment project and the deployment of a number of technologies that professionals claimed would beautify and improve the image of Yonge-Dundas. In this chapter I outline how problematizations involved the moralization of conduct that produced a negative image. Then I describe two strategies – sanitizing and ‘imagineering’1 – that invoked a number of different technologies that experts claimed would make Yonge-Dundas an aesthetic space. Problematizing Aesthetics Kyle Rae points to a forlorn-looking shuttered store at the corner of Dundas and Yonge Sts. ‘Look at that, isn’t that disgusting?’ he asks. It is drizzling fiercely with stinging wet pellets, but Rae doesn’t seem to notice. He is talking about his favourite subject. ‘Come over here, look at this,’ says Rae, the Toronto city councillor for the downtown area, as he pulls a

The Aesthetic City 129 reporter in his wake north across Dundas for a closer look. Standing in front of a young girl who huddles from the cold as she asks for spare change, Rae points to a jeans store on the other side. The carnival-sized billboard says ‘Tons of Jeans.’ On the other side of the sign there is a wasteland of bare bulbs, some lit, like the ones you shoot at the pellet-gun game at the Canadian National Exhibition. ‘Now that’s disgusting, there’s absolutely no pride of ownership, this is the problem that we’re facing. This intersection is a dump.’ (Wong 1997)

In 1994, one of the earliest reports on the most recent round of fixing up Yonge Street focused on problems with the image, appearance, and aesthetics of Yonge-Dundas – in particular, on ‘noise, litter, street cleanliness, street litter receptacles, upgrading of sidewalks, etc.’ (City of Toronto 1994). Here, the problem of the street was being translated into one of appearance; certainly, noise, litter, and illegal vending were occurring elsewhere in the city, but their presence here did not fit with a particular classification of Yonge-Dundas in the order of city spaces. Against this classification, the existing appearances and activities were deemed out of order. The ‘unsightly appearance’ and ‘seedy atmosphere’ (City of Toronto 1994), and the ‘incohesive’ and ‘poorly maintained’ streetscape, detracted from a ‘positive image for the City’ (City of Toronto 1995b). These kinds of aesthetic concerns were predominant in the early reports to Toronto City Council, such as one in 1995 that noted that it had been more than fifteen years since any ‘meaningful aesthetic improvements have been made to the image of this area’ (City of Toronto 1995a). The report noted that ‘individual businesses continuously rejuvenate their image’ and that similarly, the city must rejuvenate the ‘appearance of this area reflective of its economic and social significance.’ Echoing the problematization of security and consumption, the creation of a new image was connected to the goal of changing the kinds of consumers who frequented the street. The street’s current condition was keeping the right demographics away. This connection between appearance and demographics was made in a report by the Canadian Tourism Commission which noted that, besides safety, ‘standards of hygiene and cleanliness’ were the most important of the five considerations in Canadians’ decisions about which destination to visit (here, average Canadian visitors were described as men and women between twentyfive and fifty-four, travelling as couples or families, with above-average educations and average household incomes higher than the Toronto average) (Ex. 139).

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A report by the YSBRA declared that the objectives for Yonge-Dundas should be to ‘identify and implement other measures needed in order to improve the appearance, safety, and cleanliness of the Street, actual and perceived’ (City of Toronto 1996d). In its submission to the OMB, another residents’ association concurred, calling for measures to improve ‘public safety, aesthetics, and the quality of the retail and entertainment experience’ (Ex. 134). Other witnesses described this part of Yonge Street as ‘disgraceful,’ as evidenced by ‘litter, garbage, permanent street and sidewalk stains’ as well as by boarded-up building fronts and broken-down garbage containers defaced with posters and graffiti (Ex. 41). Yonge-Dundas was ‘downtrodden and very cheap in appearance,’ and merchants showed ‘poor taste’ in the ‘appearance of their stores and venues’ (Ex. 262). Tasteless signs (Ex. 41) and the presence of many dollar stores gave the street a ‘junky’ aesthetic (Ex. 34I). These images were echoed in a number of newspaper articles submitted to the OMB – articles with titles such as ‘Tacky Tacky Yonge Street’ (Hume 1995). All of these statements referred to discrete physical evidence (litter, disrepair) as well as to more general opinions about tasteless, junky, unsightly, and tacky appearances. In his expert report, the city planner responsible for the area connected concerns about aesthetics to the irresponsible and illegal conduct of existing retailers (Ex. 69). Concerns about the ‘lack of investment in appearance’ were linked to the violation of municipal codes: the ‘appearance of area buildings contributes greatly to the overall impression of Yonge Street and feeds negative perceptions of the street. Building owners within the redevelopment project area along Yonge Street have a record of past and current Bylaw and municipal code violations which are evidence of the lack of consideration given to the appearance and quality of the retail environment on Yonge Street’ (Ex. 69). He then noted violations of maintenance, signing, and vending laws and the Ontario Building Code. Infractions involving public property related to noise, signs, and waste, and ‘hanging clothes for sale on the outside facade of the building.’ Thus, the sources of aesthetic impurities were the discounters and illegal vendors. The appearance of existing retail stores was being problematized in addition to the commercial activities themselves. Existing retailers were criticized for not investing in the appearance of their stores; their neglect was seen as contributing strongly to negative perceptions of the area (Ex. 69). The merchandise mix of existing retailers was repelling the right demographics or consumers, and so was their appearance.

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According to experts, successful retail environments required constant upgrading not only of individual stores but also of the ‘district ambience’ (Ex. 184). Major redevelopment was seen to be necessary to bring about a ‘comprehensive re-imaging of the area from its current negative environment and undesirable activity’ (Ex. 184). The intervention began with relatively minor stabs at improving aesthetics (relating to litter, building facades, and so on) but escalated to include the overall reimaging of the area. In the following sections I describe two strategies that were deployed to improve the appearance of Yonge-Dundas – sanitizing and imagineering – and how, together with the strategies of security and consumption, these were orchestrated to produce a sense of place. I will also discuss general citywide policies and strategies adopted by the city; my goal here is to demonstrate the context in which the proposal for Yonge-Dundas was produced. Sanitizing Strategies From the very beginning, recommendations for improving YongeDundas asserted that ‘attractiveness and cleanliness’ were keys to the area’s future. ‘Cleaning up Yonge Street’ served as a metaphor, one that encompassed a number of aesthetic strategies focusing on litter by-law enforcement, more frequent garbage collection, more and newer canisters, and the power-washing of sidewalks (Ex. 41). The YSBRA recommended that all of these be incorporated as part of a ‘Keep Yonge Street Beautiful Campaign.’ In 1996 the main technology adopted was a facade improvement program. This consisted of city grants and loans to provide matching funds to property owners on Yonge Street between Gerrard and Queen to pay for improvements to their building facades. The objective was to improve the public face of discount stores. A second action to improve the outward appearance of businesses involved cancelling all marketing display locations between Queen and Gerrard on the east side of Yonge Street. Their removal was rationalized on the grounds that the sidewalks were too narrow to accommodate ‘consistently heavy pedestrian use and occasional surges in demand’ (City of Toronto 1996a). Businesses were asked to remove Aframe signs from the sidewalks; failure to do so would result in a fine. Other actions included increased street-cleaning and the introduction of user-friendlier garbage cans, which were designed to ‘encourage pedestrians not to litter’ (a scarlet and black ladybug). Graffiti and postering were addressed through citywide programs already underway when the sanitizing of Yonge-Dundas began. In the

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summer of 1997 the city proposed a by-law that would restrict postering on poles and street furniture (mailboxes, newspaper boxes, transit shelters, and public seating) in the downtown core (Patrick 1997). The goal here was to reduce clutter. The by-law was described as an attempt to only regulate postering; previous moves to ban this practice had been declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Court of Canada.2 The means of regulation was to consist of 1,600 plastic collars placed on utility poles throughout Toronto; these would be the only spots where posters would be allowed. The regulations included a list of requirements. Thus, no poster could be bigger than 8.5 by 11 inches. It could only be attached with staples or tape. Only one copy per collar would be permitted. Also, each poster would have to include the name, address, and phone number of the posterer. ‘Mispostering’ could result in a $5,000 fine, as well as a $60-per-poster removal fee. Opposition to the by-law was immediate and strong. Opponents argued that the by-law would severely curtail freedom of speech and that the requirements were so restrictive that the law amounted to an outright ban. The city ended up adopting a less restrictive by-law, which came into effect in 1998. This one allowed posters on utility poles but also banned placement on street furniture and prohibited the use of any poster material besides paper. Graffiti was another factor identified in the Dundas Square Safety and Security Report as having a negative impact on both safety and appearance (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998). This report recommended that preventive measures be taken against postering and graffiti when Dundas Square was being designed. The selection of low-maintenance, easily cleaned materials would protect surfaces against such deviant uses. These materials would also signal to taggers and posterers that these activities were not permitted. The report also recommended that murals be painted along laneways to convey a sense of care and ownership. This latter strategy reflected a citywide antigraffiti campaign that took two main approaches. First, the city established the Graffiti Transformation Program in 1996 to remove graffiti and to transform the defaced sites into murals (City of Toronto 2001b). This program combined youth unemployment measures with neighbourhood planning, improvement, and revitalization strategies. It was based on claims that the deterioration of communities was caused in part by the proliferation of graffiti. A community economic development model was adopted, which involved local community organizations hiring young people to remove graffiti and to resurface the walls with attractive murals. The

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Graffiti Transformation Program allowed participating agencies to create training and business experiences for youth in the field of graffiti removal and outdoor art: ‘In this way an opportunity is created to ameliorate neighbourhood deterioration and, since much of the graffiti is perpetrated by youth, to involve their peers in learning about the adverse effects on retail and residential neighbourhoods as a proactive intervention’ (City of Toronto 2001b). The second approach, which came a few years later, after transformation had not sufficiently curtailed the activity, was the Graffiti Eradication Program, initiated by the Toronto Police Service in 2000. It focused on the ‘reduction of crime, fear and disorder as it relates to graffiti.’ Its objectives were ‘urban beautification, graffiti sub-culture erosion, stakeholder collaboration, reduction in crime, fear and disorder, increased property values, employment opportunities and tourism’ (Toronto Police Service 2001). The Police Service considered graffiti a criminal offence that was subject to the vandalism sections of the Canadian Criminal Code: ‘Anyone who wilfully destroys or damages public or private property, and in doing so, renders the property less suited for its intended purpose, or the usefulness or value become impaired constitute a mischief to property.’3 The program literature claimed that irrefutable academic evidence argues that graffiti crime involves five significant consequential costs: 1) Hard dollar costs for removal and restoration, 2) Judicial costs, 3) Psycho-social costs, such as decreased respect for law and order, citizen fear, diminished use of public spaces, 4) Renown academics argue that physical disorder (graffiti) has a direct and empirical link with social disorder (crime), and 5) Issues of collateral costs such as theft for supplies, trespass at locations when tagging, and ultimately the criminal offence of mischief. (ibid.)

This quote highlights how cost was not the only reason to sanitize public spaces of graffiti. Another was to prevent the social disorder that such visual elements were seen as promoting and representing. The ‘irrefutable arguments’ of renowned academics noted in the program literature were not specified. Disrespect for the law, the incitement of fear, and links with social disorder made graffiti not only a criminal offence but also a social one. As a sanitizing strategy, the program therefore involved effacing visual traces of social disorder. Eradication involved targeted removal projects, twenty-four-hour removal time

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for new graffiti, and a number of removal agents such as sand blasting, chemicals, soda blasting, and pressure washing. Removal was also carried out using paint-overs, in conjunction with community groups and prisoner work programs. Central to the strategy of New York’s Forty-second Street Development Corporation was the deployment of aesthetic tactics to manage the appearance of the block. One such tactic was based on the zero-tolerance antigraffiti and panhandling campaign launched on the New York subways during the 1980s. The establishment of a graffiti-free Times Square (and New York in general) was undertaken by a broader strategy. In July 1995, New York mayor Rudolph Giuliani established the Mayor’s Anti-Graffiti Task Force as ‘a vital part of the Administration’s effort to improve the quality of life for all New Yorkers’ (City of New York 1995). The mayor’s executive order stated that graffiti created an impression of disorder and chaos and that graffiti vandalism could be a precursor to more serious acts of crime and violence. He cited the ‘broken windows theory,’ which contends that unaddressed disorder is a sign that no one cares and actually invites further disorder. Keeping the area graffiti-free was one of the ongoing objectives of the Times Square BID, which used the same strategy as part of its overall sanitation function: ‘Seven days a week 50 BID workers in cherry red jumpsuits sweep the sidewalks and curbsides and empty City litter baskets; remove graffiti, paint light poles, trash cans, fire hydrants and newsstands; and vacuum, scrub, wash and disinfect sidewalks with the help of the BID’s high-tech cleaning machines, Felix 1 and 2’ (Times Square Business Improvement District 2001). Sanitation workers immediately remove graffiti throughout the district with the use of the Frankensteamer – a hot-water, high-pressure steam cleaner. They also continually paint over two thousand pieces of street furniture. In addition, the BID sponsors initiatives such as ‘Can Your Butts’ to deal with cigarette smokers who dispose of their butts inappropriately; and Operation Shutterbug, a series of late-night photographic expeditions to document sanitation violations. The BID boasts that when it began, the city rated the sidewalks of Times Square as 54 per cent clean; today, they regularly exceed 90 per cent. The Manchester City Centre Management Company Limited was given responsibility for issues of street cleanliness. It supervises a team of Street Care Rangers, who were introduced in the city centre in 2000 with the aim of responding quickly and flexibly to problems such as graffiti, ‘flyposting’ (postering), and litter (City of Manchester

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2001a). This was part of a citywide initiative called the ‘Bright and Clean’ campaign, a strategic program of action devised to improve cleanliness standards in the city by the year 2002, when Manchester was to host the Commonwealth Games. In partnership with the Tidy Britain Group, Manchester’s Bright and Clean campaign was launched as part of the city’s overall Crime and Disorder Strategy (City of Manchester 2001b). Improving the cleanliness of the city spaces was identified as a way to ‘cut crime and disorder,’ in that ‘an area left in a mess attracts vandals and troublemakers.’ This strategy linked safety to cleanliness and was implemented by local schools, community groups, voluntary agencies, tenants’ and residents’ associations, and Homewatch groups. Manchester’s sanitation campaign was symbolized by the erection of a statue, A New Broom in the city centre in 1999. The sculpture consists of a ten-foot-high stainless-steel dustpan and brush standing on two big lumps of stone. It was presented to Manchester’s Operational Services Department in recognition of the work it was carrying out to keep the streets clean. At the unveiling, brooms signed by the artist were distributed (City of Manchester 1999b). The City Council also brought in specialist equipment to deal with graffiti and flyposting and initiated a campaign against the latter. Flyposting was criticized for making the environment look very unattractive and unpleasant and in turn encouraging people to drop more litter. Ironically, it was through the posting of prominent signs in targeted areas that people were warned that flyposting was illegal and that offenders would be prosecuted. Imagineering Strategies The zoning and Official Plan amendments discussed in the previous chapter addressed technical zoning matters such as density and building setbacks. However, both planning reports and the evidence of experts at the OMB emphasized that design guidelines and the orchestration of built form and building facades were now the central foci of land use control. In other words, the emphasis was now on various technologies collectively involving the imagineering of development. Specifically, it was asserted that the appearance and design of buildings should be the focus rather than technical density designations (e.g., Ex. 69).4 It followed that greater density could be justified so long as the development complied with built-form guidelines and specific design policies (City of Toronto 1996e). In this way, the appearance

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and aesthetics of the development became important to the evaluation and approval process.5 Design guidelines for Yonge-Dundas set out in greater detail how general Official Plan and zoning by-law policies would be met by specific urban design features. For example, policies on views and vistas, on the relation of buildings to streets and open spaces, on the siting and massing of buildings, on lighting, visibility, and surveillance, and on the promotion of street activities and pedestrian amenities were translated into detailed specifications relating to the design of building facades, architectural features, entrances, signage, windows, and so on for each development parcel (Ex. 137). Design guidelines included specifications regarding decorative elements and building facades. These ‘specs’ touched on the following: the animation of at-grade building faces through special design features, windows, and retail uses with no blank or untreated walls permitted; building facades with cornices and roof lines, with special architectural treatment to create interest, and articulated in a strong vertical manner; strong architectural elements at the corners of Yonge and Dundas and Dundas and Victoria to symbolize and identify the development; signage built into the designs rather than tacked on; building setbacks to permit spillover of retail uses onto the sidewalk and thereby further animate the streetscape; and a high percentage of glazing to generate excitement and energy (from reflections) as well as to permit people inside and outside to watch one another (Ex. 137). As we have seen, many of these design features were also being advocated as technologies for enhancing the security of the space. For example, the same design guidelines for windows were recommended by the Dundas Square Safety and Security Report, which connected these features to safety and surveillance. The report recommended that ‘building facades should be as open and transparent as possible to encourage visibility and overlook into, and from, the square’ and that ‘reflective or tinted glass, and large areas of solid walls’ should be discouraged (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 10). A similar set of guidelines was included in the supplementary planning guidance for Manchester’s city centre. These guidelines contained detailed specifications concerning active retail uses at grade; architectural features and treatments to enhance prominent corners; the making of visually appealing building frontages; and the remodelling of existing building facades to enhance their visual appearance. The major additions in Manchester were intended to transform the city centre into

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a twenty-four-hour entertainment centre to make Manchester ‘a city with a 24 hour round-the-clock lifestyle’ (City of Manchester 1999a). Design was seen as a means of creating this lifestyle of excitement and energy. Local media reviews noted this attention to design, noting that ‘lookie-feely thinking didn’t get much of a hearing when the gritty city was busy designing the world’s first steam engine, computer, medical scanner and atom-splitter. But goodness, it does now’ (Wainwright 1999). Overall, the design guidelines for Yonge-Dundas were meant to contribute to ‘a sense of excitement, interaction and entertainment.’ The regulations were based on a vision of ‘lively signage and eclectic architectural design,’ which would ‘promote a sense of excitement’ (OMBBI 1998b). Clearly, the objective of design guidelines in general is to comprehensively reimage areas. Early on in the effort to change YongeDundas, it was argued that more than a simple clean-up campaign would be needed. Local business and residents called for a new image to address what was wrong with the area; ‘this new image [could] only be achieved by meaningful change’ that would bring ‘a greater number and broader range of residents and visitors to the street’ (City of Toronto 1996d). But within this debate, some ambivalence was expressed about the present appearance of Yonge-Dundas. In one of the earliest reports on the program to improve the corner, it was acknowledged that the street had a special character and a ‘natural disorder’ that should not be overly controlled and beautified. This same report noted that the prevailing character of the street consisted of ‘varied store fronts,’ ‘an experiential quality brought about by boisterous, commercial signage and the pedestrian nature of the street,’ and that it was ‘eclectic’ and ‘carnival’ (City of Toronto 1996e). This perspective was well represented in an article in Canadian Geographic written on the occasion of the two-hundredth anniversary of Yonge Street, which captured the street’s raucous character, its contrasts, and the difficulty in classifying it. The street was represented as both attractive and repelling, as a turn-on and turn-off environment. As such, the article well represented the space as it was before redevelopment: At Yonge and Dundas, the scene is a noisy place this time of day, and there is something sour rising in the air, as if the pavement was past ripened. In front of the Eaton Centre the crowd is made up mostly of idling teenagers. Sketch artists will draw your likeness for $10; for a loonie, a guy with foot-

138 The Moral Economy of Cities stools will restore the gleam to your Nikes with his white magic marker. Yonge is choked with choices for consumers; this is Toronto’s shopping bazaar. Today a man with gold teeth in a leathern face is selling watches from a briefcase that will bite shut and disappear if a policeman ambles into view. From more permanent merchants you can buy just about anything, from cheapest plastic sandals to costliest electronics; from sidewalk hotdogs toxic red in the flesh to choice sushi; from tickets to The Phantom of the Opera to a front-row seat at the Zanzibar where All New Showgirls, Best in Town, Never Stop shedding their clothes. Indeed this stretch of Yonge is a 24-hour experience: at night, it’s a scene out of worst neon Las Vegas. (S. Smith 1996: 26)

Appellants built on this ambivalence about the street when countering complaints about the appearance of existing businesses. They claimed that the area had ‘a gritty “inner-city” edge’ and that ‘this quality is one of the area’s most distinguishing characteristics, clearly not an equal attraction for everyone, but an attraction nevertheless, and one that has given the area an identity readily distinguishable from that of other urban or suburban centres of activity in Toronto’ (Ex. 200). A contradiction arose from the acknowledgment that those aspects of Yonge-Dundas which made it lively and attractive were the very elements that proponents were problematizing. But in the end, the assessment was that the street had an ‘image problem for the downtown which needed correction’ (City of Toronto 1995a). The proposed plan and design recognized these special characteristics of the street and came down on the side of ‘correcting the imbalanced, dysfunctional nature of the street ... [However,] the planning work seeks not to sterilize the street or be a panacea for all the social ills which are exhibited on the street’ (Ex. 69). In this regard, aestheticization was not intended to erase what was unique but to order and regulate it – that is, to tame the grittiness. Beautifying the space, then, was about managing the disorderly aspects of the street without eradicating them completely. The strategy was to keep those conditions which contributed to the character of Yonge-Dundas but at the same time to bring them under control. The street’s image needed to reflect those aspects of its past identity – such as its grittiness and disorder – while projecting a new identity, one that pronounced the area as a space of ‘safe danger.’ Redeveloping the area would therefore mean rehabilitating and controlling the street’s existing symbolic codes.

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Design guidelines for the urban entertainment centre and urban square identified particular elements that would contribute to a desired overall image. The symbolic code that was central to this reimagining expressed an advertising aesthetic. Advertisements and glaring lights, such as those found in other big city places like Times Square, were identified as visual magnets and as stimuli that would project an image of entertainment and excitement. More signage would stimulate visitors and make the space unique, while generating significant revenues for the city (Ex. 299). Times Square was the model cited for all of this, as the city space that Yonge-Dundas should emulate. However, the Times Square image to be emulated was confined to its advertising aesthetic and not its high-density buildings. Merely mentioning Times Square was sufficient to evoke an image of lights, billboards, and advertising while at the same time leaving the meaning and specifics of the comparison intentionally ambiguous.6 Proposals for billboards, Jumbotrons, and multimedia towers fostered the development of an advertising aesthetic as part of an overall strategy to enliven the area. This aesthetic included covering the buildings facing the urban square ‘with coloured lights, jumbotrons, and flashing advertising images.’ Also, within the square, lighting should be designed that did not ‘compete with this electronic activity but created a well lit, calm, safe environment from which to view and experience city life.’7 An advertising tower was proposed for the northwest corner of Yonge-Dundas, and this became the subject of a separate appeal to the OMB while the hearing for the Yonge-Dundas project was still underway. The OMB approved the media tower in February 1998 noting that the ‘intersection and new development and related signage which surround it should be different, special and unlike any other downtown or main streets in the city’ (Ontario Municipal Board 1998). The Atrium Multi Media Tower was completed in November 1999. Toronto had long had murals, posters, and billboards, but the media tower introduced a new format, one described as ‘fully architectural’ (Hume 1999b). Instead of being applied to an available surface, the media tower had its own three-dimensional surface. According to the architect, it was the first of its kind in the world and was intended to capture the flavour of Times Square (Plate 6). A second media tower was proposed for the far eastern side of Dundas Square; this one would consist of a giant (50 metre) inverted cone called The Torch. Signs would rotate on rails to create movement and spotlights would shine from within (Plate 7). The Torch would mark the eastern edge of the square;

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the north and south building facades would be covered in a variety of billboards. The north side of Dundas Square would consist of the urban entertainment centre covered in theatre signs and billboards; the lights, billboards, and theatre marquees of the Hard Rock Café would animate the south side (Plate 8). The owners of the Hard Rock Café were planning a major renovation that would include new signage ‘compatible with the project’ (OMBBI 1998b). To the southwest, plans called for the redesign of the Eaton Centre facade as a ‘horizontal media tower’ with illuminated advertising signs (Hume 1999b). About fifteen backlit billboards were to be added to the Yonge Street facade of the centre (Plate 8). Taken together, these would ‘form dramatic images’ and load the urban square with ‘visual/sensory stimuli’ (Ex. 64). Collectively, the advertising displays would make the urban square ‘a space from which to allow the senses to be overcome by the energy of The City’ (OMBBI 1998f). The covering of building facades with signs and billboards was a way to relate the entertainment centre to the street by creating continuity in image and stimulus between spaces inside and outside. Visual stimulus, entertainment, and shopping would generate an overall image and experience, one that would serve as the magnet needed to mobilize the interests and desires of consumers: Retail continuity is based on the ongoing flow of interesting visual stimuli that relate to the consumer’s shopping trip. Interesting visual stimuli for a retail setting as opposed to a negative stimuli and lack of continuity, consist of: (a) a variety of interesting stores one after the other, (b) ‘visual or sensory magnets’ or attractions such as store windows, signs, activity, cafes, lights, sound, groups of people, music, motion, etc. which signify vitality. If these are seen across an open space or street, then shoppers’ eyes and minds are kept interested and they are drawn along to this destination as their shopping trip continues in an uninterrupted manner. (Ex. 64)

On Times Square as well, the advertising aesthetic was connected to imagineering. During the 1980s, when plans were in place to redevelop the area for office uses, a dozen civic groups protested, championing the concept of Times Square as a lowrise commercial strip covered in neon billboards. They defended the present aesthetic and urged that the neon signs and giant billboards be kept (Zukin 1995). In the end, the City of New York amended the zoning code so as to maintain the character of buildings bedecked in neon (Stewart 1998). This led to a change in zoning that mandated developers to continue the use of

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neon and electric signs to maintain the character of the area. Office towers facing Times Square were told to cover themselves in spectacular billboard advertisements. The same ordinance required all buildings in Times Square to illuminate their lower walls with electronic billboards 120 feet across. These signs had till now been used for highintensity advertising campaigns; now, these same lights were being promoted by the city as high art (Boyer 1988). Design guidelines called for a requisite number of light units for neon signs, which were to be controlled by urban designers ‘who have planned its spontaneous unplannedness’ (Boyer 2000). Rationalities: Sanitizing and Imagineering The technologies of aestheticization deployed at Yonge-Dundas were based on a rationality of regulating, either through the imposition of penalties (sanitizing) or through the imposition of norms (imagineering). Sanitizing focused on bad conduct expressed in the form of litter, garbage, unauthorized postings (posters, graffiti), disorderly and tacky signs, and sidewalk displays of merchandise. These things were associated with groups that did not belong; the physical presence of these groups was problematized, and so were the visual cues they inscribed on the space. Technologies in the form of municipal by-laws and Criminal Code offences were to be used to penalize these undesired and/or unofficial markings on the space. Sanitizing involved eradicating signs; in contrast, imagineering sought to impose visual norms on the space. Together, these would mobilize the desires of particular groups. Appearance, as a field of regulation, governed the space by setting design standards and orchestrating image. This was best illustrated in the regulation of built form through design standards rather than density controls; the belief was that the former were more important than the latter. Imagineering, or the regulation of image, involved technologies for not eradicating but rather taming appearances by rehabilitating the existing symbolic codes of the street. The symbolic code for Yonge-Dundas was to be much like that of Times Square – advertising was to be appropriated as an aesthetic device. Calls for aestheticization are often underpinned by claims that there is a causal link between appearances and criminality (see chapter 3). For example, urban graffiti is often read as a visual indicator of the presence of particular groups; furthermore, graffiti are more than a representation of attitudes – they are also a prelude to particular conduct as well as a

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‘behavioural manifesto’ (Ley and Cybriwsky 1974). The same rationality that connects appearance to crime and to the control of territory (e.g. graffiti) also underpins strategies of aestheticization to improve city spaces. The flip side of the graffiti-begets-crime rationalization was that the problems of disorderly presences and conduct could be solved by erasing these markings and replacing them with other signs. Aestheticization was in this way tightly linked to security. Technologies of situational crime prevention were seen as means of producing spaces of inclusion and exclusion. These technologies included mapping, naming, and target-hardening spaces, as well as aestheticizing then to make them pleasant and attractive (Zukin 1995). Aesthetic strategies usually target specific areas and sites for improvement. In contrast to modern city-planning, which is ostensibly based on treating the city as a functional whole, the strategic approach targets parts of the city and creates specially designed environments (Boyer 1988; Relph 1987). Fragments of the city are regulated through special zoning designations, locally specific laws and agencies, areaspecific historical preservation controls and the like. Boyer (1998) contends that this targeted approach has led to serial development patterns, which are being reproduced across cities. Festival marketplaces, waterfront redevelopments, historic quarters, cultural districts, and urban entertainment centres are only some of the series now marking inner-city redevelopment in major North American and British inner cities. She describes this pattern or serial rationality as ornamental. Consumption and aesthetics have become more central to the economy of city centres; as a consequence, pleasure and play have come to dominate these patterns, and ornamentation has become more significant – buildings and neighbourhoods are now seen as aesthetic objects. Furthermore, through locally incorporated bodies such as BIAs, BIDs, and TCMCs, and under the guise of improving public spaces, social stratification is being nurtured through the differentiated material and symbolic restructuring of the design, forms of consumption, and aesthetics of districts (Boyer 1988; Zukin 1995). Specially designed environments fragment city spaces and rank them into luxury and non-luxury areas; they also establish greater distinctions between high and low areas of the city. The division of cities through design contrasts with the mass approach to the making of the good city. Planning technologies have shifted from large public-sector projects to urban design projects; planning is now strategic, entrepreneurial, and discretionary instead of rational, social, and comprehensive. The new approaches are oriented

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toward a neoliberal rationality in that they focus on appearances as the causes of and solutions to social problems and on the entrepreneurial selling and marketing of the image and aesthetics of the city. Ornamental and targeted aesthetic technologies shift attention away from social welfarist, distributional, and materialist concerns toward symbolic and superficial concerns relating to specific, targeted city spaces. This rationality both redefines and emphasizes the entrepreneurial provision of public goods; in doing so, it demolishes socialized goods and rejects social and causal approaches to understanding urban difference. Debates about the cleanliness, image, and appearance of Yonge-Dundas did not engage in a discussion of social causes. Aesthetic strategies do not concern themselves with the needs of poor, homeless, or marginalized groups; instead, they focus on the mere presence of those groups, on their appearance, and on the marks they leave on city spaces. Although certain aesthetic practices were criminalized (e.g., graffiti), the general concern rested on the symbolism of appearances and on how they signified disorderly conduct and social problems. Generally speaking, cultural and aesthetic strategies avoid consideration of the hard problems of social and economic inequality (Relph 1987; Zukin 1995). As responses to social problems, these strategies neutralize problems of inequality with the goal of restoring to the city a surface calm that belies underlying contradictions (Deutsche 1988). Major urban-redevelopment projects often promote aesthetics (i.e., beautiful design) as the answer to problems. Ethics themselves become aestheticized; the good city becomes the beautiful and visually pleasing city, one in which social and political purposes and impacts are marginalized (Crilley 1993). As one Toronto architectural critic put it, a ‘new façade is, after all, just that, a façade [but] like beauty, urbanism is sometimes only skin-deep. Sometimes, however, that’s enough’ (Hume 1999a). The emphasis on aesthetics makes it difficult for opposition groups to launch challenges, especially when local, national, and international agents are backing projects and making protests seem like rejections of civic benefits and improvements. The selling and marketing of cities and urban entrepreneurialism have long been part of city making. More recently, though, there has been a deliberate marketing of aesthetic notions of culture, of the symbolic economy of the city. This is manifest in city developments that focus on entertainment, media, and recreation spaces and employment. True, the city has always had a symbolic economy, from the promotions of place entrepreneurs who deal with symbols of growth to the more traditional symbolic economy of city advocates and elites,

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who establish their identity by building great public works (Zukin 1995). What is new about the symbolic economy since the late 1970s, says Zukin, is the coming together of image and product and the role of the symbolic economy in speaking for or representing the city. The city’s symbolic economy is promoted through place marketing. This business is very similar to the marketing of any product or service in the private sector. As one economic development officer has expressed it, cities need a vision of what is desirable, what they uniquely have to offer, who their customers and competitors are, and how to adapt their products to meet customer requirements. A city must learn the importance of speaking with one voice (Fretter 1993). In this regard, local authorities increasingly have become managers of image and marketing rather than of service delivery (Mellor 1997). The symbolic economy is usually targeted to particular groups. One of the strategic campaigns of Toronto’s new Official Plan (discussed earlier) involved the making of beautiful places. Campaigns for beautiful spaces includes objectives such as investing in design excellence, building beautiful public places, beautifying traffic arteries, building parks and open spaces, placing art in public places, constructing buildings that work together and fit in, and conserving historical sites and architectural treasures. These plans also recognize that such objectives appeal to particular groups. They recognize ‘that in the new knowledge-based economy, a city has to look good to entrepreneurs and workers who can locate anywhere in the world’ (City of Toronto 2000c). In general, inner-city redevelopment projects involve deliberately manipulating culture to enhance the attractiveness of places, especially to the relatively well-off and educated knowledge and service workers but also to up-market tourists, the organizers of conferences, and other revenue generators (Philo and Kearns 1993). Aesthetic strategies respond to the tastes and preferences of particular groups in an effort to attract them to a space, which they can then mark as their own. An image is developed in relation to the symbolic codes of other groups as a means of marking out to whom spaces belong. All of the strategies for achieving the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city were applied to this symbolic remaking of Yonge-Dundas. Collectively, they were seen as a way to define ‘a sense of place.’ Creating a ‘Sense of Place’ at Yonge-Dundas One factor that is more important to entertainment center customers than shopping center customers is ‘sense of place.’ Having a unique sense of

The Aesthetic City 145 place is as important as the combination of security, convenience and accessibility ... ‘Sense of place’ is the magical quality that can double, triple or even quadruple the effective trade area size for entertainment centers. It is the quality that causes customers to drive or travel farther than average distances just to be in the center ... ‘Sense of place’ is also the quality that is lacking in most regional malls. Most mall developer/owners do not focus on ‘place-making’ – a vitally important attribute to a successful entertainment center. (Ex. 176; emphasis in original)

The conception of a good aesthetic or image was captured in a phrase used by many witnesses at the OMB hearing: what was needed was the creation of a ‘sense of place.’ This term was used to capture a ‘magical quality,’ one that united all aspects of the development, a quality that was the product of sensory cues and stimuli that gave the impression of a secure, consumer, and aesthetic space. As I will argue below, the visual cues that established a sense of place also emitted an understanding or impression of who belonged there. The precise meaning of ‘sense of place’ was vague and elusive, yet each time it was invoked it seemed to be the glue that made all the various components of the redevelopment project fit together. Its use, often without explanation, implied a subjective understanding, feeling, or impression of something that was self-explanatory or commonsensical. It implied a feeling that everyone understood or had experienced, as if everyone knew intuitively the kind of place it suggested. All of this involved instinct, intuition, appreciation, discernment, and judgment. In its decision, the OMB summarized how expert witnesses defined a sense of place. It was something that could be created ‘through public space and memorable architecture,’ that had an ‘eclectic nature,’ and that created entertainment, fun, excitement, and stimulus (OMBBI 1998b). ‘The most experienced expert before the Board on urban entertainment centres, Mr. Stoffel, gave convincing evidence that it was destined for success that in conjunction with the square it would create a unique and critical sense of place making Yonge and Dundas a unique people place’ (OMBBI 1998f). The OMB noted that New York had succeeded in ‘re-establish[ing] Times Square with a strong sense of place and strong sense of arrival which exists in an atmosphere of tremendous vibrancy and excitement.’ It noted that even in ‘the home of free enterprise,’ it was recognized that the ‘public sector should act to create a new sense of place and revitalize a significant area of a major City’ (OMBBI 1998f). Aesthetic devices were part of the strategy of the Times Square BID, which had worked to ‘cre-

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ate their own sense of place not only by re-creating the attentive municipal services of another era (such as sanitation and security), but also by following Disney’s lead in identifying them and style with social order’ (Zukin 1995: 66). The inference was that by doing similar things, Toronto could achieve similar results at Yonge-Dundas. In this vein, the first principle of the supplementary planning guidance for Manchester’s city centre was the creation of a sense of place (City of Manchester 1997c). The guideline identified a number of features that would contribute to this, such as landmarks, vistas, stimulating open spaces, and thoughtful design. This same strategy could be encountered in the guide to development in Manchester: ‘What a city looks and feels like is a crucial part of its identity’ (City of Manchester 1997a); ‘the process of renewal in all senses carries with it the potential for a new sense of identity’ (City of Manchester 1997b). The importance of a sense of place was emphasized in the crossexamination of a marketing analyst, whose evidence on trends in the cinema market the proponent’s lawyers had great difficulty disputing. However, the proponent’s lawyers were able to dismiss his arguments and the alternative proposal that he represented on the grounds that he had ‘admitted that in his report, he did not address sense of place’ (OMBBI 1998a). The OMB noted that another witness had called the redevelopment ‘exciting’ and had suggested that it would ‘create both a sense of place and sense of arrival’ (OMBBI 1998b). A sense of place was referred to as a universal quality. Yet the implication was that this sense of place was discernable by particular groups that proponents deemed to belong at Yonge-Dundas. For one marketing analyst, it was specifically a quality appealing to ‘the unique state of mind and patronage patterns that customers exhibit when they are patronizing leisure and entertainment centers and districts’ (Ex. 176). And according to this analyst’s demographic description, the average customer was under thirty-five, a parent with a middle-class income (i.e., over $60,000) and a university degree. Moralizing Conduct The conduct of existing retailers was considered bad: they presented a negative image and fed negative perceptions; they dirtied the street with garbage; they had junky, unsightly, and tacky appearances; and they violated municipal codes and thereby demonstrated a lack of consideration for the appearance and quality of the retail environment.

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Good retailers, in contrast, were willing and able to take responsibility for the appearance of Yonge-Dundas; they were committed to producing a positive image and to creating an aesthetic space; and they were engaged in manipulating image and culture to enhance the appeal of spaces to particular groups. Bad retailers were unwilling or unable to do so, and with regard to them, punitive and negative technologies in the form of penalties were to be invoked or intensified (sanitizing strategies). Also, good retailers took responsibility for the governance of their spaces and could be guided positively by design codes (imagineering strategies). But most significantly, good retailers contributed to the creation of a sense of place that would be recognized by those groups deemed to belong at Yonge-Dundas. Aesthetic concerns and strategies are not new to city-making. There have been different moments in the aestheticization of the modern city, such as the City Beautiful movement of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and the contemporary cultural strategies for economic growth that began in the 1960s. However, as noted in the introduction to this chapter, in the late twentieth century the good city came to be less about creating beautiful spaces than about manipulating images and perceptions to create aesthetic spaces targeted to particular groups. Visions of the city appeal to particular groups through a moral language of good and bad images (Zukin 1995). Zukin contends that in this way, culture is a powerful means of regulating space through images and memories that symbolize who belongs in specific places. Instead of simply economic objectives, urban redevelopment projects manipulate symbolic languages of exclusion and entitlement: ‘The look and feel of cities reflect decisions about what – and who – should be visible and what should not, on concepts of order and disorder, and on uses of aesthetic power’ (1995: 7). In these ways, aestheticization seeks to constitute a more homogenous population for a space. It does so by constructing ‘architectural and semiotic barriers to filter out undesirables’ (Davis 1990: 257). This selective architecture results in a form of gated community without walls (Zukin 1995). For Ferrell and Sanders (1995: 320), this represents an ‘aesthetics of authority’ that is as significant as criminogenic and commercial technologies for including and excluding groups. They argue that environments exert direct physical control (e.g., gated communities) but also function as symbolic environments, as series of signs and codes built into structures of social and legal regulation. The most explicit illustration of this is perhaps Times Square, where art

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and photographs were used to declare who constituted the new community (Chesluk 2000). In this way, symbolic codes signify particular social dispositions and socio-economic positions (Knox 1987). Aesthetics are sometimes described as ideological alibis for redevelopment and for capital’s conquest of the city (e.g., Deutsche 1988; Harvey 1989). But, it was the moralization of conduct revealed through the appearance of space that activated a number of aesthetic strategies for improving Yonge-Dundas. In this sense, aesthetics were perhaps an alibi or euphemism for the symbolic conquest of the city by dominant groups. Professionals translated the moralization of conduct into a vision of the aesthetic city. Together with security and consumption concerns, this justified and activated a number of strategies and technologies for governing Yonge-Dundas. In this way, the moralization of conduct authorized professional practices, which were viewed as a necessary bridge between knowledge and the making the good city and shaping good citizens. But the authority of professional practices was based on more than moralization. As I elaborate in the next chapter, the authority to define problems, rationalities, strategies, and technologies is also in part determined by the recognition of particular credentials, conduct, and claims as professional. The practices of agents who fulfil certain conditions of authority are what render the city governable.

6 The Governable City

At the OMB hearing, the moralization of the conduct of particular groups at Yonge-Dundas was the source of agreement and unity among various agents, including developers, professionals, and local business people and residents. However, it was professionals who articulated the moralization of conduct to develop a vision of the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city. They organized and rationalized problematizations and identified solutions and technologies for making Yonge-Dundas fit that vision of the good city. We now shift our focus from the substance of claims to an analysis of how the authority to make those claims was granted at the hearing. This focus on those socially recognized conditions that made professional practices authoritative, objective, and rational is essential if we are to understand the moralization of conduct. As I noted in chapter 2, this book’s objective is to identify the social conditions that produced a common grid of intelligibility and that made the claims of both proponents and opponents coherent, understandable, and reasonable. Specifically, we examine how the recognition of professional credentials validated claims and how professional authority served as a bridge between knowledge and the making of the good city. As such, this chapter serves as a link between the empirical data about Yonge-Dundas presented earlier and the interpretive framework relating to how professional practices form a moral economy (see chapter 7). There are many technologies that govern city-making practices, including provincial statutes, municipal by-laws, and Official Plans. Through evaluations of development proposals in professional planning studies and reports, these technologies are interpreted and put into practice. That an elected municipal council adjudicates these prac-

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tices is seen as an acknowledgment that decisions are not purely administrative and technical matters involving the straightforward application of law. Rather, planning decisions are political in the sense that different interests must be evaluated and adjudicated. However, political decision-making at the municipal level is often one of the reasons for allowing many planning decisions to be appealed to the OMB. The presumption is that although the weighing of interests is an important part of the process, this should not interfere with the requirements and objective application of planning law. There is considerable controversy over this presumption and the powers of the OMB. For example, the OMB is an unelected body that makes political decisions but is not directly accountable to citizens affected by its rulings. It has been accused of siding with one interest group or another (e.g., developers) and of being prone to political interference from the provincial government, which uses it to override municipal authority.1 Although these are important and highly contested issues, my interest here is different. Instead of debating whether a separation between political and administrative matters is presumed or possible, I investigate how the administrative hearing constitutes the knowledge of what makes a good city as a technical and administrative matter. In this sense, the administrative hearing is an opportunity to open up the constitution of knowledge and authority to analysis. An administrative hearing is a highly organized discursive environment that offers an outstanding opportunity to observe and examine governing rationalities, arguments, and justifications that otherwise would remain hidden or unrecorded. Like the courts, the OMB adjudicates knowledge; the key assumption is that this is an administrative matter rather than a political one. The OMB is constituted as a ‘trier of facts’ (Chayko, Gulliver, and Macdougall 1999: 35). This is reflected not only in the conduct of the OMB as an administrative tribunal but also in the appointment of members, most of whom are lawyers and professionals involved in city making.2 Regardless of their profession, all have extensive experience in city making and are deemed to be experts. The OMB’s constitution reflects the assertion that good planning and the public interest are administrative matters that can be determined by professional experts, mainly through the adjudication of technical evidence. However, although governance is turned into an administrative matter – a technical matter for experts rather than politicians – this is tested against the opinions of public representatives, that is, citizens. The implication is that through the knowledge of experts and citizens, not politicians, what is true and in the public interest can be determined.

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The evidence presented at an OMB hearing is of a different sort from what is proffered to make a planning decision. In the case of YongeDundas, there was a significant difference between the evidence of blight and decline represented in professional reports prior to the OMB hearing and the evidence that was presented to the OMB as expert evidence. For example, city reports – such as the one that led to the approval of the redevelopment – made little mention of criminal activity. Yet at the OMB hearing this was identified as the biggest social problem and strongest justification for redevelopment; in fact, it was the most commonly cited theme (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry [OMBBI] 1998g). In other words, much of the evidence put before the OMB was produced after the redevelopment had been approved. Opponents pointed this out and argued that the city was exaggerating the area’s problems and that ‘prior to 1996 [the city] made no reference to blight, dilapidation, serious decline or other serious concerns about the street’ (OMBBI 1998e). But it was the adversarial context of the OMB hearing that increased the burden of proof; as a consequence of this, experts had to go to greater lengths to make explicit their claims and justifications. Professional claims are always subject to scrutiny, but at an OMB hearing these are open to rebuttals and to challenges from peers, as well as to the cross-examination of lawyers. This means that professionals must make their justifications and rationalizations more explicit and support them with more elaborate evidence. All in all, OMB hearings are an outstanding opportunity to scrutinize rationalities and – because the hearings are recorded and the evidence archived – to examine how knowledge is produced. In fact, had the landowners not taken the city to the OMB, the meticulously classified and recorded ‘archive’ of the debate would not have become available, and many of the rationalities and justifications I examine in this book would have remained invisible. As I pointed out earlier, my interest here is not the decision or effect of the OMB, but rather those socially recognized conditions that made the proposals for Yonge-Dundas intelligible and legitimate. Widely ranging evidence and materials were used to adjudicate the appeal, yet in its decision, the OMB focused on the evidence of expert witnesses and made very limited reference to the evidence of ordinary witnesses. More mention was made of the input provided by twenty-eight citizens at the evening public session conducted as part of the OMB hearing. This input and that of ordinary witnesses was referenced in terms of their support for and concurrence with the evidence of expert witnesses for the proponents. In particular, the OMB noted that there was a consensus

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among proponents and most ordinary witnesses and citizens with regard to how the area had been problematized and classified.3 In this way, their evidence was used to test and legitimate that of the experts. With regard to the thirty-seven expert witnesses, the OMB’s decision focused on the evidence of the primary expert witnesses, who were urban planning professionals engaged mainly in defining improvement (planners, urban designers, architects). This attention reflects the OMB’s focus on the classification of Yonge-Dundas as a community improvement project. So the evidence of expert witnesses was afforded primacy. But on what basis was this authority conferred? Makers of the Good City The planning term ‘community improvement’ is based on very broad criteria and a vague definition. This leaves considerable leeway for interpretation and application to specific projects (Ontario, Ministry of Municipal Affairs and Housing 1983). Equally open to interpretation is whether a planning decision is based on good planning and in the public interest. Given that a good part of the process involves interpreting and applying open-ended and ill-defined concepts such as ‘improvement,’ ‘good planning,’ and ‘in the public interest,’ the authority to define what makes a good city rested on the assessments of professionals according to their credentials, conduct, and claims. In the following sections I summarize the qualifications that made it possible for the OMB to accept as independent and objective the judgements and evaluations of professionals as they related to vague concepts such as ‘the public interest.’ These people’s credentials were based on the recognition of their education, experience, and reputation in city-making. These same witnesses also had to demonstrate a professional conduct and demeanour and an understanding of the rules of the game of adjudication. The authority of their knowledge claims was based on how they produced and referenced recognized forms of evidence and knowledge. They supported their expert knowledge with theories based on common sense as well as with evidence in the form of visuals and quantified data and trends. Finally, their practices were authorized as professional through their recognition by a professional association. In all of these ways, professionals distinguished themselves and their knowledge from the claims of others; this made it possible for the OMB to accept their definitions of good planning and the public interest and to declare their evidence objective and independent.

The Governable City 153

Professional Credentials Credentials, or ‘professionalism qualifications,’ are described by the OMB as including things such as ‘education, experience, professional involvement, published materials, and professional training,’ ‘qualifications generally directed to precise subject(s) & experience,’ previous OMB experience, and professional designations (e.g., RPP – Registered Professional Planner) (Stagl 1996: 75). Credentials are therefore important when it comes to identifying experts and their degree of authority. Who was the eligible expert at the hearing on Yonge-Dundas? First, that person was probably male, white, and Anglo, over fifty, most likely a member of an accredited profession, and a principal or president of his own company or organization. That almost all experts were professionals was determined using the classification of occupations developed by Human Resources Development Canada (the National Occupational Classification [NOC]) and Statistics Canada (the Standard Occupational Classification [SOC]) (Human Resources and Development Canada 2000).4 Table B.1 in Appendix B illustrates the classification system, and Table B.2 contains the description for Urban and Land Use Planners. They are classified within the Social Science, Education, Government Service, and Religion occupational group and at the skill level of professional. The shared occupational classification of the professionals indicates that they had similar skill types and levels based on education and training as well as (usually) membership in a professional association. Table B.3 compiles the occupational classifications (NOC) of all expert witnesses. Of 48 witness statements filed with the OMB, 37 were from expert witnesses, who gave evidence based on their credentials of expertise. Of these, 31 were professionals (84 per cent), 2 were management (5 per cent) and 4 were skilled/para-professional (11 per cent). Other demographic characteristics of the expert witnesses can be summarized as follows. All but three were men, and going by their names, most were of European heritage (e.g., Lintern, Berridge, Wright, Walker, Stewart). Based on years of education and professional experience, it was clear that most of the experts were over fifty.5 This general profile has been drawn from information provided at the OMB hearing that outlined the credentials of expert witnesses. These credentials were represented in three ways: at the beginning of each affidavit the witness provided a self-description that highlighted particular aspects of his experience; at the end of the statement, a cur-

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riculum vitae was attached; and the OMB decision made reference to particular qualities that it deemed most relevant in assessing the credibility of the expert’s evidence. For example: The Board had in evidence the witness statement of Arthur Peckham III, Ex. 104, the President of AMC Canada Division. This statement was adopted by Clifford Narbey, a chartered accountant by profession, Controller and Director of Administration of AMC Canada Division, who gave evidence before the Board. For the past 24 years he has functioned as a financial analyst for cinema companies, Famous Players (1974–92) and now AMC since 1992. The performance of his duties has required him to undertake the financial analysis for new proposed sites, negotiate terms with landlords, forecast revenue and predict market response to new theatres. He undertook the pro forma for this project. (OMBBI 1998b)

Through each of these representations, professionals repeated accepted or valued types of professional experience. This repetition was likely influenced by a few factors. First, most expert witnesses indicated that they had been witnesses at a previous OMB hearing. Furthermore, the standard procedure for preparing for a hearing involves lawyers counselling witnesses on the preparation of their reports, including their statements of credentials. Third, the valuation and recognition of credentials get reproduced through education, professional training, and ongoing participation in professional forums. Through publications and conferences, professional associations provide advice on representing oneself and on preparing for hearings. For example, some of descriptions used in this chapter were drawn from advice given at a conference held in Toronto in 1996 on ‘Strategies for Success at the Ontario Municipal Board.’ This conference was geared to professionals involved in urban development (Insight Information Inc. 1996). The experts’ self-descriptions to the OMB included four main categories: years of experience in their professional occupation, experience on other projects, experience with this particular project, and the work and research they conducted on this project while preparing an expert statement. All of these categories relate to a form of experience that, by virtue of its listing, was used to validate or confirm the competence of the professional. Table B.4 provides specific examples of these categories. Significant here is that all of these credentials were related to professional experience, whereas other kinds of credentials – degrees, professional memberships, awards, and so on – were left to the curriculum vitae.

The Governable City 155

That professional experience was highlighted rather than education reflects the fact that almost all witnesses were senior (twenty or more years of experience), but also perhaps the weighting of experience over academic credentials. The emphasis on experience was perhaps due to the nature of OMB decisions, which rely on expert opinion to predict and evaluate the consequences of future plans. An expert who had long experience working on many and similar types of projects would have credibility in assessing plans versus outcomes. For example, in its decision, the OMB compared the experience of two experts who presented competing testimony. While noting that both were well recognized and respected, the board preferred the evidence of the witness who had more experience directly related to the marketability and success of new cinema space.6 However, the importance of educational credentials was highlighted in a recent dispute heard by the OMB in the matter of the development of homes on the Oak Ridges Moraine, a 160-kilometre-long glacial ridge of sand and gravel north of Toronto. In response to the developer’s arguments, the OMB rejected a key provincial witness, ruling that he lacked the professional credentials to give an authoritative opinion in evidence. The witness had thirty years of practical experience in water and environmental issues, but he lacked ‘any formal training in geology, hydrogeology or hydrogeochemistry’ (cited in Swainson 2001b). The OMB ruled that the witness could outline the data he had collected on the moraine, but could not analyse it for the panel or give his opinion. The province appealed the ruling, and the hearing adjourned for two weeks while the Ontario Superior Court of Justice heard the case. Lawyers for the developer argued that ‘to qualify as an expert witness requires both practical experience and academic credentials’ (cited in Calleja 2001). Although the disputed witness had experience, he did not have the academic credentials. Countering this, the lawyer for the province responded that ‘lack of academic credentials, not expertise,’ was the basis of the OMB’s decision. Ruling him out as an expert witness because he lacked formal training in specific areas amounted to an error in law that denied the province the right to natural justice. The judge agreed with this in his ruling (Swainson 2001a). It is significant that the basis of the decision was natural justice – that is, that the province was denied representation and that the exclusion of its witness was simply not fair – rather than that the OMB had made an ‘error in law ... on what constitutes an expert’ (as argued by lawyers for the province and cited in Calleja 2001). This suggests that although

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there are criteria regarding what constitutes expertise, the OMB exercises latitude in its overall evaluations of expert qualifications. For example, on the issue of credentials, the Superior Court judge said it is up to the OMB to determine credentials and also to weigh and accept evidence in light of its evaluations of credentials. The OMB doesn’t ‘have to yield to the experts’ and ‘can accept all, some or none of the evidence’ (cited in Calleja 2001). As such, an expert is not constituted by one criterion alone, and his evidence once accepted is subject to weighting relative to the evaluation of his qualifications. Furthermore, as noted in the introduction to this chapter, the constitution and evaluation of expertise rests not only on credentials but also on the conduct and claims of expert witnesses. At the beginning of their affidavits, almost all expert witnesses described their years of professional experience. Of 27 expert witnesses who specified years of professional experience, 25 had over 20 years and 11 had 25 or more. Witnesses also categorized their experience as public or private sector, the former usually with the City of Toronto or another municipality, the latter usually in the context of their own consulting practices or as senior partners in a large firm (Table B-4). The majority were currently practising in the private sector (32). Eighteen were the principal/president/partner of a firm; six were vice-presidents or senior executives. The kinds of project experience highlighted by expert witnesses included work on large-scale urban redevelopment projects within the city as well as nationally and internationally (including North America, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East). These witnesses also indicated the kinds of clients they had worked for in both the public and the private sector (governments and agencies versus private corporations). International experience was an important qualification; especially emphasized was experience in particular cities and at particular symbolic sites. The World Trade Centre in New York and Canary Wharf in London were the two projects most often cited (in at least five cases). The main expert reports also identified the professional work that had gone into the drafting of statements. This included summaries of the sources of their detailed technical knowledge of the Yonge-Dundas project. The kinds of tasks highlighted included review of all the background reports and information to date on the project, review of other expert and witness statements, site visits to Yonge-Dundas and other revitalization sites in Toronto and elsewhere, consultations with other experts, and review of the relevant literature, by-laws, plans, and provincial legislation.

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The importance of the kinds of tasks that had been carried out to prepare experts’ reports was expressed in the OMB’s adoption of one witness’s conclusions. The board noted that he had been involved in the project since its inception, had participated in all stages of the process, and had reviewed the work of all other witnesses on financial matters. This was reflected in all of his evidence, which the Board declared to be ‘thorough, comprehensive, complete and solid.’7 The curricula vitae of expert witnesses usually went into greater detail on all of the foregoing credentials, and also summarized other kinds of credentials. All experts listed some postgraduate education; most of them had a masters degree. They listed awards, publications, and professional memberships in organizations such as the Canadian Institute of Planners. For every expert witness, accreditation by at least one professional institute was identified. All of these institutes were recognized and governed by provincial law and enjoyed varying degrees of legislative authority. In the case of planners, this involved different levels of accreditation: Ontario Professional Planners Institute (OPPI) (member), or the more exclusive Registered Professional Planner (full member). Through special provincial legislation, the OPPI has the authority to prescribe the academic, experience and examination requirements for the various classes of membership in the Institute. Two other examples: Under the Architects Act, the Ontario Association of Architects (OAA) has the authority to regulate, accredit, and license members. The Canadian Association of Management Consultants (CAMC) grants the designation Certified Management Consultant (CMC) to individuals whom it deems have demonstrated knowledge of management and a capacity to consult, in accordance with international standards of practice and ethics. This association sets standards for education, experience, and knowledge and enforces a professional code of conduct. A final category emphasized was technical skills and expertise. For example, planners indicated their skills in preparing development-feasibility and risk-assessment studies (Ex. 212) and in making ‘projections related to the entire housing land development process’ (Ex. 207B). These reflected the kinds of skills and knowledge that constitute a professional as currently identified by the Canadian Institute of Planners.8 In sum, the OMB recognized all of these credentials as qualifications for expert testimony. These credentials and the way in which experts were sized up by the OMB suggest the kinds of experience that professionals seek out in order to enhance their status. But there was another resource implicitly or explicitly suggested in both the self-representa-

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tions of experts and their evaluations by the OMB: the network of relationships of mutual acquaintance and recognition among professionals. This form of recognition was visible in references to university teaching, public speaking engagements, media appearances, and service on award juries. For example, one expert’s CV noted that he had ‘lectured regularly on urban design and development issues at Columbia University in New York and at many other universities in Canada,’ had served as a juror for many design competitions, had been a keynote speaker at conferences, and had often contributed to ‘radio talks, TV appearances and newspaper articles on urban issues’ (Ex. 184). Furthermore, those experts who served as principal witnesses were well-known figures in city-making; this was partly evident in the commissioned work they cited (both local and international).9 The OMB also evaluated the conduct of experts at the hearing. This conduct, which is a product of training and experience, consisted of a number of written and unwritten rules and codes governing professional conduct. To be accepted as professionals, the experts had to conduct themselves according to these standards. Professional Conduct Professional agents have to deal with uncertainty and with a variety of situations, and in order to do so they need to appreciate and understand the ‘rules of the game’ and appropriate forms of conduct. This is the advice that lawyers give to expert witnesses with regard to conduct at an OMB hearing. For example, one experienced lawyer advises professionals to think of the hearing as a game quarterbacked by a lawyer: I have often seen the role of a lawyer at an OMB hearing as similar to a quarterback in a football game. The quarterback must have a keen appreciation of the strength and weaknesses of his players as well as understanding the strength and weaknesses of his opponents. As the football game progresses, he must make decisions regarding when to call certain plays to advance his position. Knowing which plays to call and when to call them is essential to achieving a successful result. As with any competent football team, preparation is the key to success. It’s the work that takes place before the game that makes the difference between success or failure. Even a team with the most talented players may not be successful if the individual players are not prepared for the big game. A lawyer’s responsibility is to ensure that each witness understands their role and is

The Governable City 159 fully prepared, both for their evidence in chief as well as cross-examination. (Flynn-Guglietti 1996: 91–2)

In appeals before tribunals like the OMB, it often happens that a wellorganized opposition armed with technical evidence sets out to challenge expert testimony by cross-examination (Eisen Q.C. 1988). Eisen notes that without this opposition, there would be a heavier onus on the OMB to safeguard the public interest. The board would be forced to take a more active role in examining witnesses in order to test the validity of expert evidence. This stands in contradiction to the usual approach of tribunals, most of which are investigatory bodies that leave adversarial arguments to competing parties. The adversarial aspects of an OMB hearing are characterized by crossexamination and opposition evidence. The advice given to lawyers regarding the cross-examination of expert witnesses states that first and foremost, you have to know what you need from the witness. A ‘blind attack’ or ‘frontal assault’ can sometimes succeed, but usually fails, especially given that counsel is ‘less of an expert than the witness.’ The objective is ‘primarily to aid your own case and then to minimize or destroy your opponent’s case’ (Chayko, Gulliver, and Macdougall 1999: 33). Conceptualization of an OMB hearing as a game is useful for thinking about how an expert’s evidence represents a move, to which the opponent responds with a countermove. At the OMB hearing in play here, many actions involved strategic moves between professionals in the competition to have their evidence win. For example, different types of statements were prepared. Evidence-in-chief was prepared in consultation with the lawyers and then circulated to opponents.10 This evidence was reviewed by the lawyers and by opposing expert witnesses. Experts then gave their evidence-in-chief through the orchestrated prompting of the lawyers. This was subjected to cross-examination, so the experts had to anticipate the kinds of questions and positions that their opponents would adopt. Cross-exams were conducted mainly by lawyers, but the OMB also asked a few questions for clarification or elaboration. In some cases, in response to cross-exam, experts were requested to prepare and submit further documentation. In other cases, they were requested to submit reply statements to the questions, evidence, and criticisms of their opponents. Also new expert witnesses were called on to prepare statements-in-reply that critiqued the evidence-in-chief of expert witnesses. In these ways, the witness statements and documentation represented strategic moves between participants.

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In this regard, evidence given at OMB hearings can be viewed as a strategic interaction as conceptualized by Erving Goffman: as a situation in which two or more parties are in a well-structured situation of mutual confrontation where each party has to make a move and where every move has implications; where courses of action or moves are made in light of one’s thoughts about the others’ thoughts; and where an exchange of moves is made on the basis of an orientation to self and others (Goffman 1970: 100–1). Decisions are made by directly orienting to the other parties and by giving weight to their situations, as they would seem to see them. Goffman refers to this as the mutually assessed mutual assessment. Mutual assessment and evaluations of opponents’ actions and the implications of their statements demand the ability to recognize and understand the stakes, expectations, valuations, and rules that govern professional conduct. This is expressed in explicit forms such as professional codes of conduct developed by professional associations. It is also expressed in more implicit forms such as unwritten rules or expectations of conduct produced by OMB members and lawyers. These forms involve questioning and responding, dealing with uncertainty, anticipating lines of argumentation, and understanding stakes, issues, normative constraints, aims, and goals. They also involve understanding the opponent’s resources or capacities. Regarding explicit rules, the professionalism of planners is defined through ethical codes such as the ‘Professional Code of Conduct’ produced by the OPPI.11 The self-governance of professionals involves granting professional accreditation and defining and regulating educational and training requirements. It also involves promoting and policing codes of conduct. The OPPI code prescribes ‘rules of discipline’ that members are to follow in order to uphold ‘the integrity and competence of the planning profession’ (Ontario Professional Planners Institute 1996). Besides rules relating to providing ‘independent professional judgement,’ not accepting bribes, and not undercharging for services, the code also identifies non-virtuous conduct such as advertising in selflaudatory language, maliciously injuring the reputation of another member, and dishonesty. There are also many clauses pertaining to ethical conduct with regard to the disclosure of pecuniary interests and client confidentiality. Similarly, the code of conduct of the CMAC states that members can be expelled if they act ‘in any manner unbecoming the profession,’ and that members ‘shall ensure that their behaviour is consistent with and reinforces a positive public image of the profession,’

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and ‘that their physical and emotional state is consistent with the requirements of client work, particularly when developing or providing professional advice’ (Canadian Association of Management Consultants 2001). Professionals also acquire a feel for the game by immersing themselves in various practices. These include formal education, prior experience at OMB hearings, and the ongoing learning that occurs in forums such as conferences and training sessions. For example, a professional conference held in Toronto on ‘Strategies for Success at the Ontario Municipal Board’ included several presentations by lawyers and OMB members. These sessions focused on how to prepare for and conduct oneself at hearings: The hallmarks of conduct by professionals before the Board are civility, courtesy and helpfulness. This we inherit from the courts and, although it is often a contrived or forced code of conduct, it serves us well. Disputes that come before us are often hotly contested. As a Board we are cognizant that there is often a lot at stake, that our decisions often involve millions of dollars of investment, and the decisions we take will have an effect on the environment and neighbourhoods of Ontario long into the future. It should come as no surprise that people get passionate and often desperate. The conduct of the Board and of professionals that appear before it must serve to encourage cool heads to prevail and to foster an atmosphere of reason, fairness, and respectful disagreement, rather than simply hot-headed argument. I am a very strong believer in respectful, courteous behaviour and in magnanimity on the part of professionals especially when dealing with unrepresented citizens ... It follows from all this that the characteristics to be encouraged as part of an effective presentation before the Board are: Be fair; Be co-operative; Be respectful – never trivialize an opponents’ case; Be reasonable; Be helpful; Be considerate of members needs. (Krushelnicki 1996: 10–11)

A practising planner gives similar advice about what he calls ‘professional demeanour.’ It involves presenting ‘well-tempered’ evidence, providing responses that are ‘reasonable and balanced,’ and avoiding being too technical and general. A witness should respond directly to rather than avoid questions, should not debate or fence with the lawyer, and should not admit to not knowing an answer. Overall, the advice is that the witness should be helpful and ‘amenable’ (Stagl 1996). These

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examples point to the role of professional conferences as another mechanism through which professional conduct and professionalism are constituted and learned. Conduct is also a measure of the credibility and integrity of the professional. The test is his or her ability to be accepted as a legitimate player; this demands a number of attributes, such as integrity and dignity (which are commonly a part of professional codes of practice). Integrity involves remaining loyal to the party one represents and not acting on behalf of one’s own or some other party’s interest.12 Professional credibility – the basis on which avowals are evaluated – involves assessments not only of what is said, but also of how it is said, and of how one conducts oneself. The importance of credibility in the OMB’s adjudication was reflected in its acknowledgment of a particular witness as ‘an entirely credible witness whose conviction and commitment to the project was unshaken through rigorous cross-examinations’ (OMBBI 1998b). Credibility, therefore, rested not only on credentials, but also on appearance and conduct. Although explicit rules and guidelines for expert witnesses are produced by the OMB as well as by professional associations – such as those mentioned earlier – how one establishes credibility is not a formally codified technology; rather, it is a kind of ‘knowledge in the body,’ or an embodied sense of practice. Expert credibility was also based on the ability to defend evidence against scrutiny. Cross-exams usually focus on three main aspects of an expert’s evidence: qualifications, the application of expertise to facts, and the foundation of the facts (Chayko et al. 1999: 33). At the OMB hearing, the qualifications of expert witnesses were not the focus of scrutiny. Instead, questioning of the application of expertise to facts – that is, the interpretation of different types of evidence – was more common. Lawyers often attempted to get an expert witness either to admit that there might be another equally valid opinion or to support the opposition’s case. For example, the city’s closing submission included a list of ‘admissions by Appellants’ Witnesses’ to demonstrate that in cross-exam the opposition witnesses had agreed with the city’s goals and policies and that the redevelopment scheme advocated by the appellants for achieving these goals was inferior. One admitted that the objectives of the project were sound and that ‘his scheme is not in keeping with official plan and in many respects inferior to the city plan.’13 Similarly, a common strategy was to scrutinize the foundation of facts on which the expert relied to form his opinion. This technology

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involves scrutinizing facts one by one to get to the ‘true basis of the expert’s opinion.’ This has also been described as a way to establish the credibility of the expert’s evidence and whether he has any facts to support his opinion. If it is discovered that he does not, he can be suspected of being a ‘hired gun,’ and his evidence can be discredited as ‘not useful to the trier of fact’ (Chayko et al. 1999: 35). At the OMB hearing, the foundation of facts was often an object of debate and contention. Take, for example, the following rebuttal of an expert witness to the cross-examination of his evidence. This was one of many instances during the hearing when lawyers and experts disputed how statistical representations were being interpreted. In this case, the dispute concerned whether the decline in retail activity on Yonge Street during the 1990s and its partial recovery (one of the rationalities of the intervention) was representative of trends in the Toronto census metropolitan area (CMA) and the province as a whole: During cross-examination in the OMB matter cited, Mr. Waque put to me Exhibit 240, entitled, Aggregate Retail Sales, Toronto CMA, All Stores, 1991–1997 ... He requested that I agree that his data on Exhibit 240 showed that the aggregate of retail sales had continued to grow throughout the depression period for the Toronto CMA. I refused, replying that I found the material misleading and questionable in terms of modifying or reversing the findings available from the information of retail per capita which has been included in my report, Exhibit 207a. As an undertaking I agreed to review the matter and report back on it to the OMB (Ex. 276).

In his report back, the witness claimed that there were many factual and statistical errors; he corrected these errors and provided a new chart: The information illustrates, for any reasonable analyst, the opposite of the proposition which Mr. Waque was trying to put to me, and which I refused. The results are very interesting and useful ... The data set for the Toronto CMA, as illustrated in Exhibit 240, shows only that the Toronto CMA experienced a partial ‘recovery’ over the post 1991 period, as did the Province of Ontario as a whole. The statements that Mr. Waque made, indicating the ‘aggregate retail sales’ throughout the period of depression continued to ‘grow’ is incorrect and very misleading.

A similar duel of figures occurred with respect to crime statistics and financial audits of the project; here, the factual foundations of expert

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opinions were put into question. However, the strategy during crossexam was not to discredit the witness or the kinds of evidence that qualified as facts. Instead of questioning the method of representation (e.g., retail statistics as a measure of growth), lawyers focused on the accuracy and interpretation of facts. This highlights a distinction between expert evidence and that of ordinary witnesses: the former is derived from the use of recognized forms of evidence and knowledge. Knowledge Claims Appeals to recognized theories in urban planning, especially those based on a commonsense understanding of the links between spatial conditions, conduct, and social disorder, often substantiated knowledge claims. For example, in chapter 3 we saw how the claim that disorder creates environments conducive to crime and fear was validated by the broken windows theory, which has become a touchstone in urban planning and policing discourses. This theory stands in for a variety of technologies designed to rid communities of crime by dealing with minor conduct such as panhandling, loitering, and squeegeeing, which (so it is claimed) lead to larger problems of degeneration and criminality. One expert referred to the broken windows theory as an approach to understanding what was needed to improve Yonge Street. Based on this theory, he argued that by addressing ‘“quality of life” crimes which generate negative perceptions and fear and an increased perception of crime,’ perceptions of safety would increase (Ex. 69). The broken windows theory was coined by criminologist George Kelling, who popularized it in the 1990s by building on particular arguments in the work of urbanist Jane Jacobs that minor infractions and incivilities lead to bigger crimes and community breakdown (Kelling and Coles 1996). The argument went that neighbourhoods could be improved and crime reduced through designs that enable ‘natural social control’ and through the enforcement of laws against conduct such as panhandling, loitering, squeegeeing, and exposing open liquor bottles in public. This conduct was perceived as creating disorder that increased the risk of crime and fear of crime. Although strongly disputed and largely unproven, the theory is regularly cited as authoritative in city-making practices (Herbert 2001). In reference to its Graffiti Eradication Program, for example, the Toronto Police Service stated that ‘renown academics argue that physical disorder (graffiti) has a direct and empirical link with social disorder

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(crime)’ (Toronto Police Service 2001). However, sociologists, criminologists, and political scientists argue that empirical evidence for the connection between disorder and crime is weak and overblown (Harcourt 2001; Miller 2001; Sampson and Raudenbush 1999). But the fact that no scholarly study, even the one undertaken by the criminologist who first coined the theory, has been able to prove it has not impeded its broad acceptance and use in practice.14 In fact, evidence of its validity and efficacy has often been based on its spread and application to many sites across North America and England.15 Acceptance of the theory’s premises was evident in the adoption of situational crime prevention as a technology not only in the redevelopment of Yonge-Dundas, but also in other policies of the city of Toronto, the provincial government, and authorities in New York and Manchester. This spread has been made possible by the abstraction of its claims into a theory, one that can be translated, transferred, and appropriated for different ends. In particular, references to its acceptance for Times Square – the most notorious site of crime – has been the most convincing proof of its validity.16 Indeed, the OMB cited this example as evidence of the validity of the theory. In this way, Times Square has become what Garland (1999: 17) calls an exemplar and the subject of imitation and analogous application. Technologies and theories such as broken windows first become ‘habits of mind and action and only later articulated as an explicit framework.’ Another putative theory referenced at the OMB hearing was the one often referred to as ‘eyes on the street.’ This phrase was coined by urbanist Jane Jacobs to stand in for the rationality that designing spaces in a way that enhances forms of natural surveillance can increase the security of cities. ‘Eyes watching over a space’ was used as an image in the design guidelines developed for Dundas Square and was identified as a way to increase the safety of public space. The term was first introduced in Jacobs’s most revered and often-quoted book about urban planning, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (1961). The authority and influence of this book has rested largely on the representation of Jacobs as a ‘great amateur’ with no professional credentials, as just an ‘ordinary person who came along and made sense’ (Hume 1997a). As an ‘uncredentialled’ author, she was ‘able to see truths that were perhaps too obvious for everyone else to notice’ (Hume 1997b). Ironically, her commonsense ideas have been widely appropriated by the very professionals she criticized, who now cite her theories as their authority for a variety of practices, from situational crime prevention to zoning. Her

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words have acquired so much symbolic power that professionals need only cite a connection to her ideas in order to increase the authority of their practices. Her work is even cited by provincial court judges (as noted in chapter 3) and has been taken up in other commonsense theories such as that of broken windows. A related theory in urban planning is that certain businesses create disorder and attract criminals. This theory has been cited in support of zoning rules against commercial operations such as sex-related businesses (Papayanis 2000). The evidence has largely been commonsensical, ad hoc, anecdotal, circumstantial, and speculative. Professionals often cite the existence of impact studies as evidence of a negative connection even though impact studies have never been produced to substantiate such claims. Yet urban planners and real estate experts regularly cite a cause-and-effect relationship between certain land uses and the presence of transients, a downward pressure on property values, and increases in crime. With regard to Yonge-Dundas, such claims were made about discount stores, yet no data or impact studies were produced. Like the theory of broken windows, these claims are often validated on the basis of their widespread adoption and their appeal to common sense. The basis of knowledge claims was also revealed in the evidence of blight – evidence that the OMB relied on for its judgement that the area qualified for community improvement. The evidence was not based on hard technical and scientific data, which are often presumed to be the hallmarks of professional practices, but rather on perceptions and moral judgments of disorder, social harm, and the secondary effects of lowend retailing. The evidence consisted mostly of what Levi and Valverde (2001) call ‘administrative knowledge’ – a hybrid form of knowledge that although it often contains scientific facts, deploys those facts within a non-scientific common law knowledge. This sort of knowledge borrows from the ‘common sense’ and ‘common knowledge’ used by judges and jurors and from the discretionary knowledge used by city officials in their day-to-day judgments. Proponents take pains to emphasize that their knowledge ‘derive[s] not from fancy theorizing or a close reading of criminological literature but simply from attending to the practical world and observing how it works’ (Garland 2000: 2). A second basis of knowledge claims was to be found in the production of specific codifications and measurements of decline and disorder, which were juxtaposed against those of improvement and order. Latour (1986) calls these ‘inscriptions,’ and they consist of ‘paper work’

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that translates, simplifies, and makes visible a governable object. The authority of professionals was derived in part from their production of recognized inscriptions that made claims appear factual, objective, and truthful. Inscriptions also constitute what is understood to be the formal knowledge of professionals – the kinds of specialized knowledge that they have the unique ability to produce and that also define the boundaries of their profession. Indeed, the possession of such formalized knowledge was the basis of the classification of professional occupations discussed earlier. In Table B.2 (see Appendix B), the kinds of skills constituting the professionalism of urban planners include compiling and analysing data on demographic, economic, legal, political, cultural, sociological, physical, and other factors affecting land use and preparing land development concepts and plans. Professionalism involved justifying and rationalizing claims of good and bad through the production and referencing of different kinds of recognized technical inscriptions. These technical inscriptions are often selected and assembled according to their fit with pre-established classification systems (Bowker and Star 1999). The principal inscription was textual and took the form of statements that made claims and provided justifications; more convincing, however, was how the experts translated problematizations into empirical and visual forms. They produced and referenced a number of inscriptions such as crime rates, market projections, demographic trends, photographs, computer models, and so on, which together rendered problematizations into technical categories and depictions. These inscriptions were also the most scrutinized and disputed pieces of evidence – so much so that some underwent days of cross-examination and were subjected to counterevidence and often several revisions. Safety and Security: Visualizing Disorder When representing and governing security, experts drew from a number of different types of inscriptions including maps, crime statistics, opinion polls, and photographs. Many of these were forms of administrative knowledge produced by the police service or municipal by-law inspectors. For example, the police service provided a map to demonstrate that Yonge-Dundas was attracting the drug trade; this map plotted the places of residence of people arrested in 52 Division (the police precinct where Yonge-Dundas is located) on a map of the City of Toronto. The map illustrated that forty-one of the fifty-three

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people arrested as part of Operation Broom (see chapter 3) did not reside in 52 Division; this was ‘proof’ that drug dealers and users were attracted to the area. The main inscription, however, consisted of police incident reports and summaries of arrests and convictions. As discussed in chapter 3, although they were deemed inconclusive, incidence reports were not questioned as a method of documenting and measuring crime. Rather, attention focused on other forms of inscription that documented conditions that caused perceptions of disorder, crime, and insecurity – forms that were deemed more conclusive and relevant. These included inscriptions such as opinion polls that documented conditions which made people feel insecure such as litter and a lack of cleanliness (Ex. 139). Media articles were also used to demonstrate perceptions that the area was dangerous (Ex. 55A). Another exhibit involved photographs of conditions such as litter, graffiti, rundown store facades, and store interiors in various states of disrepair. These were presented as simple recordings of reality that represented ‘what everyone knows.’ Consumption: Analysing Trends Experts drew from a number of different types of inscription for representing, moralizing, and governing consumption. Three kinds of inscription were prominent in the codification of what constituted good retailing: quantification of decline, analyses of trends and visualizations of the present and future. Quantification was used to substantiate claims about the decline of retail operations on the street. One expert witness, a retail consultant, conducted an audit of Yonge Street retailers between Queen and Gerrard streets to provide a profile of Yonge Street. In his report he provided the summary contained in Table 6.1. The ‘normal’ category was based on his assessment of particular main street retail areas in the city that had the status desired for Yonge-Dundas.17 On this basis, he developed a five-point scale for rating stores, where 5 was excellent and 1 was poor. For each retail premise, he rated the quality of the physical design, displays, and structure of the building, and also indicated whether the existing operation had outgrown the location and whether it appealed to families. Elaborate tables of scores were produced and then summarized in the numeric comparison in Table 6.1. Based on this audit, he concluded that ‘despite the area’s historic role as a retail destination node, its central location and its proximity to the

The Governable City 169 TABLE 6.1 Profile of Yonge Street retail from Queen to Gerrard Yonge Street (Queen to Gerrard)

Normal (for ‘main street’ retail in Toronto)

Vacancy rates

9.3%

1.8%–7.5% Total 5.9%

Physical quality (signage, entrance, lighting)

2.8

4–5

Merchandising quality (displays, cleanliness, assortments)

3.0

4–5

Structural suitability

2.67

4–5

Perception of safety

Mixed

High, safe

Rents

Low–moderate Eaton Centre $30–$40/sq. ft. net per year $80–$85/sq. ft. net per year Downtown centres Average $56.85 Yonge/Eglinton District/Blythwood area $50–$60/sq. ft. per year

Source: Ex. 64.

Eaton Centre, the area is performing considerably below average for downtown regional retailing centres in Toronto’ (Ex. 64). With simplicity and brevity, but in an appropriately empirical, technical, non-subjective, and presumably verifiable fashion, the table clearly established that this part of Yonge Street was not ‘normal.’ As Bowker (1999) argues, the validity of a technical fact often derives from its fit with the classifications for which it was compiled. Another example was evidence submitted in support of the conclusion that ‘the street is stagnating as a pedestrian retail environment.’ The evidence consisted of a table listing vehicular and pedestrian counts at major Yonge Street intersections on summer’s days in 1984, 1989, and 1996 (Ex. 128). This evidence was provided by an expert witness in reply to cross-examination of his report, which stated that Yonge Street’s dysfunctional character was evident in the ‘overall decline of the street over a number of years.’ The table did not reference other conditions or changes occurring in the city that might have influenced pedestrian volumes on these select days (recessions, tourism, events,

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etc.), nor did it compare pedestrian volumes on other shopping streets in the city (Yonge Street, at Dundas in particular, regardless of any decreases, has the highest counts in the city). Rather, the counts were presented as objective evidence that pedestrian counts had decreased and that therefore the street was stagnating. As a summary, the table revealed only that which would support the claim – numbers of pedestrians were indeed lower in 1996 than in the other two years. Through this simplification, the activity on the street was reduced to numbers of bodies that disappeared only because the street was stagnating. The simplicity, ease of reproduction, transferability, and adaptability of data such as pedestrian counts enable them to be used for a number of purposes, from designing sidewalk widths to evaluating street activity, and to be interpreted as evidence of quite different phenomena – for example, of overcrowding or stagnation. The analysis of market and demographic trends was the most frequent type of inscription: ‘“Entertainment centers” (centers oriented to leisure and entertainment-related trip purposes) are an inevitable evolution in real estate development. This evolution or change, like many other forms of retail and entertainment is inevitable and responsive to changing consumer preference’ (Ex. 176). This same expert, a marketing analyst, went on in his report to describe the history of the trend toward entertainment centres, which first began in Hollywood, spread to Florida, and matured into the ‘first true modern entertainment centre, the Irving Spectrum Center in Orange County, California.’ He listed twenty-one centres in American cities (two in Canada: West Edmonton Mall and the Forum in Montreal). Although he noted that there was a great interest in new entertainment centres, ‘market forces will dictate which projects actually get built.’ The ‘market evidence of change’ toward entertainment centres was demonstrated by showing that cinemas with a small number of screens were closing whereas more megaplexes were opening. It was noted that AMC and Cineplex had closed 174 locations of the former and opened 50 of the latter. The trend thus became a standard against which to evaluate YongeDundas: it was not keeping up with market change. The expert noted that the existing small parcels of land made it impossible to take advantage of ‘the trend towards multiple level, larger stores.’ Another expert described these developments as ‘simply a normal part of the evolution of retailing’ (Ex. 64). The claims that such changes are evolutionary and natural were powerful justifications for the proposed form of consumption for Yonge-Dundas: the urban entertainment centre. Here, market trends and natural forces were discussed as external

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determinants of what constituted good retailing. The appeal to forces or trends sounded objective and did not require elaboration or explanation. If disputed at all, it was only with regard to the implications and future of the trend (Ex. 207A). Proponents were claiming that their insights were derived not from abstract theories but from common sense – from observing the practical world through empirical accounts of retailing trends. These claims being advanced by marketing experts were central to defining the specific form of consumption that constituted the good. Although planning experts focused on how the specific form of development (the urban entertainment centre) fit with planning policies and objectives, they always returned to the trend as irrefutable evidence of what type of consumption space was good for Yonge-Dundas. Another trend presented as evidence connected the production of urban entertainment centres to the creation of new consumer markets. Trends in urban entertainment centres were claimed to be creating trends in consumer practices and demand: Operating AMC megaplex locations are demonstrating a market trend toward growing the pie rather than dividing the consumer revenue pie in a different way. By that I mean AMC Theatres do not necessarily detract or take customers from other theatre operations. A substantial portion of the growth experienced in AMC developments results from AMC creating new moviegoers and increasing movie-going frequency overall. Perhaps this can be best understood by reference to a related market experience with respect to new coffee shops. Ten years ago Torontonians had a limited demand for speciality coffee drinks such as espressos, cappuccinos and lattes. Now there are shops selling these specialty drinks on every corner. Further, this growth in speciality coffee shops does not seem to have negatively impacted on Tim Hortons or other major traditional coffee retailers. (Ex. 104; italics added)

Like coffee drinking, movie theatres stimulated and mobilized new desires among consumers, who once hooked demanded only more. Their demand became a trend, which supply now had to meet. This expert witness also provided a number of newspaper and business journal clippings in support of his claims about trends in cinema development: Most of our internal data on financial performance issues is confidential but this and related trends which I address in this statement, are now well

172 The Moral Economy of Cities documented in trade publications and the popular press. Attached as Appendix ‘A’ to this my witness statement is some of the published information concerning how this phenomena has impacted positively on the cinema business. (Ex. 104)

Articles from American publications such as the Kansas City Business Journal (Trollinger 1997) the Wall Street Journal (Templin 1997), and Shopping Centres Today (Kenyon 1997) confirmed his claims about trends. They included statements that ‘megaplex projects have changed to keep up with people’s evolving demands for a good night out,’ that ‘it’s going to happen everywhere around the country,’ that movie multiplexes ‘drive city and suburban developments,’ and that ‘supercenters will be the single biggest driver of change over the next five years’. The sources of information cited in the articles were principally ‘industry sources’ or ‘research professionals.’ This example highlights another common form of evidence: the newspaper or journal article. Media articles were provided as evidence not only of market or consumer trends in support of an expert’s diagnosis, but also to represent trends in public opinion about the problems of Yonge-Dundas. One expert witness supported all of his claims about the degeneration of Yonge Street by referring to Toronto Star and Globe and Mail newspaper articles (Ex. 55A).18 Visualizations – maps, drawings, plans, and computer-generated models – did much to influence depictions of Yonge-Dundas. These forms of representation make spaces seem empty and transparent; they remove hidden spaces and leave everything open to visual inspection (Blomley 1998). Maps and 3-D drawings made zoning codes more transparent, real, and understandable. For example, block drawings that compared the density of the proposed redevelopment with the alternatives put forward by opponents visually translated the zoning designations into building masses. These visualizations have been made possible by GIS (Geographical Information System) software and have been described as ‘real-world pictures easier for the untrained eye to understand,’ which ‘help an audience visualize’ change (Haskell and O’Donnell 2001). Visualization also involved the use of photographs. Large display boards were mounted and presented at the OMB hearing. One set juxtaposed photos of Yonge-Dundas against those of better retail areas in Toronto, such as Bloor Yorkville and Queen West. This made YongeDundas look like the poor cousin it had been named. This impression was further reinforced when the photos were placed next to dozens of

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colour photographs of Times Square and Piccadilly Circus (both postregeneration). Similarly, maps were used to demonstrate a correlation between the space of Yonge-Dundas and other phenomena and to produce a visual impact. An expert planner produced a set of maps that categorized retail uses along Yonge Street between College and Queen based on his evaluation of whether they were ‘strong, weak or borderline’ uses – that is, ‘retail uses that are beneficial and uses which have negatively impacted the area. With respect to the borderline retail uses they were described as not necessarily weakening, but certainly not enhancing the retail environment’ (Ex. 74). The map provided a striking illustration of how the area was obviously dominated by weak and borderline uses. His report produced two other maps: one on building conditions on Yonge Street (good, fair, poor), and the other on retail uses on Yonge Street (low/high quality). The two were then superimposed to reveal that poor buildings housed marginal retail; thus, this ‘mapping analysis illustrates the correlation between good retail uses and buildings in good condition’ (Ex. 74). Many of these inscription technologies were drawn from professional practices in other places and made use of resources shared across professional networks. For example, an article attached to a memo in the OMB exhibit files dated 19 July 1996 from the city of Toronto planner responsible for the area around Yonge-Dundas was titled ‘Can Disney Tame 42nd Street.’ The memo stated that the article ‘reviews subjects we saw while in New York City and nicely summarizes where we would like to go on Yonge Street with the Regeneration Program.’ Long before the politicians or OMB ventured to New York, professionals had paid their own visits, met with other professionals, and begun to identify those technologies that had currency and legitimacy. Aesthetics: Imagining Order There are a number of different types of inscriptions for representing and governing aesthetics. Experts at the OMB supported and advanced a new aesthetic for Yonge-Dundas through visualizations of what it could look like in the future; in doing so, they made problems and solutions appear rational and natural rather than moral. Although the authority of the urban designer and the truthfulness of his claims rested on his ability to conjure up spaces in both images and words, the images were the most convincing. Visualization was an important strategy in promoting all aspects of

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aestheticization. The most effective visual tools were hand-rendered artists’ impressions and computer-generated 3-D images that offered idealized visions of what Yonge-Dundas should and could be. As representations of a possible future, these utopian images resolved all of the street’s problems and presented a standard of perfection. For example, Plate 9 is a drawing illustrating the concept plan and is reminiscent of the photographs of Times Square. Computer-generated 3-D representations of the new Yonge-Dundas were also juxtaposed against photographs of Times Square and Piccadilly Circus. Other images resembled photographs in that they superimposed 3-D computer renderings onto existing photographs. (Plate 10). In these, the square appeared to fit naturally in the space carved out for it. People, grass, stages, and so on seemed real, and anyone not familiar with the area would likely assume these were pictures of what actually existed. The image had a photographic and futuristic quality and presented a clear, transparent, clutter-free space. When juxtaposed against photographs of existing conditions (e.g., Plate 2), they further reinforced the vision of the good city promoted at the hearing. In sum, the codifications and measurements of experts translated moralizations, problematizations, and classifications of Yonge-Dundas into a variety of inscriptions that served as evidentiary material. This skill was significant as a source of professional authority and as a means of validating knowledge about what was a good and bad space, and what was true and false. Validation was made possible in part by the recognition by incorporated professional associations of these inscriptions and the other conditions of authority noted earlier. Professional Projects The circulation, standardization, regulation, and recognition of these conditions of authority were in part made possible by professional associations. All of the professions involved in the OMB hearing were recognized by provincial legislation that granted them varying degrees of self-regulatory authority. For example, under the Architects Act, architectural institutes have the authority to license, whereas under the Ontario Professional Planners Institute Act, planning institutes can only register practitioners. Only licensed architects can practise architecture, whereas for planners, registration is usually not a requirement although it is certainly an advantage. However, planning institutes have been moving in the direction of increasing their authority to

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define the qualifications, training, skills, and accreditation of urban planners, with the goal of eventually securing some form of licensing. The adoption of a professional code of conduct was one of the first steps the association took toward establishing the legitimacy of planning as a profession. Each of the three main strategies activated in making Yonge-Dundas good – situational crime prevention, zoning and urban design – has been advanced by projects of professionalization. The histories and trajectories of each of these projects are useful for understanding the conditions that have shaped the credentials, conduct, and claims of professionals at the OMB. Crime and Design Specialists Although the rise of technologies such as situational crime prevention has been attributed to the influence of prominent academics or their appeal to conservative political agendas and rationalities (e.g., see Garland 2000), the importance of these technologies as professional projects has been largely overlooked. Over the past decade, an industry of crime prevention through environmental design (CPTED) professionals has emerged that claims to possess specialized and specific skills, competencies, and knowledge. This is evidenced in the creation of diploma courses at universities and crime institutes, and in the strong growth in the public and private security ‘industry,’ which mainly comprises consultants and experts in situational crime prevention (Wekerle and Whitzman 1995). In the late 1980s a number of professional planning and security firms were established in Canada, the United States, Britain, and Australia that provided CPTED advice and training. Local governments created special staff positions within line departments and police forces, and committees were established for addressing crime and safety issues. These practitioners began to push for the professionalization of CPTED, as they had long been worried that CPTED was not advancing in a professional nor comprehensive manner. Some CPTED practitioners were confusing simple target hardening security devices, (such as locks and lighting), with a proper CPTED review which focused on the social territoriality of an area. There were concerns that, even after 20 years of work by CPTED pioneers, CPTED was still being left out of community planning and new urban developments. Developers and planning professionals kept asking about

176 The Moral Economy of Cities the scientific and professional legitimacy of the CPTED approach. There were no professional standards or accreditation for the practice and theory of how CPTED should be applied and advanced (emphasis added). (International CPTED Association 2001)

In 1996, as a result of these concerns, two Canadian consulting firms, one in urban planning and the other in security, ran the first International CPTED Conference in Calgary, Alberta. At this conference, seventy-five CPTED practitioners, academics, planners, architects, security professionals, and police officers gathered and created the International CPTED Association (ICA). The association states that its activities are ‘directed at advancing the theory and practice of CPTED, professionalizing the CPTED movement, and promoting the application of CPTED in places throughout the world.’ Acknowledging and echoing the ‘founding’ visionaries of CPTED (Jane Jacobs and Oscar Newman), the association’s mission states that its basic premise is ‘that the proper design and effective use of the physical environment can lead to a reduction in the incidence and fear of crime, thereby improving the quality of life’ (International CPTED Association 2001). The ICA has been involved in a number of initiatives to establish standard criteria for CPTED accreditation. It has more than 300 members in 30 countries and has established local chapters in the United Kingdom (the Designing Out Crime Association), Europe, and most recently Asia-Pacific. Speakers at the association’s conference in September 2001 comprised individuals involved in planning (18) and security (34): consulting firms (21), government departments and agencies (23), and universities (16). A number of professionals now market themselves as CPTED experts. International conferences are but one aspect of the growing mass of information, knowledge, and concepts involved in various aspects of situational crime prevention, which focuses on CPTED, order maintenance, and community policing. Many crime prevention organizations exist, on-line resources are available on the Internet, and there is now an extensive bibliography of scholarly books and articles. All of this has facilitated the professionalization of these technologies, in that they can be packaged and marketed through professional associations, conferences, publications, and so on as specific skills and areas of expertise. The professionalization of CPTED is bound up with the recognition and valuation of specific skills, knowledge, and competencies in crime and design. As a relatively young and emerging profession, it has a

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number of features that suggest changes in what constitutes a profession. The technology of CPTED, although it uses a number of different tools, is based on very specific and targeted skills, knowledge, and applications, in comparison with the older, related professions of planning and architecture. This suggests a highly specialized profession. Yet few if any CPTED professionals would claim this as their only profession or area of expertise: most of the speakers at the ICA conference claimed other professional affiliations (e.g., planning, architecture, urban design, security). Finally, the conception of the ICA at the outset as an international association committed to the ‘application of CPTED in places throughout the world’ distinguishes it from other professions, which in the past have formed on the basis of national or subnational accreditation. Entrepreneurial Planners The constitution of a good consumption space involved various urbandevelopment professionals such as marketing analysts, advertising consultants, and property appraisers; but the key technology for turning thoughts into reality – zoning – was within the jurisdiction of the urban planning profession. Unlike CPTED, planning has been a recognized profession for almost a century. The central technology on which this professional recognition has been based is zoning. The professionalization of planning was officially marked in 1919 with the founding of the Town Planning Institute of Canada (TPIC); however, as a practice it was in place long before that date.19 That said, the TPIC was the first institute to professionalize planning activities in Canada. Membership initially required that one be a member of an association of an already established profession such as engineering, surveying, or architecture or pass a special examination. As with CPTED as a profession, planners initially were trained in other professions. Formal training and expansion of the profession did not take place until after the Second World War, when planning was instituted as a professional faculty at the universities of Toronto, Manitoba, and British Columbia as well as at McGill University in Montreal. Expansion was furthered in the 1980s, when many provinces passed legislation recognizing planning associations; this granted those associations various powers to regulate the profession (such as the power to grant professional accreditation, to define and regulate educational and training requirements, and to promote and police codes of conduct).

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Technologies of zoning were central to this professional project of planning: practitioners claimed planning activities as their exclusive domain when they established the TPIC (Wolfe 1994). Indeed, during the postwar expansion of the profession, the new technologies that the association developed and instituted (such as official plans and plans of subdivision) were all forms of zoning. Zoning continues to be the technology that distinguishes planning from other professions – in particular, from architecture and engineering. As previously noted, since its inception, the objective of zoning has been defined as the general welfare (Fischler 1998).20 Fischler contends that this broad definition opened the door to the endless multiplication of objects of professional attention, as evidenced in the expansion of regulations and standards for the built environment. The principal technology through which the profession has pursued the general welfare has been standardized land classification schemes, which seek to prevent potential harms that may result if land uses are not ordered and organized. This has involved the development of classification systems that differentiate land uses according to their physical and functional differences (e.g., commercial, industrial, residential). Attention to standardization was also a condition for and an expression of the scientific status of planning and the professional status of planners: it transformed a capricious procedure into a more exact science. The standardization of zoning also rested on the understanding that standards must be flexible so that they can be modified and adjusted to fit particular local circumstances. The production of standardized classification schemes made it possible to ‘transfer’ zoning so that it could be adopted throughout North America; it also made it possible to govern land uses across great distances. Standardization meant that zoning as a technology of government could now be diffused across sites in Canada during the great city-building projects of the twentieth century (Fischler 1998). This highlights another way in which technologies such as zoning become valued; they grow in authority as they are disseminated to and applied at sites. The adoption of a zoning standard by professionals across various sites has often been claimed sufficient evidence of its validity and efficacy. The change from large-scale and publicly led plans and projects to public-private partnerships focusing on strategic, entrepreneurial, and discretionary projects changed the profession in a number of ways in the later twentieth century. First, this led to changes in the employment patterns of professional planners. At one time, planners had been

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employed mainly by the state; today they are working more and more in the private sector. In Ontario, members of the professional association representing planners are almost evenly divided between the public and private sectors. With regard to the Yonge-Dundas project, most of the expert witnesses were not government employees: of the thirtyseven expert witnesses, only six were employed in the public sector. The rest either worked for private-sector clients or as consultants for the city. But this does not account for another commonly cited change in employment patterns: although professionals are often distinguished by their private-sector versus public-service roles, professional positions are highly interchangeable. Professionals not only move between agencies and private corporations but also work simultaneously in both. This transferability and interpenetration of private and public sector professionals suggests that it is not useful to think in turn of designations such as public and private sector. This interpenetration is perhaps most easily seen in the public-private partnership bodies that consist of professionals from both sectors. Another change is that there has been a great diversification and specialization in the skills and occupations of planners. For example, the Canadian Institute of Planners lists twenty-one different job titles for planners from economic development officer to heritage coordinator.21 But these employment patterns conceal a more general change in planning practices, one that is perhaps more important to understanding the technologies deployed at Yonge-Dundas: regardless of their specialization and site of employment, there is an emphasis on entrepreneurial and strategic technologies of city-making. As noted in chapter 4, the social welfare zoning and expropriation technologies of the 1950s and 1960s have been replaced by entrepreneurial forms – by incentive-based zoning technologies such as bonusing, land transfers, as-of-right permissions, minimalist regulations, and built-form rather than density controls. In particular, public-private partnerships and the leveraging of redevelopment through the private sector have accompanied major urban redevelopment projects. These relatively new technologies became prominent in the field beginning in the 1990s. Urban Design Consultants Urban design and the aestheticization of the urban fabric have become key technologies of city making. As previously noted, this can be attributed in part to the neoliberal policies of the 1980s and 1990s (Rowland

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1997), and can be understood as a response to the centring of economic production on culture, image, aesthetics, and design (Featherstone 1991). Generally, it has resulted in the emergence of a number of cultural entrepreneurs or intermediaries, who are seeking to legitimize new areas of expertise in music, fashion, travel, sport, art, design, and so on. Featherstone argues that instead of promoting a particular style, these entrepreneurs are catering to and promoting a general interest in style itself. This interest in and attention to style and design as a constantly changing domain has been marked by the growth and proliferation of cultural producers such as urban designers, who – along with planners and architects – are described as ‘the new promotional agents for this stylization of everyday life’ (Boyer 1988: 55). Urban design emerged in the late 1960s as a branch of planning focused on the visual design of space (Relph 1987). Practitioners are usually accredited urban planners or architects; however, they claim possession of specialized and specific skills, competencies, and knowledge and refer to themselves as urban designers. In the 1980s, positions and departments in local governments were established and urban planning consultants added urban design to their skill sets. At the same time, university courses as well as diploma or degree programs in urban design were developed; usually, these were offered as a specialization or as an addition to a master’s degree in urban planning or architecture. For example, in 2000 the University of Toronto expanded its program in planning to include a Master of Urban Design Studies degree, which could be added on to an existing degree in urban planning, architecture, or landscape architecture. Organizations were also established, such as the Urban Design Group (UDG) in England, founded in 1978 to provide a forum for interprofessional and international cooperation in planning, architecture, urban design, and related disciplines. The definition of urban design and the professional status of urban designers have long been the object of debate; recently, the UDG has been discussing the problems and prospects of further professionalizing urban design as a practice distinct from planning and architecture (Rowland 1997). Although it is usually seen as a postgraduate add-on to architecture or planning, some practitioners have recommended ‘that urban design be considered as an emerging discipline in its own right.’ At the 1997 conference of the UDG, it was debated whether the professionalization and establishment of urban design as a discipline required setting out a program of basic training and education and the standardization of the practice.

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Urban designers are usually trained and accredited as planners, architects, or landscape architects. This was leading to other professional bodies claiming accreditation as their territory and thus to fragmentation as well as to inconsistent standards: ‘Urban design is becoming a battleground. Without some overall view of acceptable standards we might soon witness the potential hijacking of the urban design education agenda by the existing professional bodies ... Because it crosses disciplinary boundaries it should not be left to one of the existing institutes to apply accreditation, nor to the different institutes to devise separate accreditations based on different criteria (Rowland 1997). An Urban Design Board with representation from relevant professional bodies was proposed to serve as an accreditation body; it would establish educational requirements, standards and benchmarks. The establishment of urban design as a distinct discipline and profession is an ongoing subject of debate and disagreement (e.g., see Bentley 1998); even so, journals, courses, university degrees and diplomas, and organizations continue to proliferate and to mark out the boundaries of a distinct profession. The professionalization of urban design is bound up with the recognition and valuation of specific skills, knowledge, and competencies in design as professional. Like the other contemporary example of professionalization – CPTED – compared to the older and related professions of planning and architecture, urban design is a more specialized profession, and practitioners claim this as an expertise in addition to their main profession. At one time, architects dominated the field of urban design services. But in the twentieth century, through a process of increasing specialization and competition, functions and services were relinquished or taken over by new professionalizing groups such as urban planners, engineers, and surveyors, who marked out specific domains of knowledge and skills. The urban planners split off from the architects claiming distinction on the basis their functional and rational knowledge of cities. They were drawing mainly from the social sciences for their theoretical underpinnings, and thereby rejecting association with the arts. In many ways, urban design represents a merging of planning and architecture; its domain is the spaces between buildings. The appeal of art and aesthetics legitimizes the practice (just as with architecture), but the focus is on the surface of buildings, not the buildings themselves. The professionalization of urban design has been criticized because there is no clear definition of urban design (e.g., Bentley 1998). For

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example, one suggested definition of urban design is ‘the multi-disciplinary activity of shaping and managing urban environments, interested in both the process of this shaping and the spaces it helps to shape. Combining technical, social and expressive concerns, urban designers use both visual and verbal means of communication, and engage in all scales of the urban socio-spatial continuum’ (Bentley 1998). However, at the same time that urban design represents a specialization and is seeking standardization, this broad definition is keeping the door open to the multiplication of objects of professional attention. Urban design’s focus on aesthetic regulation has made it more informal and elusive than any other practice of city-making, because it relies so strongly on subjective judgements of what constitutes good design (Hubbard 1994). This aspect of the architectural profession has long been an object of contention with other professionals such as engineers, financiers, and managers, who question the validity of design controls and the emphasis on the aesthetic over the practical. Again, as in the case of CPTED, there is a tendency to claim environmental determinism in the promotion of design technologies. This has been an assumption of much of physical planning as well. Professionals claim that changes in the design and arrangement of space can lead to particular social ends and goods, that the shaping of a spatial order is or can be the foundation for a new moral order and for new social processes, and that changing the physical environment will take care of social inequalities (Fainstein 2000). They also promote a connection between aesthetics and safety; where they differ, however, is that CPTED practitioners advance technical solutions for achieving safety, whereas urban designers value aesthetics in their own right. In this regard, urban designers are closer to architects, whose pretensions to art in its own right are what clinched the profession’s individuality, status, and legitimacy (Larson 1983). The credentials, conduct, and claims of expert witnesses outlined earlier made it possible for the OMB to consider their evidence as independent and were essential to the functioning of the board. But most significantly, this validation was made possible by the state recognizing professional associations, which regulate and govern the circulation and standardization of conditions of authority. The ability of practitioners to constitute themselves as a profession through state recognition, then, is a powerful form of governing knowledge and authority. The recognition of these various conditions of authority grants professionals two

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very important privileges not given to ordinary witnesses: they are permitted to respond to abstract or hypothetical questions without the need for further proof, and their opinions are given authority similar to factual observations. A member of the OMB notes that the underlying rationale for these privileges is that professionals have expertise gained through a combination of education, experience, and intellectual distinction, which ‘empowers them to assist the Board in ways that are not available to ordinary folk. These privileges are potent, however, and must be accompanied by a parallel obligation to be professionally independent’ (Krushelnicki 1996: 58–9). He goes on to say that any indication that an expert witness is acting as an advocate will result in the OMB discounting the value of the analysis as independent, and that independence is necessary to not only ensure that justice has been done ‘but that it appears to have been done.’ He contends that this can be achieved by adhering to a simple division of labour: ‘Counsel advocates, experts analyze, and the Board adjudicates.’ A professional planner advises that this means that one must ‘keep professional opinion independent’ and that the expert witness role is ‘that of assessing issues & of advising’ (Stagl 1996: 75–6). A lawyer states: ‘Your expert should not be a “hired gun” but rather a professional and an expert in his/her field’ (Flynn-Guglietti 1996: 58). This understanding of independence is also emphasized in professional codes of conduct such as the one developed by the professional associations representing planners and management consultants in Ontario (Canadian Association of Management Consultants 2001; Ontario Professional Planners Institute 1996). Independence is presumed to exist where an expert focuses on objective analysis made possible by a professional’s possession of certain qualifications. An expert who possesses these qualifications can not only present facts but also analyse them to generate what is termed opinion evidence. Evidence heard by quasi-judicial boards falls into two main categories: factual and opinion (Eisen Q.C. 1988). Both ordinary and expert witnesses are able to present factual evidence, but opinion evidence is received only from experts or qualified people. Besides providing an assessment of an existing situation, the expert is likely to be asked to give an opinion on the impact of a project and on the ability of that project to produce the results forecast by the proponent. In order to maintain a distinction between the two, expert witnesses are advised to begin with facts and then later focus on opinions and in this way ‘assist the OMB in clearly, but separately, understanding issues, facts & opinions’ (Stagl 1996). It is presumed that this sepa-

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ration is maintained when lawyers (advocates) do not interfere with statements prepared by witnesses (experts); this is to ensure that ‘all the bases have been properly covered’ (Flynn-Guglietti 1996). The seperation of facts from opinions is necessary to the functioning of the OMB, as of all courts of law. This separation makes it possible for professional evidence to be rendered objective. At the OMB hearing on Yonge-Dundas, through their professionalism, experts enjoyed the authority to define what constituted good planning. They also had the authority to define who constituted the public and what was in their interest. In applying this authority, they connected the vision of the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city to the conduct of particular groups to whom, they argued, Yonge-Dundas belonged. The Good City Shapes Good Citizens Problematizations insisted that Yonge-Dundas was a space that belonged to the public and that the presence of others – by default the non-public – was denying them their right to this space. The public belonged at Yonge-Dundas, for it was classified as the symbolic centre of the city, as the primary public space within the order of spaces in Toronto. Who constitutes the public is expressed most clearly in reference to such symbolic and central public spaces. Of course, Toronto has many public spaces, and some of these spaces reflect conditions quite similar to those problematized at Yonge-Dundas. However, these spaces do not impinge on images of who are the public of the city, since they are segregated and localized spaces inhabited and frequented by groups who are considered to be ‘in their right place.’ Different groups are entitled to express themselves in their different spaces; in contrast, central symbolic spaces are sites where a vision of who are the public is expressed. According to the local residents’ and businesses’ association, the objective of redevelopment at Yonge-Dundas was to return Yonge Street to its status as the public place of the city. The alternative was ‘losing the street to vagrants, prostitutes, street runaways, panhandlers, and sleazy outlets’ (Ex. 41). The question was, ‘Whose quality of life has the greater interest – the increasing beggars or the public?’22 Table 6.2 lists the groups that were constituted as the public and those that by default were the non-public. The lists in the table have been compiled from the exhibits of the OMB and were contained in different statements, including city reports, expert and ordinary witness statements, and media articles. The groups that belonged were

The Governable City 185 TABLE 6.2 The public and non-public Public groups

Non-public groups

office workers shoppers entertainment seekers high-end retailers area residents students visitors a different age group (25+) people with higher disposable income families and adults children the elderly tourists citizens

street/marginalized youth, runaways panhandlers, beggars, vagrants illegal vendors discounters, sleazy outlets criminals drug dealers pushers loiterers squeegee kids, teenagers troublemakers and interlopers dispossessed and derelict people the unsavoury element gangs and gangbangers denizens

clearly identified as the public and consisted of a ‘broad range.’ The non-public was never clearly named as such, but it was almost always inferred that the groups listed in Table 6.2 were the causes of disorder and urban degeneration and did not belong at Yonge-Dundas. The category of the public was based mainly on economic class (middle to high income) and age (young children, adults, seniors). Relationally, the non-public also implied an economic class (low-income to poverty) and age (teens and young adults). Neither the public nor non-public was identifed by race or ethnicity but many of the problematized youth were understood to be young Black men who congregated in the vicinity of the Eaton Centre. In the safety and security study, they were described as ‘groups of people that [are] perceived as different or threatening, such as groups of men or young people “hanging out”’ (Safe Cities Collaborative 1998: 5). Drug dealers and users were also commonly believed to be from the ‘black community’ in Toronto; as much was stated in the media, police reports, and investigations of racial profiling carried out against the police service.23 Furthermore, many of the problematized discounters came from a variety of immigrant ethnic backgrounds. Connections to race, class, and ethnicity were never explicit; rather, they were implied in the discourse as something everyone knew but never dared point out. Young black men were named drug dealers or street youth or gangs, and immigrant retailers were discounters.24 People who shopped in the discount

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stores were not mentioned, but they certainly were not the high-end shoppers frequenting Bloor Yorkville, and they did not have ‘leading edge tastes in consumer preferences and entertainment choices.’ By process of elimination, they were lower-income groups. That these statements did not explicitly speak of race or class suggests just how much racializing and classing have become institutionalized and routinized, implied and concealed, deployed without words and almost imperceptible to our senses. Instead, the discourses spoke of the homeless, of loitering and skateboarding youth, of runaways, drug dealers and users, of shoplifters and petty criminals, of discount sellers, buyers, and vendors. In their use of euphemisms such as street youth, agents were not necessarily or intentionally classist or racist (although some may have been so). But they did use common and taken-forgranted social constructions of groups that were acceptable at this particular moment. ‘Street youth’ was a self-evident and collectively recognized term for identifying a group on the basis of their conduct and thus making them a target of governance and stigmatization. That non-public groups were classified in relation to conduct rather than other forms of identification reinforces how ways of being and conducting oneself in the city were central to the vision of a good city and good citizen. As noted earlier, the objective of the redevelopment project was to attract a broad range of people. This implied an inclusionary vision of who belonged. Taken together, the vision of the good city and technologies for improving Yonge-Dundas did not seek to overtly exclude any groups; rather they sought to shape conduct, discourage certain conduct, and repel and attract particular groups in order to ‘dilute the bad demographics’ (Ex. 64) and diminish ‘the concentration of people who take advantage of poor situations’ (Ex. 69). In general, it was implied that attracting a broader range of public groups would dilute the prominence of the non-public groups and probably displace them to other areas of the city. Agreement on the classification of the public and non-public cut across the evidence of various professionals (marketing analysts, architects, lawyers, planners, urban designers) and other dominant groups (developers, politicians, business owners, residents, financiers, corporate executives). They generally consented to the classification of the area and moralization of conduct outlined in the previous chapters. Although differently positioned (e.g., local resident versus professional planner), and differently interested (e.g., they saw Yonge-Dundas as part of a residential neighbourhood, or they saw an entertainment

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showpiece or a commercial opportunity), they were brought together by their moralization of the conduct of other (non-public) groups in the city. Also bringing them together were their shared class (middle), race (white), and ethnic (Anglo) positions.25 Some of the groups that constituted the public were connected to the changing social geography of inner-city Toronto. As noted in chapter 2, the development of condominiums and the changing demographics of the central city were put forward as justifications for improving YongeDundas; that is, doing so would meet the needs of people with ‘leading edge tastes in consumer preferences and entertainment choices.’ Indeed, many of the ordinary witnesses were residents who had recently moved into nearby condominium projects and gentrifying neighbourhoods, and/or who owned businesses or worked in the area. Often these same people were working in concert with the local councillor to push for redevelopment; later, they joined the public-private partnership appointed to lead the initiative. During the 1990s, in addition to the gentrification of existing housing in the Dundas East area, a number of new condominiums were developed in the vicinity of Yonge-Dundas. These were geared toward urban professionals. On Yonge Street, as a consequence of a change in city policy allowing the as-of-right conversion of office space to residential use, a number of new condominiums were built.26 As well, in the immediate vicinity of Yonge-Dundas, there were two new developments: the Merchandise Lofts at Church Street and Dundas Street West, and the Pantages Tower on Victoria Street just south of Dundas Street East. Merchandise Lofts promotes ‘fabulous amenities perfectly suited to an urban professional’s lifestyle!’ The Pantages Tower combines a theatre and a luxury hotel with condominium residences (Plate 11). The developer noted that the surrounding community had ‘undergone an extraordinary revitalization, centred on a new civic park, Dundas Square, currently being developed at the southeast corner of Yonge and Dundas. Exciting new stores and a spectacular entertainment centre with a 30-screen movie theatre will surround Dundas Square.’27 The future of Yonge-Dundas was connected to the future of these changing neighbourhoods to the east. Improvements to Yonge-Dundas were deemed necessary to provide for the improvement of ‘the emerging, more balanced residential private development in the East Downtown area’ and ‘to encourage more market-residential and retail development in the area’ (Ex. 69). The connection between these residential areas and groups and their interests in the redevelopment

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project was asserted by one of the few voices of opposition – the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty (OCAP). Although OCAP was not represented at the hearing, the media reported its claims that the redevelopment project was simply serving the interests of area businesses interested in gentrifying the Yonge-Dundas corridor (Malik 1998) and that the project was being approved in order to ‘appease yuppie ratepayer groups’ (Wheeler 1997). OCAP cited the closing of the nearby Salvation Army hostel (three hundred beds) as part of the plan to redevelop the Yonge-Dundas area. Nearby ratepayer associations were supportive of closing the shelter and redeveloping the area. In particular, the Toronto East Downtown Residents’ Association (TEDRA) supported the redevelopment project. TEDRA had been active over the past few years gentrifying the neighbourhood and ridding it of panhandlers, drug addicts, and prostitutes; it had also been lobbying against low-income housing and hostel beds. In these ways, the changes occurring around Yonge-Dundas echo what is happening at other sites in central Toronto. Professionals who live and/or work downtown are dominating the revaluation and resettlement of the inner city and imposing their sensibilities of urbanity, civility, and sociability. The future of the city is often tied to the growth of the knowledge economy; as a consequence, urban regeneration efforts are often geared toward the needs of those most centrally involved in this economy, to the neglect of the needs of citizens who are on the periphery (Amin and Massey 2001). New groups inhabiting the inner city in condominiums, lofts, and gentrified neighbourhoods are making claims on spaces long inhabited by those ‘blue collar, students and grey collar workers’ or ‘panhandlers, drug dealers and vagrants’ identified at the OMB hearing (OMBBI 1998c). For example, in one of the neighbourhood profiles included in the real estate ranking of Toronto neighbourhoods discussed in chapter 2, a once working-class industrial downtown neighbourhood, Leslieville, was described as ‘heading toward a happier future’; the ‘dowdy, downscale’ area was ‘renewing its housing stock.’ Gentrification was now happening as the ‘search for liveable and affordable close-to-downtown space is so urgent that it opens possibilities for Leslieville. Adding to the cachet is the recent consumer explosion on Queen East, where interior design hot spots, vintage boutiques and fashionable restaurants are drawing customers traditionally attracted to Queen Street’s trendy west side’ (Fulford 2001). The real estate guide was echoing the kinds of judgments and classifications of space that were used in the evaluation

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of the status of Yonge-Dundas and that were presented as objective criteria.28 The claims to inner-city spaces that these groups were making and their interests as consumers of city spaces were social and political conditions to which the makers of Yonge-Dundas were responding. Middle-class tourists and suburban consumers were also constituted as part of the public who belonged at Yonge-Dundas. As previously noted, proponents argued that Yonge Street was stagnating as a retail environment in contrast to expanding suburban shopping areas; furthermore, the area was not keeping up with the investment and regeneration initiatives underway in other major North American tourist centres. Regarding the former, since the post–Second World War expansion of suburbs in North America, the development of inner cities has often been oriented toward attracting suburban shoppers and entertainment seekers ‘back’ to the downtown. This was evident especially in the development of inner-city malls in the 1970s, such as the Toronto Eaton Centre; these malls involved the appropriation and adaptation of suburban forms. In the 1990s, the urban entertainment centre, which had been predominantly developed in North American suburbs, was being appropriated by and adapted for the inner cities of Toronto, New York, and Manchester (Plate 12). PenEquity, the developer of the urban entertainment centre at Yonge-Dundas, describes these as places ‘where you and your family can enjoy the best Entertainment, Restaurants and Eateries and Retail while never having to leave the property site ... Whether it’s the Suburbs or the City, you’ll always find PenEquity’s Entertainment properties and tenants will always have families enjoying the experience time and time again’ (PenEquity Management Corporation 2002). But as suggested in this quote, these forms of inner-city redevelopment have involved more than the appropriation of physical forms; they have also involved an investment in moral visions of the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city. Although represented only in demographic surveys, the tastes and preferences of middle-class tourists and suburban consumers were valued not only economically but also morally. These groups conducted themselves according to accepted norms of civility, they had good shopping habits, and they valued clean and orderly environments.29 Improvement could be evaluated to the extent that the redevelopment would attract families to Yonge-Dundas. Such references were common in the statements of both expert and ordinary witnesses as well as in media reports that described the future of the

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area as ‘a family-oriented version of New York’s Times Square’ (Immen 1999), which had been transformed ‘into a safe and family-friendly destination’ (Ex. 184). The presence of families signalled order and safety. If families could be attracted, this would definitely signal that the space was safe and good. Thus the redevelopment of Yonge-Dundas did indeed seek to attract a number of different groups. Although stratified along many different lines (e.g., occupations, income, age, lifestyles), the search for the public sought a social expression that would smooth out these differences and lead to both distinction and homogenization. One source of this unity was the vision of the good city, which was underpinned by the moralization of the conduct of particular groups in the city. This vision separated ‘them’ from ‘us,’ the non-public from the public, those who belonged at Yonge-Dundas from those who did not. The articulation of this vision and division was made possible by the social recognition of particular credentials, conduct, and claims as professional, which made it possible to deem definitions of good planning and the public interest as objective and independent.

7 Making the Good City

The preceding chapters analysed in detail how professional practices organize and rationalize problematizations and propose solutions and policies oriented to a vision of the good city. Practices moralize conduct, which is the activating force and the basis on which dominant groups unite and consent to a particular vision of the good city. However, the socially recognized authority of professional practices is based not on their moralization, but rather on their presumed objective, scientific, and rational knowledge. How are professions able to mobilize a vast regulatory web for achieving an ostensibly objective good city while underwriting it with the moralization of conduct? In this chapter I address that question in three parts, which together describe the dynamics and structuring principles of how professional practices make the good city and form a moral economy. I present these principles in such a way that they can be tested and used to interpret other professional projects of city making. This analysis is developed with the guidance of concepts developed by E.P. Thompson, Pierre Bourdieu, and Michel Foucault. These authors’ works are diverse and are focused on different objects, but they share a common orientation to social research that begins with a detailed investigation of practices as ‘particular instances of the possible’ (Bachelard 1949) and then identifies general or invariant properties. It is this spirit of research that has so far guided our investigation of Yonge-Dundas. Instead of beginning with ‘formal and empty conceptual constructions’ (Bourdieu 1992) and then undertaking a case study of an object, we began with a detailed empirical analysis. We can now articulate a grounded theory for investigating the dynamics and structuring principles of how professional practices make the good city and

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form a moral economy. It would be misleading, however, to suggest that the research process followed the same linear path that structures this book. Rather, the analysis is the result of a constant back-and-forth engagement between the empirical object and concepts. This chapter constitutes a report on that process. Much of this process was inspired by critiques of the presumed separation of the moral and economic that has dominated the social sciences. However, over the past two decades, many economists and sociologists ‘have pointed to the ways in which markets require normative foundations and legitimation, symbolic and cultural bases of exchange, and the social relations and institutions that structure economic behaviour’ (Halliday and Carruthers 1996: 371). For sociologists familiar with the work of Max Weber and Émile Durkheim, the assertion that the moral and the economic are inseparable is perhaps unremarkable. In The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, Weber, in seeking to unearth the distinctive characteristics of modern capitalism, argued that the essence of the spirit of capitalism was an outlook oriented toward the ongoing accumulation of wealth for its own sake, rather than for the material rewards it could bring (Weber 1985 [1905]). This is not derived from a relaxation of moralities; rather, it represents a distinctive, emergent moral order that demands self-discipline, frugality, and asceticism. In other words, economic relations are oriented toward values and morals of the broader social order – values that go beyond the pursuit of gain or material profit. Durkheim also investigated the moral order of post-Christian (if not secular) societies in which there was a high degree of social differentiation (Durkheim 1992 [1957]). His work understood individualism as the core value of modern society and set out to introduce a new, secular morality as the basis of social solidarity. This secular morality would emerge from social groups to which individuals were most strongly attached. For Durkheim, these were increasingly professional groups (a term he applied broadly to various occupational groups). On a similar note, the social historian E.P. Thompson, in his historically grounded critique of capitalism’s supposed break with ‘customs in common,’ investigated what he called the ‘moral economy’ – that is, how moral beliefs are embedded not only in the workings of the economy but also in the ideas of the economy (Thompson 1991 [1971]). He advocated investigating how a moral economy is constituted by the practices of particular agents in specific historical contexts. This chapter begins with a discussion of Thompson’s concept of a moral economy

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and then appropriates it as a general principle supported by the particular case of Yonge-Dundas. After this, we define the general dynamics and structuring principles of this moral economy and elucidate how it operates by appropriating concepts from Bourdieu and Foucault to define the economies and regimes that structure professional practices involved in making the good city. Moral Economies The expert evidence presented at the OMB hearing referred to market trends as natural and inevitable phenomena to which city-making decisions must comply. It was the market that determined the good form of consumption for Yonge-Dundas – a form that also fit a vision of the secure, consumer and aesthetic city. These claims echo theories and models of the production of space, which are based on positivist and deterministic explanations of the structure of land uses in the city (Bovaird 1993). Typically, they see all action as being guided by rational choice and the pursuit of material gain; this serves to privilege conduct that is economizing and self-oriented. These same claims represent the market as an autonomous and rational entity that operates according to its own laws. The questioning of the existence of an autonomous and rational sphere called the market is not without precedent. For example, a political economy approach critiques such economistic theories and models through a structuralist analysis that conceives of processes of capital accumulation as central ends pursued in the production of the economy. It analyses the material form of the city as the outcome of a conflict between different circuits of capital and labour, and it places capital accumulation at the centre of the analysis of the production of space (e.g., Castells 1978; Gottdiener 1994; Harvey 1989). However, in both academic and popular discourse, the free market continues to be either implicitly or explicitly assumed (e.g., as argued in Peattie and Rein 1983; Rose 1999). These assumptions – which indeed constituted the understanding presented by participants at the OMB hearing – reflect two claims about modern, market societies. The first of these is based on the assertion that in premodern, non-market societies the exchange of goods was not a mechanical but a moral transaction (e.g., Mauss 1967; Polanyi 1957a; Polanyi 1957b). However, with the great transformation to modernity, the economy became increasingly disembedded until it constituted an autonomous sphere of presumed

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laws and self-regulation (as advanced by Polanyi). The second claim is that the disembedded economy began to colonize other realms of society, thereby substituting a market logic for moral relations (e.g., Habermas [1989] on colonization of the lifeworld). This latter thesis, which draws on Marx’s concept of commodification, sees the market as the dominant mechanism integrating and commodifying all of society and as thus representing a great reversal from non-market societies. Society became embedded in the self-regulating mechanisms of its own economy; as a consequence, all aspects of human behaviour and relations came to be guided by the rational and maximizing behaviour that dominated the market – a condition captured in the term ‘market society’ (Booth 1994: 657). Each of these claims presumes a separation between the economy and the moral and then questions whether the moral is embedded in the economy or vice versa. Yet the investigation of Yonge-Dundas calls such a sharp distinction into question. Although economic rationalizations were part of the justification for remaking the space, these were bound up with and inseparable from the moralization of conduct. In this book I have shown that moralization and economic valuations are not independent of each other, and neither do they have a cause-and-effect relationship. Indeed, we could say that economic rationalizations are validated because they are allied with particular moralizations and ends, such as security and aesthetics. For example, the constitution of the secure city goes beyond the technical and is essentially a moral undertaking. A particular conception of the secure city defined in relation to the moralization of conduct, not economics, justified the redevelopment project and made it possible. The vision of the consumer city is also underpinned by the moralization of the conduct of particular retailers and consumers. Here we saw how the definition of improvement and what constituted a good form of consumption were clearly aligned with those forms produced by large, transnational retail and entertainment corporations. But this connection to transnational corporations was not the rationale for favouring a particular form of retail. Rather, arguments from all types of professionals – from urban planners to marketing analysts to security consultants – focused on the benefits of this form of development in distinctly moralized terms: these retailers were good and committed and would mobilize and attract middle-class consumers who would conduct themselves according to accepted standards of urban civility. Finally, aesthetics were not used as an ideological alibi for redevelopment. Rather, it was the moralization of conduct revealed in the ap-

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pearance and aesthetics of the space that activated and justified the sanitizing and imagineering of Yonge-Dundas. It is clear that economic, cultural, and political returns are relevant and valued, but these are bound up with and activated by the moralization of conduct. In these ways, the evidence provided by the Yonge-Dundas case confirms a basic understanding about moral economies advanced by E.P. Thompson: that in practice, a sharp division between a morally embedded non-market society and an autonomous and rational market society does not exist (Thompson 1991 [1971]). The data from Yonge-Dundas confirm this point; even so, we must also clarify it by specifying how the moral is constituted. The analysis in this book leads us to conclude that practices of city making are activated not by the moral, or morality, but rather by the moralization of conduct. At the OMB hearing, the public and what constituted good conduct were defined in relation to the moralization of the conduct of other groups in the city. This distinction is significant. No conduct is intrinsically moral. Moralization is a process of defining good and bad relationally. The definition of the bad always presumes the good – a phenomenon demonstrated repeatedly in the Yonge-Dundas case. This leaves us not with a general theory of a moral economy, but rather with a theory of how moral economies are produced by practices of moralization and economic exchange. There is no moral code or moral order that gets applied in instances such as YongeDundas. Rather, it is through specific instances such as Yonge-Dundas that moral codes and orders of exchange become involved in a process of mutual adaptation and ‘creative reinvention’ (Bourdieu 1979). Furthermore, in such cases the outcome is highly contingent. It also emerged from the analysis that moralization varies with social position. Dominant groups constitute themselves as the public and then define the vision of the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city. They define the good city by moralizing the conduct of groups that constitute the non-public. The moralization of conduct is the basis on which dominant groups unite and consent to professional strategies and technologies of city making. Moralizations are concealed and objectified in codifications and measurements such as economic trends, crime maps and statistics, opinion polls, and photographs that claim to be factual and objective. Like ideas of the economy, these things are represented as objective, external, and disinterested determinants produced by some anonymous mechanism. As such, they are divorced from the specific practices and interests that cumulatively and collectively constituted them.

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This confirms another understanding of moral economies: that economic models are normative in serving the interests of some groups in relation to others; moreover, these are not models of the actual workings of the economy but rather abstractions that particular agents deploy in order to produce the conditions under which the theory can be realized and can function (Bourdieu 1998). Economic models such as neoliberalism represent the market as an anonymous mechanism, one in which the connection to interests is concealed; yet neoliberalism draws its social power from the political and economic power of those whose interests it expresses (ibid.). Our study of Yonge-Dundas shows how the citing of autonomous market trends such as changing consumer preferences and the inevitable rise of urban entertainment centres concealed how these are shaped by the practices of particular agents (marketing analysts, urban planners, developers, advertising and management consultants, and so on). Depictions of these trends in a variety of inscriptions made them appear objective and reinforced the maxim that the market is an autonomous actor. Market trends defined and confirmed a particular conception of the good city, which could not be disputed, whose interests could not be revealed, and whose effects and consequences could not be questioned. Furthermore, their repetition and reproduction in practice only served to reinforce their status as trends – indeed, they amounted to self-fulfilling prophecies. In this way, ideas or models of the economy not only serve particular interests but also affect the object of the economy (Hacking 1999). The evidence of Yonge-Dundas shows how the proselytizing of the good in practices (and theories) conceals interests, preferences, and perspectives that shape and become materialized in particular city forms. Thus, a basic principle of how professional practices form a moral economy emerges. Professional practices are activated and underwritten by the moralization of conduct. Moralizations are not mediated, facilitated, or rationalized by economic values or vice versa. Rather, the two are mutually constitutive. Moralizations serve the interests of some groups in relation to others, and they are concealed in representations of exchange as products of a rational, autonomous, and objective economy. This principle articulates what we have seen in the Yonge-Dundas case but does not elucidate how this moral economy is made possible. How is it possible that professions can mobilize an immense regulatory web for achieving an ostensibly objective good city while under-

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writing their efforts with the moralization of conduct? Yet we do have some insights. The analysis demonstrates that a moral economy is constituted by a particular set of practices. It reveals how the good city is the product of many particular practices in search of the good. It is practices that have made Yonge-Dundas. So to answer this question, we must turn our attention to those practices. When the OMB dismissed the appeal and approved the Yonge-Dundas development, it spoke of the City of Toronto as the agent: it was the city’s proposals, projects, and plans that were at issue, not those of any particular agent or group. Yet although the OMB ascribed agency to the city, those who were authorized to speak at the hearing were select experts. The city’s power and authority to redevelop Yonge-Dundas, although vested in law, came into being only when this authority was exercised, interpreted, challenged, and taken up by professionals who translated it into a specific project. They were presumed to be independent of any institution. As they spoke through their practices, knowledge was constituted and Yonge-Dundas was made good. If we do not take the convenient shortcut and ascribe agency to institutions, corporations, or groups as actors, how then can we explain the objective regularities, the common perceptions and solutions (even among the opponents) produced by the various agents in the YongeDundas case? It is not sufficient to say that professionals just followed the rules, acted as handmaidens of powerful financial interests, or merely exercised the authority of the group to which they belonged. To do so would be to represent the agent as an automaton. At the other extreme, it is not helpful to speak of professionals as individuals acting independently and for their own interests. That would be to represent the agent as a non-social being and independent thinker. By investigating how practices are simultaneously structured and structuring, we can transcend these theoretical dichotomies. To do this we must switch from an analysis and interpretation focused principally on the evidence presented at the Yonge-Dundas hearing to factors that are not immediately visible or evident. The answers are suggested in the materials analysed in the Yonge-Dundas study, which I have organized by appropriating concepts from Bourdieu and Foucault. This enables us to investigate those conditions which make it possible for the moralization of conduct to activate professional practices while at the same time rendering practices objective, scientific, and rational. First, we investigate the economies of professional practices involved in the making of the good city (Bourdieu). Here we examine how prac-

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tices follow a reason that cannot be reduced to economic reason and that are involved in the pursuit of a wide range of functions and ends. Professional practices form a moral economy in the sense that they are involved in the pursuit of not only economic capital but also other types of capital (e.g., symbolic) and interests (e.g., moral). It is the pursuit of all these other ends that renders practices authoritative and economic profits possible. This opens up an investigation of (a) the social conditions of practices that form authority and (b) the symbolic systems that universalize and naturalize visions of what is a good city. After this, the chapter investigates regimes of truth that constitute professional authority (Foucault) in order to elucidate the conditions of knowledge that make particular professional statements, claims, rationalities, and technologies authoritative and truthful. This opens up an investigation of how regimes of truth are also necessary in the formation of authority and how the knowledge of what is good and bad becomes accepted at particular moments as natural, self-evident, and indispensable to the governance of space and making the good city. The Economies of Practices Professional Fields Analyses often focus on how corporations, governments, and institutions are the principle sources of the authority and legitimacy of those professionals who act as representatives, experts, principals, and the like. Yet as we have seen, those who were authorized to speak at the Yonge-Dundas hearing were presumed to be independent and not to be representing corporations, governments, or institutions. The city was the proponent, yet none of the experts represented or spoke for the city. Rather, it was independent experts who were authorized to speak and whose knowledge and opinions were granted authority. Independence at the OMB was also understood to mean that the experts were unbiased and objective (a point I take up later). Significant here is that the expert was constituted as someone whose authority and interests were not sited in institutions, corporations, or governments. Where, then, were the authority and interests of professionals sited? These things were located in a field, which Bourdieu defines as a network of relationships between differently and relatively positioned agents who struggle for control over valued resources – in this instance, the authority to define the good city. Such a field is only one of many

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possible configurations of agents existing within the larger social space (i.e., society). The Yonge-Dundas study reveals that a number of different agents compete and cooperate in making the good city. They are engaged in professional occupations (e.g., planning, architecture, security, marketing), they work within different organizations (government, private firm), and they focus on different objects (planning, architecture). They occupy relative social positions, which are defined and valued on the basis of specific criteria and credentials in the form of experience, knowledge, skills, and so on. All of these were recognized, repeated, and prioritized at the Yonge-Dundas hearing. They also struggle over stakes – such as the definition of what constitutes a good urban space – that are unique to the field within which they operate. We can call the field of action within which Yonge-Dundas was made ‘city making.’ As noted in this book’s introduction, city making is used to capture all of those practices which produce not only physical space but also other material and symbolic outcomes that socially define the city. City making refers to practices that both materially and symbolically shape not only the physical spaces of the city but also the ways of being and conducting oneself in the city. The concept of fields is useful because it focuses analysis on differently positioned and resourced agents who, through their practices, configure the dynamics, structuring principles, and processes that are specific to the making of the good city. And unlike institutions such as governments, councils, and corporations, fields have neither fixed boundaries nor fixed sets of players. The field of city making is defined by a specific composition and make-up of professionals who are engaged in innumerable struggles. Each of these struggles is a space of play that is configured and structured along similar lines (stakes), which are both reproduced and changed through each struggle. One of the structuring principles and stakes is the valuation of different types and forms of capital. These different forms define relative social positions and in turn the authority of the expert. Professional Capital At the OMB hearing, credentials were important to identify the experts and their authority to speak. A variety of credentials were recognized as valid, from education to experience; collectively, these defined the experts and their relative authority. Bourdieu defines these credentials as cultural capital: a particular type of capital that consists of cultural

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knowledge and learnable skills. It is different from economic capital, which consists of property, possessions, and goods directly convertible into money (Bourdieu 1984). The relative positions of agents can be distinguished according to the composition and volume of capital they possess (economic versus cultural). At the OMB hearing, cultural capital included qualifications such as education, accumulated experience, positions on professional associations, publications, and so on. So, although economic capital is often considered the dominant resource differentiating the authority of agents, at the hearing it was principally on the basis of the relative possession of cultural capital that authority was defined, that expert designation was granted, and that agents were differentiated. However, the social positions of experts at the OMB hearing were also the product of other stratifying variables besides cultural capital. Experts were principally male, white, and Anglo, over fifty, and owned or ran their own companies. We could say, then, that although the designation of an expert is based on an occupational category (class), this is bound up with other stratifying variables that limit the opportunities for agents to become professionals and experts. An agent’s accumulation of different types of capital has much to do with gender, ethnicity, and age. Access to the different types of capital is not simply a function of economic position. The same could be said about agents’ social trajectories. For example, in certain professions such as architecture and urban planning, women are on a rising trajectory now that educational and employment opportunities are opening up. However, a gendered hierarchy persists in the sense that senior positions and recognition continue to be dominated by white male architects and planners; this was evident in the designation of experts at the OMB hearing. So, although the city-making field is stratified mainly according to various forms of capital, there are other stratifying factors such as gender, race, ethnicity, and age. Economic and cultural divisions are never so great as to efface other principles of social division that organize agents (Bourdieu 1988). Average expertise at the OMB hearing included over twenty years of accumulated experience. This experience is a type of cultural capital (as noted earlier), but it also represents another type of capital that is not easily seen or measured. Through long immersion in the field of city making, agents come to possess an extensive network of contacts and connections. This represents social capital, which Bourdieu defines as the possession of connections to business and political leaders, knowing and being known by others, connections gained through

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social interaction at professional conferences and organizations, and so on. Therefore, in addition to cultural capital, the professionals at the OMB hearing likely also possessed significant social capital. The OMB valued not just any credentials, but particular ones. Indeed, the term ‘credentials’ signals that the bearer is entitled to credit or confidence based on certain criteria of evaluation (OED, 2nd ed., 1989). This credit or recognition constitutes symbolic capital – a form that any type of capital takes when it is perceived and recognized as legitimate (Bourdieu 1984). The credentials valued in the city-making field flow out of the successful use of particular types of cultural capital. This leads to their recognition – institutionally or not – on the basis of valuations specific to the city-making field. The transformation of cultural capital into symbolic capital has a further consequence that was evident in the case study: it separates the practices of the bearer from his or her underlying interests. Indeed, once credentials are recognized, the expert is authorized to speak on the basis of them, and can even claim that what he or she is saying is disinterested and objective. At the OMB hearing, this understanding and rationale extended even to opinion evidence, which was reserved for experts. Expert opinion was deemed admissible, since it would be uttered by a credentialed witness and supported by facts. The various types of cultural capital that an agent possesses are variably recognized and valued depending on the field of practice he or she is engaged in. When formally recognized within a field, cultural capital is transformed into symbolic capital. For example, scientific capital is specific to the scientific field, and artistic capital to the artistic field. Building on this, we can define professional capital as the form that was necessary to receive the expert designation at the OMB hearing. The central stake or form of capital specific to fields such as city making is professional capital (rather than, say, scientific or artistic capital). It follows that agents invest in the field for the professional capital that will enhance their authority to speak; this capital can then be converted into economic capital. Interpreting credentials as symbolic capital is also analytically useful because it is built on the understanding that the recognition of cultural capital is unstable and changing. This is evident in the new requirements, qualifications, and technologies being introduced within the city-making field, which compete for symbolic value as professional capital (e.g., new experiences, new professional designations, new technologies). In this way, new credentials become important in the constitution of the field (e.g., international experience introduces new knowledge and practices to the field). The specific composition of the

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experts who engaged in the competition to define a good space at Yonge-Dundas both reproduced and changed the forms of recognition, the stakes, and (in turn) the structure of the space of play we have named the field of city-making. As agents operate within the city-making field and learn what accounts for success, they not only promote the types of professional capital that give the most value to their own credentials (i.e., they seek recognition and thereby convert their cultural capital into symbolic form), but also try to build professional capital that will allow them to succeed in what is an ever-changing environment (Dezalay and Garth 1996). That is, they seek the knowledge and skills that will enhance their relative position in the field and that will also influence the recognition of particular credentials. In this way, we can think of this particular instance as both structured and structuring, as both operating within an existing hierarchy of recognition and changing that hierarchy and consequently the constitution of the field itself. Professional agents seek to learn about technologies that are highly valued and traded; they also promote the valuation of practices in which they have experience, knowledge, or a stake. This certainly applies to how credentials were represented, recognized, and promoted at the OMB hearing. International experience in and knowledge of crime prevention through environmental design technologies and design strategies for creating a sense of place are but two examples. In this way, agents acquire stakes in the transmission, replication, and promotion of particular practices, which are circulated through citations in journal and newspaper articles, books and manuals, proceedings of professional conferences, professional reports, and so on. These constitute structuring principles of the economy of practices whereby valuations of practices (e.g., particular technologies) are bound up with professional agents’ pursuit of symbolic and in turn economic capital. The professional capital of experts participating in the OMB hearing was also connected to their profession’s status, legitimacy, and claims to possess unique knowledge and skills. The promotion, advancement, and valuation of credentials are bound up with the legitimacy of professions as collective organizations and are a necessary part of professional capital. Professional capital is to a large extent defined by professional organizations that legitimize and regulate the knowledge, education, and skills of the different professions within the city-making field. (The role of professional associations as a source of authority is developed further at the end of this chapter.)

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The concepts of field and types of capital are analytically useful for defining the relative positions and autonomy of professionals. Earlier, I described a number of stakes specific to the city-making field, which are struggled over and defined to a large extent by agents or players who have the necessary symbolic capital as well as interest invested in the field. With their valued credentials and their recognized technologies, agents engage in a relatively autonomous struggle to shape and influence the configuration of the city-making field. This is, however, a space of relative not absolute autonomy. As we have seen other agents were active in making Yonge-Dundas good. How do these concepts help us interpret the relationship between the experts and all others involved? The city-making field has a particular structure and valuation of relative positions, based on the volume (how much) and composition (which form) of capital that agents possess. This is relevant because the structure of positions in the city-making field is homologous (i.e., corresponds) to positions within other fields and to the broader social space of positions. What, then, is the position of professionals in the field relative to others in the broader social space? Those occupations for which cultural capital is their principal resource have variously been defined as the new class (Gouldner 1979) or the new petite bourgeoisie (Featherstone 1991). They are said to be on an upward trajectory in social space, in that they are increasingly able to exchange their cultural capital for a greater volume of economic capital (Bourdieu 1984). Notwithstanding the upward trajectory of professionals, they still occupy a dominated position vis-à-vis other agents who possess more economic capital, which continues to be the ‘dominant principle of hierarchy’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992). Positions with the highest volume of total capital occupy the field of power within the broader social space; that said, they are stratified in terms of the composition of their capital. Agents with more cultural than economic capital are thus the dominated fraction. Figure 7.1 provides a graphic illustration of relative positions located in social space, defined according to amounts of economic and cultural capital (derived from Bourdieu 1984). The relative position of professionals in the city-making field is located in relation to financiers and developers to illustrate how professionals are a dominated fraction of the dominant class. Thus, although they enjoy a degree of relative autonomy, the authority of professionals is often challenged and influenced by the relative dominance of property developers and those with the financial capital

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Figure 7.1 Relative positions in social space

required for city making. Certainly, those agents with significant financial capital exercised authority in the making of Yonge-Dundas. But although financial capital and economic ends were necessary, the evidence of the Yonge-Dundas case shows that they were definitely not sufficient to justify the redevelopment project or to activate the myriad strategies and technologies that were deployed, nor were they sufficient to meet the numerous ends that were desired (such as governance objectives). The moralization of conduct was necessary to justify and legitimize a vision of the good city. The analysis of the YongeDundas project suggests that it is not possible to a priori establish a principle of hierarchy; the authority and ends of professional and other agents, whether they hold financial capital or political capital, are clearly bound up together. Also, professional practices are subject to the interventions of various publics such as municipal politicians, residents’ and business associations, and interest groups. At the OMB hearing, professionals had to respond to the political demands, objectives, and interests of a number of political agents. In the following section I investigate how it was possible that the assessments and judgments of experts, financiers, and

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ordinary witnesses corresponded as a consequence of their similar positions in the field of power. In other words, that professionals agreed with the judgments of others did not necessarily indicate that they were acting for others; it did, however, suggest that their interests, assessments, and judgments could well have been attuned or homologous. In this regard, this section also investigates how city forms and designs that professionals produce correspond to the interests, preferences, and judgments of those for whom a space is designated. Professional Habitus How was it possible that judgements of good and bad conduct and spaces advanced by experts at the OMB hearing were attuned to one another and to the judgements of financiers, developers, politicians, and ordinary witnesses? What explains their common perceptions and definitions of the good city? How could it be that their perceptions of security, safety, and the ephemeral sense of place were similar? It is too simplistic to say that they were of the same class and so had the same interests, likes, and dislikes, which were reflected in their common perceptions of good and bad. But by extending the analysis of capital and how it structures the relative positions of agents in social space, we can understand how common perceptions were made possible. As Bourdieu illustrates, there is a correspondence or homology between social structures and mental structures, between the social positions of agents and their dispositions, between their ways of perceiving and their ways of evaluating. Dispositions are an embodied state of capital, which Bourdieu names habitus, a system of lasting and transposable dispositions that integrate past experiences. Acquired dispositions are part of one’s habitus; they are internalized, embodied social structures and a ‘primary form of classification that functions below the level of consciousness and language and beyond the scrutiny or control of the will’ (Bourdieu 1984: 466). In contrast to interpretations that the correspondence between social positions and tastes is a mechanical or direct relation (e.g., reflection), the concept of habitus illustrates how the tastes of similarly positioned agents are defined relationally. An aesthetic disposition unites all those who are the product of similar conditions and at the same time distinguishes those people from all others. The tastes and dispositions of others in this way serve as negative reference points. When social differences as embodied dispositions ‘get translated into choices of goods and activities,

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then these function to strengthen social distinctions and differences’ (Bourdieu 1984: 226). This analysis is pertinent to the study of Yonge-Dundas in that it opens up a way to understand how it was possible that the different agents at the OMB hearing had similar judgments of what constituted a good city space. The different but similarly positioned agents – the politicians, ratepayers, landowners, professionals, and so on who constituted themselves as the public – were likely similarly disposed. But the consequences of their similar dispositions were not given. It is through the generative capability of habitus that dispositions are translated into choices of goods and activities in relation to those of others and within the choices offered by various situations. For example, dispositions are socially expressed in similar orientations to aesthetics, urbanity, and civility; they are then physically expressed in preferences for particular city forms and environments (e.g., forms and styles of housing). This made it possible for the different groups at the OMB hearing to consent to a classification and vision of a good city space, one that gave social and physical expression to their tastes and preferences. This expression translated their dispositions into a physical space in relation to the moralization of the conduct of more socially distant groups – the non-public. On this basis, a consensus among professionals and similarly positioned agents was dispositionally made possible and went almost uncontested. The appropriation of physical space is one way in which social structures are gradually converted into systems of preferences (Bourdieu 1993 [1999]). In this way, the classification, ranking, and ordering of physical space is carried out in a way that is homologous to the ranking and ordering of social space. That is, classifications of good and bad spaces, of elite or downtrodden spaces, are homologous to classifications of groups. So, when agents at the OMB hearing pursued their interests in particular designs and environments, they tended to advance those of other similarly positioned and dispositioned agents in social space. Conversely, we can think of those who are more socially distant as likely having different dispositions and tastes for city designs and environments. The connections among dispositions, perceptions, and classifications of the good city are usually misrecognized. This was evident in the case study when professionals – and indeed, all participants at the hearing – presumed that the classification of city forms and designs was based on objective and uncontestable notions of the good city.

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Professionals at the OMB hearing consciously represented and pursued the good, but at the same time they did not recognize or acknowledge that cultural judgments are social expressions of tastes and preferences. Bourdieu refers to this as an ‘interest in disinterestedness’ wherein agents are unreflective of the social conditions that inform and shape judgments. Without reflexivity, they do not recognize the ways in which interests are bound up with positions and dispositions. Yet, as previously discussed, their claims to disinterest are part of the valuation of their practices and a source of their symbolic capital. In this regard, professional visions and divisions can be thought of as morally disposed and as what Bourdieu (1984) terms symbolic violence. The vision of the secure, consumer, and aesthetic city promoted by professionals at the OMB hearing was an act of symbolic violence, for it concealed the dispositions that were authorized and reinforced by this collectively recognized expression. Furthermore, the misrecognition of the interestedness of practices leads to their reproduction and further entrenchment. In this way, borrowing from Hacking (1999), ideas of what makes a good city that serve particular interests lead to the making of the material city and in this way reinforce those ideas. So although professional agents engage in a field of practice through intentional strategies such as the accumulation of specific types of capital, at the same time they engage in unintentional and dispositional actions. In his way their interests are always practical (willed, intentional) and dispositional (determined, unintentional). There is much debate in the social sciences as to whether we can identify and separate the intentional and unintentional or the non-subjective and subjective. This separation was certainly not revealed in the words of the agents who participated in the OMB hearing. Indeed, their status as experts assumed away interestedness. Instead of thinking of the willed and the determined as binary opposites, we can conceive of the actions of experts as at once consciously willed and non-subjective and unconsciously determined and subjective, where the lines cannot be drawn either theoretically or empirically. The same analysis can be used to interpret the actions of other agents at the OMB hearing, such as the ordinary witnesses. They too surely engaged with intentional strategies such as the enhancement of their property values (economic capital) while at the same time engaging in unintentional and dispositional actions. Their constitution of groups such as street youth was taken for granted and obvious, based neither explicitly on the moralization of conduct nor on classist or racist judg-

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ments. Street youth, for them, was a self-evident and collectively recognized term that identified a group whose conduct needed to be governed. The classist and racist connections were so regularized and institutionalized that they were not recognized or perceptible. Bourdieu’s concepts of disposition and habitus are analytically useful for understanding how this is possible – how racist and classist judgments can become unintentional, subjective, and taken for granted ways of perceiving one’s social world. The concepts are also analytically useful for understanding how the public was constructed and how a definition of who was the public came into being. At the OMB hearing, agents appealed to the public as a naturally existing real group that had a collective existence and consciousness awaiting a political moment to be mobilized. Yet the identification of the public was the product of the practical work of construction carried out by agents engaged in this specific project. Indeed, its expression and identity only came into being through this political and practical moment. That is, the public was not a group that preexisted the redevelopment project and then imposed a definition of itself. Rather, it was constituted in reference to this particular place and in relation to particular other groups. This points to the long-standing debate in the social sciences over the existence of social classes or groups, that theoretical classes or classes on paper are automatically real classes, and that individuals are united by the consciousness and the knowledge of their common condition and are ready to mobilize in pursuit of their common interests (Bourdieu 1987). Bourdieu suggests that classes or groups on paper are only probable real groups. The move from a theoretical group (based on affinities of position and disposition) to a practical group requires the political work of imposing a principle of vision and division on the social world. In the Yonge-Dundas case, the affirmation of the public required the production of the other. In this way, the public and non-public emerged simultaneously in a dialogical manner and were constitutive of each other. The public and its preferences were defined in relation to those more socially distant groups that were within the social space but outside the field of power. Although occupying different positions in the field of power, the public was unified as a group through processes of classing and racializing their others and naming them as though they were real groups. Through the moralization of the conduct of discounters, street youth, and loiterers, different groups such as shoppers,

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workers, tourists, and families were constituted as the public. In this way, dividing practices represented a vision and division along a great divide. These practices effaced the great differences on either side of the divide (public/non-public) by defining a vision and division of social space that united differences (tourist and local resident/street youth and discount retailer). What is the principle of division that united these differently positioned agents? It was not based on their objective social position (i.e., the composition and volume of different forms of capital), although this is a source of the authority to constitute groups. Indeed, it was the public that constituted and named the squeegeer, the street youth, and so on. The principle of division was based on the public’s dispositions as expressed through preferences and tastes for particular city forms and ways of being in the city, homologous to their social position: ‘To be more precise, they choose, in the space of available goods and services, goods that occupy a position in this space homologous to the position they themselves occupy in social space’ (Bourdieu 1988: 19). In this light, the presumption that the vision of a good space at YongeDundas responded to the natural and practical needs of the public was an essentialist view that necessarily concealed how the classification and making of space is a social process as well as perspectival (Deutsche 1988). The moralization of conduct both constituted and united the public. Moral judgements were social expressions of agents’ relative positions and dispositions in social space (outlooks, tastes, preferences); these were translated into choices of goods in relation to those of socially distant others. Similarly positioned agents – politicians, ratepayers, landowners, professionals, and so on – were likely similarly disposed. This made it possible for these different groups to reach a consensus on what constituted a good collective space. All of this enabled a consensus among professionals and similarly positioned agents. That they consented to a common good or vision of the good city and were dominant fractions within the social field gave greater authority to and affirmation of professionals’ judgements as objective. The data from Yonge-Dundas confirm that the ability to commit symbolic violence in the making of the good city is based on the relative authority of agents measured in terms of their professional capital. It is professionals who have the authority to translate dispositions into classifications and choices of city spaces – into designs that are a response to existing tastes and dispositions in social space. Professionals play a definitive

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role in producing the relational set of choices for particular groups. The foregoing analysis can also be applied to professional judgements about the spaces other groups occupy or to which they belong. This is seen in professional judgments about discount stores, donut shops, empty lots and modest bungalows and in projects designed for lowincome groups; in such cases, professionals mediate and translate group dispositions into physical expressions. In contrast, when professionals are involved in producing spaces for people like themselves, more specialized city spaces often result. Some examples are the valuations of cafes, galleries, and loft condominiums of the sort that attract and reflect the discriminating tastes of professionals. These forms are stylized cultural expressions of group distinctions (Boyer 1988). It follows that the competition for the authority to govern city-making involves not only professionals’ pursuit of different types and forms of capital but also their own interests as consumers of city space as a cultural good. In this way, the different classifications of city forms and designs that professionals produce correspond to the dispositions of the groups for which a space is designated. This opens a way for us to interpret the relationship between the supply and demand of cultural products such as city spaces. Professionals define the possible choices objectively available; it follows that the supply of goods involves a symbolic imposition. Professionals, as cultural intermediaries, use the productive features of consumption to mobilize groups by deploying strategies and technologies that guide and channel choices in particular directions. Forms of consumption are not simply imposed on consumers or developed in direct response to their needs. Rather, consumption spaces like Yonge-Dundas are designed so that they correspond to existing tastes and dispositions in social space and give those things a collectively recognized expression. Consumption products objectify tastes by raising them from a ‘half-formulated or unformulated experience, implicit or even unconscious desire to the full reality of the finished product’ (Bourdieu 1984: 231). Since the possible choices objectively available are limited, the supply of goods involves a symbolic imposition. At the OMB hearing, the power of symbolic codes was perhaps most apparent in the claims that took for granted the understanding of a sense of place. A shared sense of place is something perceived and appreciated by agents who occupy similar or close positions in social space and who correspondingly have every chance of having similar dispositions and interests (Bourdieu 1988). In this way, a sense of place

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can be described as an expression of one’s habitus, of one’s perception and appreciation of place. It implies a ‘sense of one’s place,’ where social distances are inscribed in bodies and senses (Goffman 1959). However, this sense also involves a ‘sense of the place of others’ (Bourdieu 1988), and in this regard it can be seen as a dividing practice. A sense of place reflects how agents perceive the relationships among positions in physical and social space. This commonly used phrase in urban planning is connected to the image of good city form that was advanced by an influential urban design theorist, Kevin Lynch, who wrote: ‘I am here supports I am.’ Here he was suggesting how place identity reinforces other aspects of identity (Lynch 1981). Through the generative capacity of habitus, groups are able to recognize place identity in a way that seems commonsensical and self-evident. And this appeal to sense and common sense validates professional knowledge by rendering it obvious and natural. We can conclude that professional visions of the good city and the moralization of conduct that underpins them follow an immanent reason. Professionals do not fabricate a moral discourse to justify their analyses and advice, which can then be used by others to justify and veil their economic or political interests. Rather, their moralization of conduct is defined relationally, in attunement with similarly positioned and dispositioned agents for whom a space is designated, and in opposition to the space of socially distant others. However, although professional authority derives from the attunement of practices to the dispositions of agents for whom a space is designated, this connection is misrecognized, in that the social recognition of professionals is conferred on the basis of symbolic capital, which renders practices objective and universal. The concept of habitus is also useful for interpreting how the conduct of experts at the OMB hearing was guided by their professional disposition. By virtue of their social position, professionals acquire an embodied sense of their practice. This was revealed in the rules of conduct that operated at the OMB hearing. In the city-making field, embodied cultural capital is acquired through immersion in a university environment of educated people, scholastic practices, and objects, as well as through immersion in a professional environment of conferences, meetings, and social events. Skills such as the art of conversation, and particular ways of seeing, knowing, and perceiving the world, are embodied through these educational experiences and later in professional engagements in the field. Through such immersion, specific ideas are taught and a spe-

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cific sensibility is cultivated. Through exposure to the discourse of a practice, agents are trained to recognize, understand, and reproduce the legitimate domain of their profession’s jurisdiction. How to perform at the OMB hearing and how to write a professional report were aspects of professional training that had to be undertaken to acquire recognition as an expert. Judging from the advice of lawyers and professional associations and from the evaluations of the OMB, certain rules of conduct were recognized as acceptable, including criteria about demeanour and appropriate modes of response. Through their immersion in the field of practice, experts learn these rules, which become part of their practical knowledge and sense of practice. This constitutes the non-formalized, practical dimensions of action; it is what enables actors to be ‘strategic improvisers who respond dispositionally to the opportunities and constraints offered by various situations’ (Swartz 1997: 100). Think of these rules as skills that are analytically separate from the substantive knowledge connected with a task: ‘To solve an abstract problem, one must not only have command over the body of knowledge connected with the problem, but also the rules of discourse (that is, logic, mathematics, rules of evidence), and the capacity or skill to employ them so as to arrive at an acceptable solution’ (Freidson 2001: 25). Freidson describes these professional skills as formal and codified but also as tacit. That is, they are non-verbalized and are not part of a formal codified technology, but rather are learned in practice; they constitute what he refers to as a kind of ‘knowledge in the body.’ They are embedded in experience without necessarily being verbalized, codified, or systematically taught. For example, writing a professional report or scholarly paper incorporates formal rules of writing, yet no set of rules can specify how much to emphasize or to repeat a point, or which points need illustration. This involves an intellectual technology that is analytically separate from but not independent of substantive knowledge. At the OMB hearing, the dispositions of habitus were important resources that guided experts’ conduct. These were the resources that gave experts an appreciation of the stakes – often unexpressed or unacknowledged – that were specific to the city-making field. Dispositions of habitus also make it possible for professionals to operate in an environment that involves discretionary specialization in situations where discretion or fresh judgment must often be exercised if a task is to be performed successfully (Freidson 2001). The tasks and outcomes of professional work are so indeterminate that they require attention to

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the variations to be found in individual cases. This requires discretionary judgment, which must be learned through special training; it also requires the accumulation through practice of skills that are tacit and embedded in experience albeit they are not verbalized, codified, or systematically taught (ibid.). The understanding of the rules of a game and what it means to be a player are part of a professional’s habitus. The statements exchanged between experts at the OMB hearing can be seen as strategic interactions during which choices were made from a set of possible lines of argumentation, questioning, and responses (Goffman 1970). The possible lines available and chosen drew from embodied understandings of the stakes and issues in the city-making field. Goffman describes this as the ‘operational code’ of the game – that is, the orientation to gaming that influences how opponents will play. Players must understand the ‘style of play.’ They must possess the intellectual ability to assess courses of action and consequences and to do so from the different perspectives of all contesting parties. They must be able to set aside personal feelings, think and act under pressure, and refrain from indulging in current displays of wit at the expense of long-term interests. Finally, they must be able to understand all about others’ capacities as gamesmen (Goffman 1970: 96). In the adversarial setting of the hearing, which involved disputes, challenges, and contestation, these abilities were especially necessary. Although evident in the statements of all expert witnesses, the sense of the game was most apparent in the coaching and conduct of the twenty-one lawyers whose role it was to advocate and orchestrate the presentation of evidence. In all of these ways, we can extend our understanding of authority to include not only the institutionalized forms of capital (credentials in the form of degrees, professional designation, experience) but also embodied forms (habitus). In sum, to say that professional practices form a moral economy is to conceive of practices as involving the pursuit of not only economic capital but also other types of capital and interests: ‘Practices form an economy, that is, follow an immanent reason that cannot be restricted to economic reason, for the economy of practices may be defined by reference to a wide range of functions and ends. To reduce the universe of forms of conduct to mechanical reaction or purposive action is to make it impossible to shed light on all those practices that are reasonable without being the product of a reasoned purpose and, even less, of conscious computation’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992: 119).

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Professional practices involved in the making of the good city form a moral economy that is defined by a range of ends which are bound up together. First, professionals engage in the conscious and instrumental pursuit of not only economic capital but also other types of capital that contribute to the valuation of their practices, such as the professional capital that confers on agents the authority to define an ostensibly good city. They operate in a relatively autonomous field of differently positioned and resourced agents who, through their practices, configure the dynamics, structuring principles, and processes specific to the making of the good city. Second, professionals do not fabricate a moral discourse to justify their analyses and advice; rather, their pursuits follow an immanent reason based on the moralization of conduct that corresponds to particular dispositions and that is defined relationally, in attunement with similarly positioned and dispositioned agents to whom a space belongs and in opposition to socially distant others. However, this connection is misrecognized, in that the social recognition of professionals is conferred on the basis of symbolic capital, which structures the citymaking field and renders practices objective and universal. So far I have provided concepts for interpreting how the content of practices – that is the moralization of conduct – is one source of professional authority. I have investigated how the moralization of conduct is based on reason that is immanent (social) rather than the product of ‘conscious computation’ (instrumental). Immanent reason is that which is not socially recognized; indeed, as the Yonge-Dundas study certainly confirms, its authority derives from misrecognition. However, for reason to be socially recognized, it must meet certain conditions of knowledge and ways of thinking. As we have seen, problematizations, rationalities, and solutions are reasoned and rational and socially recognized within the field of city making. To investigate reason that is socially recognized, we must examine those conditions of knowledge which both constrain and legitimize professional practices, which constrain utterances and delineate what is sayable and acceptable. Practices do not exist without certain conditions of knowledge that govern and legitimize what is said and what is done, what claims and rationalizations are given, and what solutions are offered. Here we turn to Foucault’s genealogical method to think about regimes. The Regimes of Practices The authority of experts at the OMB hearing relied on more than their possession of different types and forms of capital. The authority of

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knowledge claims and theories also relied on their recognition in the field of city making. In order to be accepted as authoritative, the statements and claims uttered by professionals had to adhere to particular conditions of knowledge operating within the field. These conditions served as an authority for the authority of professionals. Such authority is derived in part from regimes that govern and render truthful particular, claims, rationalities, technologies, and ways of thinking (Foucault 1991 [1980a]). The possessors of such authority are most often professionals who have the training to do the intellectual labour necessary to master and operate within these regimes. The authority of professional claims put forward at the OMB hearing was revealed in their discourse. Here we need to focus on how that discourse is a product of intellectual labour rather than simply knowledge. The objective is not to discover a field of meaning or intentions, but rather to investigate practical arguments where discourses serve to found and justify particular ways of thinking and doing things (ibid.). What, then, was the regime – the conditions of knowledge – that rendered truthful the discourse of professionals at the OMB hearing? What were the conditions that made this or that problem, answer, or solution possible? Problematizations, Classifications, Rationalities The practices that sought to make Yonge-Dundas good did not identify problems that were out there awaiting identification. Rather, they engaged in the problematization of the space. This began with the production of classificatory systems of good and bad built upon the moralization of conduct. Foucault describes problematization as a process of bringing ‘something into the play of truth and falsehood and [setting] it up as an object for the mind’ (in Castel 1994: 238). Certain conduct was called into question through a process of symbolically classifying what constituted a bad versus a good way of being in the city. Although these judgements were oriented to general goods within the social space (e.g., security), they were specified and articulated at this particular moment through the technology of classification. That is, the assessment of Yonge-Dundas did not occur against some absolute measure of good conduct; rather, through the moralization of particular conduct occurring in this space, the good was defined. What conditions of knowledge made particular problematizations acceptable? The case study makes it clear that problematizations adhered to a particular rationality that connected conduct to social harms

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such as disorder and decline. This condition of knowledge was necessary in order to legitimize problematizations as non-subjective, objective, and reasonable. This rationality was defined not in reference to some absolute criterion of reason, but rather through adherence to that which was recognized within the city-making field: ‘One isn’t assessing things in terms of an absolute against which they could be evaluated as constituting more or less perfect forms of rationality, but rather examining how forms of rationality inscribe themselves in practices or systems of practices, and what role they play within them, because it’s true that “practices” don’t exist without a certain regime of rationality’ (Foucault 1991 [1980b]: 79). That is, the validity and legitimacy of rationalities were based on their recognition within the city-making field. As we saw in the evidence presented at the OMB hearing, the problematizations and rationalities deployed for Yonge-Dundas were similar to those deployed not only at other sites in Toronto, but also in other cities in North America and England, and in broader discourses on the making of the good city. At these different sites, similar conditions were brought into question and problematized, and specific rationalizations became inscribed on or attached to these particular problematizations. For example, the problematization of security was based on the rationality that particular conduct produces visual signs of disorder that lead to urban decline, crime, and fear. This rationality came to shape the solution or technology: situational crime prevention. By acting on the environment to prevent conduct that produced signs of disorder, the risk of criminal opportunities and the fear of crime would be minimized. By making agents responsible, potential offenders would be made accountable for their conduct and potential victims would be mobilized to informally police the space. This was one example of many problematizations and rationalities that were validated by their recognition as common sense within the citymaking field. This sort of recognition also extended to other sites, thereby demonstrating how regimes of truth are international in their reach. The examples from New York and Manchester showed how professionals borrow and exchange problematizations, rationalities, and technologies and how a broader discourse on the making of the good city connects sites. These problematizations and rationalities reflect a particular orientation to crime. It is an orientation that focuses on the confluence of fiscal constraints and assumptions about rising crime rates and the failure of welfarist approaches. This confluence has given rise to economic ration-

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alities and forms of reasoning that are referred to as neoliberal (Garland 1997). The term ‘neoliberal rationalities’ is used here not to describe an ideology but rather to give a name to myriad attempts to rationalize a style of governing and its associated technologies that has acquired prominence in the past few decades. The kinds of problematizations that have given rise to neoliberal rationalities concern questions about the state. Has it grown too large and bureaucratic? Is it undertaking projects that can be better handled by the private sector? And are its regulations and taxes impeding economic development (Rose 1996)? Rationalities of governing that have emerged in the late twentieth century in response to these problematizations can be described as neoliberal or advanced liberal in that they involve economic rationalities that represent a shift away from welfarism with its state-based forms of social provision, toward the more marketized, entrepreneurial, individualized, and consumerist forms of social organization (O’Malley 1996; Rose 1999). In the field of city making, a similar rationality is evident in problematizations that the state has been too heavily involved in the direct provision and regulation of collective spaces for the public good (e.g., public urban renewal projects, public housing, transit, public parks, policing). The responding neoliberal rationalities envision the state more as an enabler and partner in the provision of such goods and services; they envision a state that seeks to develop and regulate space through a variety of market mechanisms (e.g., public-private partnerships, market social housing, toll roads, entertainment centres, private security). In the Yonge-Dundas case, professionals repeatedly deployed neoliberal rationalities. In part, what makes neoliberal rationalities both possible and legitimate is their practical use, recognition, and valuation within the regime that constitutes what is true and false in the city-making field. As we saw, neoliberal rationalities were predominant at the time of the OMB hearing, at both the provincial and local levels of government. Regimes of truth have a further effect: once they have been recognized and accepted in a field of practice, particular ways of rationalizing are presumed to be objective, disinterested, and authoritative. Technologies of Governing Making Yonge-Dundas good involved more than procedures for problematizing; they also involved programs of action for intervening and

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solving problems. Problematizations and rationalizations became governmental by attaching themselves to technologies for achieving their ends. The technologies that professionals identified and assembled were recognized solutions to particular city problems. This is not to say there was a simple, uncomplicated application of technologies or problematizations or rationalities. Rather, these were opened up to adaptation, modification, and contestation as they were articulated into this particular space. For example, we saw many similarities but also differences regarding how technologies were articulated in Toronto, New York, and Manchester. Making Yonge-Dundas a good city space involved various technologies whose purpose was to shape the conduct of agents and the actions of agents on themselves. Here, Foucault’s concept of governmentality is useful for understanding how two types of technologies were at work: technologies of power and technologies of the self (Foucault 1988 [1982]: 19). Technologies of power seek to shape the conduct of individuals and to submit them to certain ends or dominations; an example is the policing technologies that sought to govern by penalizing the conduct of particular groups at Yonge-Dundas. Technologies of the self permit individuals to effect – by their own means or with the help of others – operations on their own bodies, souls, thoughts, conduct, and so on so as to shape themselves into a certain identity. Technologies deployed in the making of Yonge-Dundas, such as community selfgovernance, sought to motivate and activate individuals and groups to take on greater responsibility for their own security; whereas design technologies were used to shape behaviour in particular directions. Both technologies of power were deployed which confirms Foucault’s assertion that technologies of power hardly ever function separately – in particular, technologies of governing involve acting on both oneself and others. The different technologies of governing that were deployed can also be interpreted in relation to their use of positive or negative modes of knowledge/power. In the case of Yonge-Dundas, the main technologies were positive, preventive, and future-oriented modes of the sort that work by shaping conduct in particular directions. For example, crime prevention through environmental design does not intervene directly in people’s lives to normalize them; rather it involves altering the social structures within which people behave (O’Malley 1992). In this regard, the improvement of Yonge-Dundas was similar to moral reform efforts since the Second World War, which have focused on environments

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rather than specifically on people (Adams 1994; Merry 2001). However, design strategies were not used alone; they were combined with managing, punishing, and disciplining strategies, all of these negative modes of knowledge/power. In this way, myriad technologies were deployed to configure a regulatory web. This cannot be termed a totalizing approach; rather, different technologies of governing usually coexist and often take the form of unsystematic assemblages of technologies and rationalities (O’Malley 1996; Valverde 1996). Yet, often there is a coherence to these assemblages that could be described as an economy of ends. Technologies are not invented as a result of a logic of power; instead, they are developed with specific purposes (O’Malley 1996: 193). What probably influences the activation of technologies is their fit with particular ends. Technologies of power do not emerge and gradually encroach on less efficient technologies of power; rather, their spread is the outcome of political processes and negotiations, which often lead to modifications and adjustments to the technologies themselves (ibid.). In order to identify the ends that activate technologies, we must reconstruct the problematizations and classifications to which technologies are offered as solutions. As argued with regard to rationalities, for Yonge-Dundas, it was the moralization of conduct that activated and made the different technologies coherent. Technologies of governing have their own particular rationalities, yet they are often compatible with a variety of different ends and political rationalities (Garland 1999; O’Malley 1992). The technologies activated to produce Yonge-Dundas were oriented toward a neoliberal political rationality, but they could also have been oriented toward a social welfare rationality (e.g., as in the different appropriations of situational crime prevention discussed in chapter 3). Technologies respond and adapt to these two conditions (moralization of conduct and rationalities), and their adoption and valuation at particular historical moments can be traced to such alignments rather than to their greater efficiency or effectiveness as modes of power/knowledge. Technologies of Inscription Another basis of the validity of knowledge claims evident in the Yonge-Dundas case was the production of inscriptions recognized in city-making, which made claims appear factual, objective, and truthful. Through their use of inscription technologies experts simplified and translated Yonge-Dundas into a representation that seemed to be a

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natural and objective depiction of reality. Written reports, drawings, pictures, numbers, charts, graphs, and statistics made the space visible and enabled it to be re-presented in the place where decisions were to be rendered. These inscriptions literally brought Yonge-Dundas into the OMB hearing in a form that could travel beyond the space and the desks and offices of professionals and that could (it was hoped) be used to convince others (Law and Whittaker 1988). Various forms of representation were used, such as maps, drawings, plans, photographs, 3-D images, and computer-generated modelling. These open up a space to visual inspection, make it an object of investigation, and form an influential part of the representation of space (Blomley and Somers 1999; Fischler 1995). In the previous chapter, three main types of inscription were identified in the evidence of experts: quantification of conditions, analyses of trends, and visualizations of space. We saw how claims were more convincing and objective when they were supported with quantitative analyses. Experts either produced their own quantitative representations or drew from those produced by others – in particular, surveys and statistical profiles. Analyses of trends in urban redevelopment were provided as evidence that the project was right because it fit an objective pattern. Because a pattern seemed to be the product of no one person but rather of social forces, it could be claimed to be evolutionary and natural. As well, visualizations in the form of photographs, maps, graphs and 3-D computer renderings were presented as simple recordings of reality. Illustrations of various kinds are part of city-making practices. Like language, they are ‘more then mere representations of reality or ways of acting upon the real [but] in fact constitutive of that reality, inscribing power on space, codifying, and thus privileging the meanings that make it recognizable and actionable’ (Blomley and Somers 1999: 265). The quantification of things and their representation in charts, tables, and graphs, the use of photographs as if they were a simple recordings of reality, and the production of seminaturalistic depictions that presume to represent what everyone knows, are some of the approaches that visualization takes in serving as a technology of documentation and argumentation (Law and Whittaker 1988). Paper trails and inscriptions produced by professional practices have several advantages: they are mobile, immutable, and flat; their scale can be modified at will; they can be reproduced and spread at little cost; they can be shuffled and recombined, and superimposed on one

Making the Good City 221

another; and they can be made part of a written text or left as abstractions (Latour 1986). Through such relations, technologies can pass through space and time, from one agent to another (Anderson 1983). The more abstract an inscription, the more changeable and mobile. According to Latour, abstraction must be possible in order for ‘governance at a distance’ to be possible, since inscriptions alone do not help a location become a centre that dominates. Something must be done to the inscription that is similar to what the inscription did to the things. The same strategy that deflates complex things into paper is used to turn paper into less paper so that in the end a few elements can manipulate all others on a vast scale. In other words, abstractions simplify inscriptions and make them more mobile and better able to govern things that are more distant. The production of ‘modular artefacts’ makes it possible to transfer an image and translate it in a variety of social terrains (Anderson 1983). The theory of broken windows, for example, was a mobile abstraction that passed through space and was easily adapted and modified to fit various circumstances, from Yonge-Dundas to Times Square. The different professionals involved in the OMB hearing made use of similar forms of inscription. This enabled common modes of perception between their different practices to be established and combined. Maps produced by planners, architects, and security officers plotting land-use zones, building conditions, by-law infractions, and crime rates enabled the different characteristics of the space to be classified, compared, and made governable. These maps produced common modes of perception. They also established relations between different problems in such a way that the ‘problems of one and those of another seem intrinsically linked in their basis and their solution’ (Rose and Miller 1992: 184). Inscriptions enable multiple elements to be brought together so that ‘realms of reality that seem far apart (mechanics, economics, marketing) are inches apart, once flattened out onto the same surface’ (Latour 1986: 6). These transfers across professions also reinforce their validity. Although specific inscriptions (such as police incidence reports) were often disputed at the OMB hearing, and at times became objects of interpretation struggles, this only reinforced their legitimacy as common modes of perception. Their details and interpretations were disputed; their appropriateness as a mode of representing Yonge-Dundas was not. The professionals at the OMB hearing worked in a variety of sites, in government and business, locally, nationally, and internationally. In-

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scriptions enabled them to apply their intellectual labour across these numerous sites and contexts and to share their labour, through professional networks, associations, conferences, publications, and websites. In these ways technologies, such as those deployed in the Yonge-Dundas case get extended across time and space to produce regularities that become construed as (for example) globalization. For example, inscriptions made it possible for professionals to transfer information and images between New York, Manchester, and Toronto and to measure and compare these sites. The transfer and exchange of inscriptions across different sites and contexts, their marketing by individual professionals, and their valuation by professional organizations are part of the economy of practices. Certain types of inscriptions gain prominence and value – for example, 3-D computer-generated images in architecture; others fall out of use – for example, artists’ renderings. In all of these ways, inscriptions make possible the patterned and regularized network of relationships we have called the city-making field. They also make possible professionalism, which relies on the transferability of professional knowledge to free the specialist from dependence on work that can be performed only in one place and only for one employer (Freidson 2001). But inscriptions were not merely taken up and applied to YongeDundas. Although their legitimacy was derived from their recognition and take-up in the city-making field, their specific articulation was not given. Indeed, the very process of abstracting and making inscriptions more mobile enables them to be interpreted and applied in numerous ways. This flexibility is also fundamental to the definition of professional work. A profession must avoid too close a mapping between diagnosis and treatment, as it then opens itself to routinization (Stevens 1998). Professions are based on specialized knowledge represented in abstractions; this is what enables them to redefine problems and tasks, defend themselves against challenges, and seize new problems to increase their jurisdiction (Stevens 1998). Through what particular mechanisms is the regime of truth that structures the city-making field formed, changed, and disseminated? The circulation, standardization, regulation, and recognition of problematizations, rationalities, technologies, and inscriptions are achieved in part through the technology of incorporating professional associations, which are involved in the constitution, recognition, and regulation of both the social conditions that form professional authority and the regimes of truth that structure professional fields.

Making the Good City 223

Technologies of Incorporation Each of the different professionals, from planners, urban designers, and property appraisers to management consultants, was a member of a professional association recognized and legitimized by provincial legislation and professional incorporation. As discussed earlier, cultural capital must be recognized before it can be converted into symbolic capital and authority. One of the strategies of recognition deployed by occupational groups is the claim that they constitute a profession based on their specialized skills, knowledge, and education. In this sense, professions are socially constituted groups. Such claims are often naturalized by social scientists even in critiques of professions (as argued in Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992). Rather than a neutral object representing a reality, a professional group ‘is a social product of a historical work of construction of a group and of a representation of groups that has surreptitiously slipped into the science of this very group’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992: 242). In this regard, we need to think of professionalization as a space of competition and struggle for recognition. So, instead of simply noting that almost all of the experts at the OMB hearing were members of professional associations, we need to understand how professionalization is a strategy for converting cultural capital into symbolic forms and for governing and rendering truthful particular claims and rationalities in the city-making field. The three examples discussed in the previous chapter (crime and design specialists, entrepreneurial planners, urban design consultants) illustrate how different agents within the city-making field constitute themselves as a distinct group. This involves a struggle for recognition of their particular expertise, knowledge, and skills. We can connect the ability of professionals to make themselves into a group to their accumulated symbolic capital (i.e., to the social recognition of their cultural capital), which they acquire through what are usually long and drawn-out struggles for recognition (Bourdieu 1988). Based on this accumulated symbolic capital, they are able to advance the claim that they are a distinct group. However, as Bourdieu argues, the second aspect of this process of group formation is that it is founded in a reality – that is, the existence of objective affinities that bring agents together: ‘Symbolic power is the power to make things with words. It is only if it is true, that is, adequate to things, that description makes things. In this sense, symbolic power is a power of consecration or revelation, the power to consecrate or to reveal things that are already there’ (Bourdieu 1988: 23). Emerging pro-

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fessions such as urban design consultancy are produced not out of the imagination of a group, but rather through their practices. It is the performative power of designation, of naming, that brings into existence an instituted, constituted form that up until then only consisted of a collection of individuals. When a state grants professional recognition to a group, it is essentially passing the ‘monopoly of symbolic violence’ to that group, which then has the authority to govern and regulate the production of knowledge (Bourdieu 1984: 151). We saw this in the OMB hearing on YongeDundas, where experts were granted the authority to define and impose a limited set of possible choices for Yonge-Dundas. This was in part a product of the state’s recognition of professions. This recognition takes the form of incorporated associations, which are granted the legislative authority to regulate the profession and its practices. In this way, professions are governed by a logic that is based not on a free labour market or on rational-legal bureaucracy, but rather on organized occupations (Freidson 2001). This form of governance is defined as ‘professionalism,’ which exists when an ‘organized occupation gains the power to determine who is qualified to perform a defined set of tasks, to prevent all others from performing that work, and to control the criteria by which to evaluate performance’ (ibid.: 12). The constitution of professions involves not only the recognition and valuation of skills and knowledge, but also the formation and governance of the ethical values that make up the professional identity (Rose 1999). We saw in chapter 6 that as part of the claim to professionalism, associations typically pass ethical codes, to which members are required to adhere and which serve as the basis of regulating conduct. Therefore, the knowledge, skills, conduct and practices of the professionals at the OMB hearing were a product not only of their education and training, but also – in fact, primarily – of the self-governance of their occupation. Through a variety of mechanisms – including the production of journals, conferences, guides, and manuals, and the legitimating of types of skills, education, training, and experience – the professions regulate the content and conduct of their practices. In these ways, the technology of professional incorporation governs the conditions of knowledge that both constrain and legitimize professional practices. Professional associations in part regulated what was sayable and what was knowledge, as well as which rationalities and technologies were valid at the OMB hearing. They constituted what was expert knowledge, which is often expressed as one of the hallmarks of the authority

Making the Good City 225

of professionals. That the knowledge of a profession is so governed is one of the sources of its authority and legitimacy, why its knowledge is deemed to be independent and objective relative to lay or common knowledge. In these ways, professional associations regulate the production of knowledge, not the ‘production of true statements but the administering of realms in which the practice of the true and the false can be both regulated and relevant’ (Foucault, in Castel 1994: 238). Professional associations made it possible for the OMB to accept the knowledge, evidence, claims, rationalities, and technologies submitted by experts at the Yonge-Dundas hearing. That the knowledge of professionals is so governed was one of the reasons why the OMB could deem it legitimate, independent, and objective in comparison to the evidence of ordinary witnesses. Through professional education, training, and membership, the truth value of expert facts and opinions is collectively regulated and governed. This truth value is not the product of the imagination of any one agent; rather, it is part of a regime of truth that is collectively recognized by state-consecrated associations. Professional associations are thus more than a source of symbolic capital for experts. Their existence also legitimizes regimes of truth and facilitates misrecognition. That is, they facilitate and regulate both the recognition of what constitutes legitimate practices (problematizations, classifications, rationalities) and the misrecognition of their interestedness (objectivity). The foregoing has outlined the various conditions that made the particular ways of thinking and acting at the OMB hearing valid. These conditions constitute a regime of truth along three main dimensions, which together define the boundaries of thought and action in making the good city: forms of problematizing and classifying and rationalizations for these ways of seeing things; the kinds of technologies that can be offered as solutions; and the different inscription devices available for representing things. This regime of truth and the recognition of practices as professional are in part governed by incorporated and state-consecrated associations. Institutional, educational, corporate, and governmental forms of recognition enable professional knowledge to be deemed objective, scientific, and rational, thereby concealing its basis in the moralization of conduct. We have now assembled a number of structuring principles relating to how professional practices make the good city and form a moral economy. Professional practices are activated and mobilized by the morali-

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zation of conduct, which is not mediated, facilitated, or rationalized by economic values or vice versa. Rather, professional practices and the moralization of conduct are mutually constitutive because practices that make up the economy pursue a wide range of functions and ends that are bound up together and that follow reasons and logic which are irreducible to economic or political rationalities. Professionals engage in the conscious and instrumental pursuit of not only economic capital but also other types of capital that contribute to the valuation of their practices. For example, professional capital confers on agents the authority to define an ostensibly good city. Professionals operate in a relatively autonomous field of differently positioned and resourced agents who, through their practices, configure the dynamics, structuring principles, and processes that are specific to the making of the good city. Also, their pursuits follow an immanent reason based on the moralization of conduct that corresponds to particular dispositions and that is defined relationally: in attunement with similarly positioned and dispositioned agents to whom a space belongs and in opposition to the positions and dispositions of socially distant others. However, this connection is misrecognized, for the social recognition of professionals is conferred on the basis of symbolic capital and regimes of truth, which structure the city-making field and which render practices objective and universal. Through the pursuit of all these ends – instrumental and immanent, moral and economic – different forms of capital accumulation are legitimized and made possible, such as that accrued by professionals, developers, and transnational corporations. In this regard, we can state that professional practices form a moral economy.

8 Yonge-Dundas Made Good?

Through a detailed analysis of a particular instance of the possible, this book has revealed how the moralization of conduct continues to underwrite visions of the good city in practice and how it activates, legitimizes, and authorizes professional practices. By speaking through their practices and professions, professionals symbolically made YongeDundas ostensibly good. Yet as I have insisted throughout this book, it would be a mistake to conceptualize professionals as powerful orchestrators or functionaries of powerful interests. Rather, their interests can collide, collude, or compete with those of other agents. Where they collude in the city-making field is in their moralization of conduct. Professional practices have a moral content. Individual professional agents seek ends that are concerned with security (urban planner) or consumption (marketing analyst) or aesthetics (architect); what brings them together is that their different ends are bound up with the moralization of conduct. The moralization of conduct feeds problematizations, classifications, rationalizations, and technologies; it also activates and mobilizes professional practices and makes it possible for others in social space to consent to professional visions of the good city. In this way, moralization is the basis of unity among different groups constituted as the public, from local residents and businessmen to developers and financiers. Through their practices and professions, professionals constitute what is right and wrong, good and bad. This depends on reasoned judgments and rationalized thought, which not only justify but also conceal connections to and basis in the moralization of conduct. As we have seen, the connection is misrecognized because the social recognition of professionals is conferred on the basis of professional capital

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and a regime of truth, which render their practices objective. These regimes extend to professional practices engaged in other international sites, which serve to reinforce their truth-value. These social conditions make misrecognition possible; they also enable and sustain the presumption that visions of the good city are not interested or invested in moral economies. As a consequence, professional practices are key to understanding not only how a vision of the good city comes to be articulated, but also the social mechanisms through which moralization and its racializing, gendering, and classing tendencies have become institutionalized and routinized and taken for granted. Although ostensibly focused on governing the security, consumption, and aesthetics of the space, the target is the conduct of particular groups that make a space degenerate. In this way, problematizations of space are euphemisms for problematizations of the conduct of groups. Rather than on the overt moralization of conduct, practices focus on space, thereby concealing their foundations in moralization. In many ways, ‘the street’ has been a euphemism for the presence and conduct of particular groups. This concealment was well illustrated in the media discourse that followed when Dundas Square was officially opened by the City of Toronto on 30 May 2003 (Plate 13). First, many of the media accounts repeated the problematizations of the space that had supported the call for redevelopment; they simply repeated what was now accepted as common knowledge regarding what had been bad and wrong with Yonge-Dundas. The local councillor recounted how ‘surgery had to occur’ because what was there before consisted of buildings ‘at the extreme end of their life. They were basically a criminal landscape. There’s no other way of saying it’ (McCabeLokos 2003). That such accounts were now deeply entrenched and widely accepted is perhaps best illustrated in the commentary of a young CBC television reporter, who echoed the narrative that had predominated at the OMB hearing and in City Council and media reports over the preceeding ten years: Yonge-Dundas was crime-ridden, run down, and degenerate, and everyone agreed that ‘it’ needed to be cleaned up and restored to its position as the ‘heart of the city’ (CBC Evening News 2003). Such is the power of moralization: through repetition, credentialing, and authorization, it engenders realities, which agents then naturalize without question. Connections to conduct were scoured of moralization and focused less on the conduct that had been problematized and more on the impacts of the new regulations. Rochon (2003) complained that the reg-

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ulation of behaviour (no skateboards, no chalking, no biking, and the presence of security guards and CCTV cameras) ‘seriously diminished’ the chances of Dundas Square becoming a significant public space. In contrast, the square’s architects, Brown & Storey Architects, stated they do not believe that there is an attempt to restrict the public space of the square and that like everyone else, the managers of the square are ‘just working to understand how the square will work’ (Norvell 2003). Barber (2003) also contended that there would be an inevitable ‘war over its ownership’ and that ‘statutes controlling antisocial or merely unattractive behaviour are mere wisps compared to the steady pressure, which will only grow over the centuries, of insistent citizens.’ Appropriations by some insistent citizens had already occurred. Before the official opening, groups protesting the invasion of Iraq used the square as a gathering point for marches and demonstrations and dubbed it ‘Peace Square.’ But this sort of use was not without a significant presence of police mounted on horses and dressed in riot gear. In May 2003, two youths were arrested for defacing the square with chalk drawings and banned from entering the square for a year (Barber 2003). Also, commentaries confined themselves to evaluations of the success or failure of the new urban square. Media accounts assessed the physical results and focused on the design, use, and meaning of the square. Now Magazine, a weekly newspaper, published analyses of the square’s design elements based on comments from prominent architects and planners (Klein 2003). In a different media report, an architectural critic said that the square was taking Toronto a ‘giant step closer to realizing its dreams of civic greatness,’ that it ‘will bring a new level of sophistication and urbanity’ and will ‘change what it means to live in Toronto’ (Hume 2003). An entertainment reporter described it as a space for reading, pausing, and gathering, as a space outside the city but still in it, as a retreat ‘but more than anything, a place open to any and all’ (Whyte 2003). Another architectural critic commented on how Dundas Square failed at many levels as a public space (Rochon 2003), while an urban affairs columnist argued that over time, ‘insistent citizens’ would use it, fight over it, and define its relevance and meaning and that the story of the square would be a story of people (Barber 2003). And finally, media accounts cited the square’s architects who defended their design, arguing ‘they intended Dundas Square to be a blank canvas or virtual space, meant to be filled with shoppers, pedestrians, protests and concerts’ (Norvell 2003). Dundas Square may in the end reflect some or none of the critical

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assessments and predictions of its future use. It may well attract groups for whom it was not designed or intended. It may become Toronto’s most used and best-loved public space or its biggest mistake. My argument in this book has been that such assessments fail to recognize a key component of the logic of practices that constitute the economy of cities. The problem with the above assessments of what was physically produced is that they give way to empiricist, objectivist, and simplistic definitions of city-making. When what is seen is naturalized and taken for granted, Yonge-Dundas need only be assessed as a success or failure as a public space. But my argument in this book has been that the moral economy of cities produces much more than urban squares. The moralization of conduct provokes and mobilizes professional practices, which are bound up with numerous ends (moral, political, economic, cultural) and which produce numerous symbolic and material outcomes. Through their practices, professionals accumulate economic, cultural, social, and symbolic forms of capital. Furthermore, professionals’ practices reinforce and contribute to the reproduction of the educational, institutional, and corporate forms of group recognition on which they depend for their legitimacy. The moralization of conduct is a provocation to govern, a provocation that professions are ready and eager to respond to and, if necessary, initiate. Yet that such practices are in part underpinned by the moralization of conduct is concealed in ostensibly objective, disinterested, and professionalized discourses. Little to be seen in the assessments of Dundas Square is the vast regulatory web – underpinned by the moralization of conduct – that has been woven by urban planners, marketing analysts, architects, management consultants, and so on. These various technologies will affect the rights to public space for those groups constituted as the non-public. From the subtle forms of policing and natural surveillance built into the environment to the introduction of CCTV cameras and private security forces in the urban entertainment centre and urban square, targeted groups will be subjected to enhanced surveillance and regulation. Furthermore, changes in laws such as the Safe Streets Act and the municipal code for Dundas Square, and the application of the Trespass to Property Act in the urban entertainment centre, will legally restrict particular conduct and groups. These measures are not confined or solely related to Yonge-Dundas. All are connected to the making of the good city in Toronto as a whole, as well as in other North American and English cities. Moreover, the very existence and reproduction of professions depends on the constant reviving of this regulatory

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machine for shaping good citizens. Despite demonstrated failures of past governing and regulatory interventions in the city, through the moralization of conduct, city-making professionals are able to ensure their relevance. Also out of sight are the civic resources that were allocated to the professionals who defined and structured the regulatory machine. The moralization of conduct made possible the accumulation of different forms of capital such as that accrued by professionals. Besides the symbolic capital they acquired from the experience of participating in one of the city’s most significant urban redevelopment projects, they collectively earned at least $1.2 million in professional fees (City of Toronto 1998c). For an OMB hearing, expert witnesses like planners command $150 to $250 an hour; a mid-range lawyer gets $170 to $300 (Stein 2001). The city also spent an estimated $20 million (net) for the public square and other improvements, part of which went to the architects who won the design competition (City of Toronto 1998c). Another material outcome was the reinforcement and reproduction of particular practices as professional. Through the symbolic making of Yonge-Dundas, professional practices reinforced the educational, institutional, and corporate forms of recognition on which they depended (university degrees, state consecration, legal incorporation) and thereby contributed to their reproduction. Profits to large corporations in the form of development rights were yet another outcome. The expropriation of the property rights of eight small existing owners, increases in development densities, and the transfer of those development rights to one developer for the urban entertainment centre was valued at approximately $12 million (City of Toronto 1998c). This also resulted in the dislocation of about one hundred small retailers. Several of the expropriated properties had been held for many decades by immigrant families, who had impressed the OMB with ‘their sincerity and their families’ hard work and enterprise in acquiring these properties after immigrating to Canada’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry 1998b). However, although their properties did ‘not fit the description of dilapidation or deteriorization [sic] in their purely physical form so as to represent blight,’ the taking of their land was ‘in the public interest’ and necessary for improving the economic and social conditions of the area and ‘all of Toronto in general.’ Out of sight are the significant resources and powers for governing Yonge-Dundas that the city delegated to unelected management bodies. The YSBRA received approximately $200,000 over a three-year period

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for its operations as part of the public-private partnership; the bulk of this was paid out to the marketing analyst it hired. The new Yonge Street BIA acquired $50,000 in annual administrative funding in addition to unspecified matching funds for streetscape improvements (City of Toronto 2000a), and the Board of Management for Yonge-Dundas Square was allocated $700,000 for its start-up operations in the expectation that fees and sponsorship revenues would eventually recover some of this (City of Toronto 2001d). The transfer of decision-making to management bodies for the security, maintenance, and management of the street and urban square have had and will continue to have further implications for democratic rights. Also out of sight and concern is the complex, professionalized process that made Yonge-Dundas and delivered it to ‘all’ Torontonians (according to Toronto mayor Mel Lastman, cited in Cockburn 2003). The City Council and its bureaucracy like congratulating themselves for their community building and for engaging a diversity of input and vision in the work of city making. Yet, the city’s biggest civic investment since Nathan Phillips Square (as argued by the OMB, City Council, and media reports), and the one project deemed to be the public space of Toronto, was made by a relatively small group of professionals, businessmen, and residents. The conquest of Yonge-Dundas, materially and symbolically, has by no means ended with the opening of the square. The ‘Olympic Spirit Toronto’ is a recently completed multisport leisure and entertainment venue on Victoria Street (on the eastern edge of the square.) Marked by an imposing ‘torch’ structure covered in billboards and jumbotrons, the development contributes to the advertising aesthetic and imagineering of the space (Plate 14). Also, plans are still in the works for a large condominium or hotel at the southeast corner of Victoria and Dundas. And if the predictions of professionals at the OMB come to fruition, Dundas Square will be the catalyst for the symbolic and material conquest of all of Yonge Street. So this study has not been about whether Yonge-Dundas will have the effects envisioned, but rather about how the moralization of conduct activated and authorized professional practices involved in making Yonge-Dundas good. This activation and authority affected the allocation of public funds, the accumulation of various forms of capital, and the distribution of rights to property and public space. In this regard, the professional practices involved in the making of the good city formed a moral economy geared to shaping good citizens.

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This book has drawn much from Foucault, who emphasizes the ways in which the thought involved in practices of governing is collective and relatively taken for granted; that is, conditions of knowledge are not usually open to questioning by practitioners. However, by reconstructing the problematizations that make answers intelligible, the grounds or conditions for ways of doing things become visible; their limits and presuppositions get opened up for investigation and bring into question what has come to appear natural. Such is the goal of the genealogist, who seeks to denaturalize the arrangement and organization of things in order to reveal their contingency and demonstrate the role of thought in holding them together, as well as to reveal how thought has a part to play in contestation. Foucault describes this as a ‘political spiritualité,’ which involves the ‘search for a new foundation for each of these practices’ and ‘the will to discover a different way of governing oneself through a different way of dividing up true and false’ (Foucault 1991 [1980b]: 82). But as some authors have argued (Garland 1997; O’Malley et al. 1997), a history of the present is neither a history of systems of thought nor a philosophical account of how subjects have been governed by their relation to knowledge. It is a grounded social analysis that investigates a field as it actually operates. O’Malley and colleagues argue that we must examine the messy actualities of social relations, rather than just mentalities of rule that can be evidenced in texts of government. They argue that Foucault also asserted that politics must be seen as a matter of struggle in which the outcome cannot be forecast because it depends on the realization and deployment of resources, tactics, and strategies as well as the contestation between different discourses. This is a conception of power centred on social relations – a view that is excluded from much governmentality work, which does not make a connection to the development of a critical practice of politics (O’Malley et al. 1997). I have taken up this challenge in two ways. First, I have examined how professional practices collide, collude or compete with those of other agents and how making the good city and shaping good citizens is a collective expression of social differences and power relations among different groups in social space. Instead of thinking about how social relations erupt into forms of thought, I have investigated how forms of thought themselves embody social relations and politics. Instead of thinking about forms of thought as encountering politics or the social, my approach has been to see how forms of thought are social and involve moralization, and how authority conceals the con-

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tingency of thought and its interestedness. It is with this in mind that the foregoing framework has attempted to elaborate a set of concepts for investigating how professional practices form a moral economy geared to shaping good citizens. Second, instead of investigating the effects of governmental programs in terms of how they are actually experienced when implemented, I have focused on other symbolic and material effects – that is, on how the constitution of knowledge, programs, and truth produces real effects in terms of the allocation of resources and rights. In the introduction, I defined city-making as that stage in a multifaceted process which involves the constitution of space as an object of knowledge and power. This study has taken us up to the point where the redevelopment project was approved – that is, the point where Yonge-Dundas was symbolically made. However, the argument of this book is that more than a physical square was produced; a moral economy of cities geared to shaping good citizens, was also activated and legitimized.

Appendix A: List of Exhibits

Exhibit 34

Respondent City of Toronto’s Brief of Witness Statements A City of Toronto Councillor Kyle Rae, no date B Orlando Garrido, licensed street vendor and member of YSBRA, 8 January 1998 C Toronto Police Detective Colin McDonald, 8 January 1998 D Eamon Kelly, vice-president and general manager, Toronto Eaton Centre, 7 January 1998 E Renee Auer, proprietor of Catnaps Guesthouse (Sherborne and Dundas Streets) and member of Board of Directors, Toronto East Downtown Residents’ Association (TEDRA), 14 January 1998 F Michael Thomas, condominium resident (Jarvis and Dundas Streets) and member of TEDRA, 14 January 1998 G Jennifer Sprout, City of Toronto public relations manager, 15 January 1998 H David Smiley, photographer, no date I Stephen Reeves, commercial real estate sales agent and area resident, 15 December 1997 J Witness statement of Rebecca Robertson, management consultant, vice-president, Real Estate and Special Projects, Shubert Organization and past president of 42nd Street Development Incorporated, no date Exhibit 36A Project Broom maps (Toronto Police Service) Exhibit 37 Incident reports (Toronto Police Service) Exhibit 41 YSBRA pamphlet, Yonge Street Revitalized, no date Exhibit 42 Witness statement of Glenn A. Miller, developer and financier, 15 January 1998 (not cited)

236 Appendix A

Exhibit 46 Exhibit 55

Exhibit 55A Exhibit 64 Exhibit 68 Exhibit 69 Exhibit 69B Exhibit 74 Exhibit 104 Exhibit 105 Exhibit 106

Exhibit 124 Exhibit 128 Exhibit 134 Exhibit 137 Exhibit 139 Exhibit 142 Exhibit 167 Exhibit 176 Exhibit 182 Exhibit 184

Expert report of Stuart Smith, commercial real estate agent, 18 January 1998 Witness statement of Ronald Soskolne, urban planner and management consultant for the City-YSBRA Steering Committee, 30 July 1997 Appendix A to the witness statement of Ronald Soskolne Expert Report of John C. Williams, marketing analyst, no date International Council on Shopping Centres Research Quarterly 4(1), Spring 1997 (excerpt) Expert report of Gregg Lintern, urban planner, no date Appendix to the Expert Report of Gregg Lintern Yonge Street Regeneration Program Marketing and Retail Plan Workshop, Soskolne Associates, July 1997 Witness statement of Arthur H. Peckham, III, investment manager, no date Expert report of Gary Wright, urban planner, City of Toronto, no date ‘Buildings and Their Relationship to Yonge Street,’ a report prepared by Littlewood Hesse Architects Ltd. and Berridge Lewinberg Associates, 1986 Perspective of Yonge-Dundas looking west, existing and with proposed square (posted in hearing room) Respondent City of Toronto’s reply report of Gregg Lintern, urban planner, City of Toronto, 6 February 1998 Written statement submitted by McGill-Granby Village Residents Association (Stephen Oglvie), 23 March 1997 Expert report of Deborah Porte, urban designer, City of Toronto, 16 January 1998 Expert report of Charles Suddaby, management consultant, January 1998 Brief of photographs of AMC Theatres (interior and exterior) Curriculum vitae of Cameron Nelson Watson, land economist, 15 January 1998 Expert report of Gregory Stoffel, marketing analyst, 6 February 1998 Respondent City of Toronto’s brief of reply evidence Expert report of Joe Berridge, urban planner, 9 January 1998

List of Exhibits 237

Exhibit 185

New York City Business Improvement District brochure, no date Exhibit 187A Leicester Square – photographs Exhibit 187B Piccadilly Circus – photographs Exhibit 195 Witness statement of Gary Stanoulis, owner of 323–325 Yonge Street, 30 January 1998 Exhibit 200 Expert report of Warren Sorensen, urban planner, 30 January 1998 Exhibit 205 Brief of photographs of New York City, Times Square District, and elsewhere Exhibit 207A Expert report of Garry Stamm, economist, 30 January 1998 Exhibit 212 Expert report of David Alan Butler, urban planner, 30 January 1998 Exhibit 228 Package of material re 42nd Street Development, including Bianco (1996) Exhibit 220 Witness statement of Reverend Michael Krause, director of Evergreen Centre for Street Youth, Yonge Street Mission, 381 Yonge Street, no date Exhibit 232 Yonge-Dundas comparison study – sun/shadow studies of city and appellants’ schemes Exhibit 245 Expert report of Peter R. Walker, urban planner, no date Exhibit 262 Letter dated 24 April 1998 from Margaret Nipshagen (local resident) to Councillor Kyle Rae Exhibit 276 Stamm answer to undertaking (correspondence from Garry Stamm to B. Onyschuk), 6 May 1998 Exhibit 299 Witness statement of Raymond P. Sipperley, general manager/operations director, Van Wagner (outdoor advertising firm responsible for 75 per cent of sign locations in Times Square and retained to develop and market signs for Yonge-Dundas), 16 January 1998

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Appendix B

City of Toronto Official Plan Policies (Cityplan ’91) A municipality that intends to use this power must first include within its Official Plan more specific provisions relating to community improvement. Once such provisions are within the Official Plan, a council may, by-bylaw, designate the whole or any part of an area covered by the Official Plan as a CIP area. The City of Toronto’s Part I Official Plan, Cityplan ’91, contained such provisions. The general policy emphasized social and economic well-being, maintaining and improving public amenities, and ensuring the vitality of commercial areas. CIPs were also to improve ‘quality of life’ by improving ‘amenity, appearance, safety, and environmental quality.’ The considerations that council had to take into account were ‘the need for improved appearance or increased public amenities in the area; the efforts of local business associations to promote and upgrade the area; the opportunity for coordinating improvements with other capital programs, such as, but not restricted to, sidewalk reconstruction and tree planting; and that priority be given to retail strips in improving public amenities and undertaking commercial revitalization measures.’ More specific policies were set out for ‘Commercial Improvement’: ‘Council will encourage improvements in the general appearance and level of maintenance, the provision of public amenities and the efficient functioning and economic viability’ of such areas. Measures such as capital funding and working in concert with other public, private, and voluntary agencies were also identified as possible means for achieving improvement.

240 Appendix B TABLE B.1 National Occupational Classification (NOC) codes and broad occupational categories NOC

Broad occupational category

0

Management 00 Senior 01–09 Middle and Other

1

Business, Finance and Administration 11 Professional 12 Skilled 14 Clerical

2

Natural, Applied Sciences and Related 21 Professional 22 Technical

3

Health 31 Professoinal 32 Technical and Skilled

4

Social Science, Education, Government Service, and Religion 41 Professional Occupations 42 Paraprofessional

5

Art, Culture, Recreation and Sport 51 Professoinal 52 Technical and Skilled

6

Sales and Service 61 Skilled 62 Intermediate 63 Elemental

7

Trades, Transport and Equipment Operators and Related 71 Skilled 72 Intermediate 73 Labourers

8

Unique to Primary Industry 81 Skilled 82 Intermediate 83 Labourers

9

Unique to Processing, Manufacturing and Utilities 91 Skilled 92 Intermediate 93 Labourers

Appendix B 241 TABLE B.2 Example of NOC description Occupational Category

2153 Urban and Land Use Planners

Description

Urban and Land Use Planners develop plans and recommend policies for managing the utilization of land, physical facilities and associated services for urban and rural areas and remote regions. They are employed by all levels of government, land developers, engineering and other consulting companies or may work as private consultants.

Examples of titles classified in this group

City planner, Community and urban planner, Environment planner, Land use planner, Long range planner, Municipal planner, Park planner, Planner, Planning analyst, Recreation planner, Regional planner.

Main Duties

Urban and Land Use Planners perform some or all of the following duties: • Compile and analyze data on demographic, economic, legal, political, cultural, sociological, physical and other factors affecting land use • Confer with municipal, provincial and federal authorities, civic leaders, social scientists, lawyers, land developers, the public and special interest groups to formulate and develop land use or community plans • Prepare and recommend land development concepts and plans for zoning, subdivisions, transportation, public utilities, community facilities, parks, agricultural and other land uses • Prepare plans for environmental protection, such as wildlife preserves, national and provincial parks, and protection of watersheds • Present plans to civic, rural and regional authorities and hold public meetings to present plans, proposals or planning studies to the general public and special interest groups [Etc.]

Employment Requirements

A bachelor’s degree in urban and regional planning, geography, architecture, engineering or a related discipline is required. A master’s degree in one of these disciplines may be required. Membership in the Canadian Institute of Planners is usually required. Membership in a provincial planning institute may be required in some provinces. In Quebec, membership in the professional corporation for urban planners is mandatory.

Similar Occupations Classified Elsewhere

Architects (2151), Land Surveyors (2154), Managers in land use planning (in 0411 Government Managers in Health and Social Policy Development and Program Administration).

TABLE B.3 NOC classification of expert witnesses Name

Occupation

NOC Classification

Lintern

Senior planner City of Toronto Planning

2153 Urban and Land Use Planner

Wright

Manager City of Toronto Planning

2153

Porte

Urban designer City of Toronto Planning

2153

Berridge

Planner Partner, BLGDB

2153

Suddaby

Management consultant Partner, Economic planning group of Canada (Tourism and Management Consultants)

1122 Professional occupations in business services to management

Seider

Financial analyst KPMG

1111 Financial Auditors and Accountants

Lakoseljac

Senior urban planner Ministry of Finance

2153 Urban and Land Use Planner

Saunders

Urban planner and transportation engineer Associate, DS Lea and Associates

2153 Urban and Land Use Planner

Viducis

Property assessor (not specified)

1235 Assessors, Valuators and Appraisers

Seigel

Business valuations/appraiser Price Waterhouse

1235 Assessors, Valuators and Appraisers

TABLE B.3

(Continued)

Name

Occupation

NOC Classification

Johnston

Property appraiser President, Johnston Donald Associates Ltd.

1235 Assessors, Valuators and Appraisers

Atlin

Real estate/property appraiser President, Stewart, Young, Hillesheim & Atlin Limited

1235 Assessors, Valuators and Appraisers

Watson

Land economist and management consultant President, C.N. Watson and Associates Ltd.

1122, 4162 Economists and Economic Policy Researchers and Analysts

Smith

Retail sales and leasing Sales associate CB Commercial Real Estate

6232 Real Estate Agents and Salespersons * skilled

Morse

Commercial real estate lessor Senior VP, Office Leasing Group CB Commercial Real Estate

6232 Real Estate Agents and Salespersons * skilled

Williams

Marketing analyst and consultant Principal, JC Williams Group Limited

4163 Economic Development Officers and Marketing Researchers and Consultants

Peckham

President, Canadian Operations AMC

0122 Banking, Credit and Other Investment Managers * management

Sipperley

Advertising consultant General Manager/Operations Director Van Wagner

1122 Professional Occupations in Business Services to Management

McGregor

Fundraising consultant CEO Ketchum Canada (markets rights for public facilities)

1122 Professional Occupations in Business Services to Management

TABLE B.3 (Continued) Name

Occupation

NOC Classification

Stewart

Realty assessor City of Toronto

1235 Assessors, Valuators and Appraisers

Miller

Financier President, PenEquity Management Corp. (Finance and real estate)

0122 Banking, Credit and Other Investment Managers * management

Soskolne

Planner and management consultant Principal, Soskolne Assoc.

1122 Professional Occupations in Business Services to Management

Sprout

Public relations manager City of Toronto

5124 Professional Occupations in Public Relations and Communications

Roberston

Management consultant VP Real Estate, Shubert Organization, Inc.

1122 Professional Occupations in Business Services to Management

McIllwain

Property developer and manager President and Principal of Gleneden Property Services Corporation

1224 Property Administrators

Narbey

Chartered accountant Controller and Director of Administration of AMC Canada Division

1111 Financial Auditors and Accountants

Franklin

Architect Franklin Architects

2151 Architect

Stoffel

Marketing analyst and consultant Principal, Gregory Stoffel and Associates

4163 Economic Development Officers and Marketing Researchers and Consultants

TABLE B.3

(Concluded)

Name

Occupation

NOC Classification

Stamm

Economist Principal, Stamm Economic Research

4162 Economists and Economic Policy Researchers and Analysts

Pellow

Architect Principal, Pellow and Associates

2151 Architect

Butler

Planner Principal, Butler and Associates

2153

Sorensen

Planner Principal, Sorensen Gravely Lowes Planning Associates Inc.

2153

Walker

Planner Partner, Walker, Nott, Dragicevic Associates

2153

Shearer

Tourism and marketing manager President, TCVA

4163 Economic Development Officers and Marketing Researchers and Consultants

Moore

Real estate broker Sr. VP, Royal LePage Commercial

6232 Real Estate Agents and Salespersons * skilled

Dobson

Real estate broker VP, Office Leasing, J.J. Barnicke Ltd.

6232 Real Estate Agents and Salespersons * skilled

O’Keefe

Property appraiser (not specified)

1235 Assessors, Valuators and Appraisers

246 Appendix B TABLE B.4 Examples of witness credentials Credential

Select examples

Years of experience and sectoral work

‘I am a land use planner, in practice as a consultant since 1976, following a period of employment in public sector planning agencies during the earlier stages of my career. My curriculum vitae, which is attached as Appendix A to this statement of evidence, provides a fuller explanation of my academic and work history.’ (Ex. 200) ‘I commenced work in Toronto in the planning and architecture disciplines in 1970. In 1972 I joined the City of Toronto Planning Board as a Principle Planner. I became Chief Planner in 1974, and was the principal witness for the City of Toronto at the Ontario Municipal Board hearing on the Central Area Plan for the central core of the city. I left the City of Toronto to join Olympia and York Developments Limited as Vice President, Planning and Development, for Reichmann International Development Corp. In 1995 I founded Soskolne Associates. I have over 25 years of experience with planning and development issues in the downtown core of the City of Toronto. Attached to this my affidavit and marked as Exhibit “A” is a true copy of my resume.’ (Ex. 55A) ‘I am an urban designer for the Corporation of The City of Toronto, City Planning Division, Urban Development Services. I have 11 years of experience as a graduate architect, urban planner and urban designer. I have worked in private practice for 2 years and 9 years in the public sector. My professional experience has been wide ranging including municipalities, government agencies, community neighbourhoods, and private companies.’ (Ex. 137)

Local, national and international projects

‘The projects I have been involved in have been in North America, Europe, Asia and the Middle East ... Throughout my career, I have been involved in a variety of largescale, mixed use urban revitalization projects and in providing urban design advice to various public and private sector interest groups. The urban revitalization projects include: “The Kings” in the King-Spadina and King-Parliament; Yonge Street; Gooderham Worts; Ataratiri; and Dundas Square within the City of Toronto; as well as the Revitalization of the Waterfront of San Juan, Puerto Rico; the Redevelopment of West Midtown Manhattan in New York City; and Canary Wharf, London England.’ (Ex. 137)

Appendix B 247 TABLE B.4

(Continued)

Credential

Select examples ‘Throughout my career, I have been involved in several large-scale urban revitalization projects and in providing urban design advice and review. Urban revitalization projects include: the St. Lawrence Neighbourhood, Frankel/Lambert Neighbourhood and North York City Centre in Toronto; the World Financial Center in New York City, the Hoboken, New Jersey Waterfront and projects in Denver, Detroit and San Diego in the United States; and, Canary Wharf in London and projects in the cities of Liverpool and Manchester in England.’ (Ex. 184) ‘My clients include a wide range of North American retailers, developers, and cities ... During my career I have been involved in small and large scale retailing for both mall and non-mall locations, and in the retail and commercial revitalization of Canadian and USA central business districts (CBD). These CBD’s include: Los Angeles, Denver, Houston, Dallas, Cleveland, New Orleans, Halifax, plus many other medium and smaller sized cities and towns.’ (Ex. 64)

Work related to evaluation of Y-D

‘I have undertaken the following in relation to the proposal before the Board: (a) visited the Dundas Square site on several occasions and visited other retail strips in the City of Toronto and other Cities for comparison; (b) met with City Planning and Urban Design staff to review the proposal before the Board; (c) reviewed the relevant sections of the Planning Act; (d) reviewed similar urban square and urban revitalization projects in Toronto and internationally.’ (Ex. 184) ‘I specifically reviewed affidavits filed with the Board from Mr. G. Lintern, and Mr. R. Soskone [sic], and examined other pertinent files, materials and document books filed by the City and other parties to the hearing. I conducted several site visits of the area, and reviewed historical City documents, Official Plans, and zoning bylaws ... I have been extensively involved in this file, and have read all witness statements and reports filed with the Board. I have conducted additional research on the issue of urban squares and parks, and reviewed numerous articles, books and reports on experiences throughout North America ... I have consulted with Mr. Warren Sorensen, Mr. Peter Walker, Mr. Gary Stamm, Mr. Don MacDougall,

248 Appendix B TABLE B.4

(Continued)

Credential

Select examples and Mr. Harry Pellow who will be giving evidence on behalf of other owners who are appellants at the hearing.’ (Ex. 212) ‘Mr. Jeffrey Seider of KPMG, a quantity surveyor by training and qualified to provide financial analysis for development projects, was initially retained by Soskolne and subsequently by the City. His analytic advice to the City was virtually from the conception of the project idea and formed part of the input to the Council decision of December, 1996. His extensive involvement continued through the RFQ and RFP stages, the review of the PenEquity and Ryerson agreements, and in supporting the project before the Board. In arriving at his conclusions, he had the benefit of the work of John Seigel, on disturbance damages, David Atlin, on land values, Douglas Stewart, on expropriation premiums, Raymond Sipperley, on signage rights, Cameron Watson, on levies and Ross McGregor, on Square naming rights and resulting revenue. Mr. Seider’s approach throughout the stages, and in his evidence to the Board (Ex. 54), was thorough, comprehensive, complete and solid. The Board was left with his conclusions, which it supports, that the financial risks have been addressed responsibly with a net benefit to the City and that the net benefit to the City from Parcels A and C will assist in the development of the public square.’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry 1998c)

Professional accreditation

‘Mr. Miller holds a Bachelor of Science and a Business Diploma from Lakehead University as well as an M.B.A. from the Ivey School of Business at the University of Western Ontario in London, Ontario.’ (Ex. 42) ‘A Professional Land Economist (and member of the Association of Ontario Land Economists) since 1976; a Certified Management Consultant and member of the Institute of Management Consultants of Ontario since 1976, having previously served as a member of the Long Range Planning Committee.’ (Ex. 167)

Technical skills and expertise

‘Responsibilities ... Prepare official plans, secondary plans, zoning bylaws, and special policy studies, and expropriation studies; Provide expert land use planning testimony to the Ontario Municipal Board and the Environ-

Appendix B 249 TABLE B.4

(Concluded)

Credential

Select examples mental Assessment Board; Prepare development feasibility studies, risk assessment studies, and professional planning opinions.’ (Ex. 212) ‘His responsibilities had two basic thrusts. First, he was responsible for providing advice and projections related to the entire housing land development process. Second, through an involvement in the urban renewal projects, he was required to be familiar with all aspects of the economics and finance of urban growth and development.’ (Ex. 207B)

Public and media recognition

‘[He is] frequently sought out by media and industry groups for information and opinions. Regularly quoted by the media and an active guest speaker at industry [tourism and management] functions.’ (Ex. 139) ‘[He is] a noted keynote speaker on the subject of real estate investment for pension funds. (Ex. 42)

250 Appendix B TABLE B.5 Quality-of-life index categories and weighting Categories

Weight (%)

Safety Crimes involving property* Crimes involving people* Habitat quality Green area (%) Industrial area (%)* Population density* Traffic levels* Access to Lake Ontario Housing quality Per cent owner occupied Movers over five years (%)* Major renos required* House sale price Property tax levels* Percentage of asking price Commercial access Malls Restaurants Groceries Retail area Transporatation factor Driving distance to Bay and King Driving distance to 400 and 401 Driving distance to Gardiner/QEW Subway access Streetcar access Social access Doctors Schools Places of worship Hospitals

25 40 60 20 30 10 30 20 10 20 25 10 10 20 15 20 15 15 25 25 35 10 16.7 16.7 16.7 25 25 10 20 55 10 15

* Indicates a negative factor Source: Fulford (2001)

Notes

1: The Good City 1 The term ‘squeegeeing’ was introduced in the 1990s to describe the practice of using a squeegee to clean the windshields of cars stopped at traffic lights with the expectation of some monetary return from drivers. 2: Making Yonge-Dundas Good 1 The annotation ‘Ex.’ is used throughout to refer to exhibits submitted to a hearing of the Ontario Municipal Board, which was convened to adjudicate an appeal against the proposed redevelopment of Yonge-Dundas. See sections below, ‘The Making of the Plan’ and ‘The Administrative Hearing’ for a detailed description. See Appendix A for a list of exhibits referenced. Places referred to in the quote: Nathan Phillips Square is a public space located in front of Toronto City Hall at Queen and Bay streets; Yorkville is described as Toronto’s most fashionable shopping district and is located north of Bloor Street between Yonge and Avenue Road; the CN Tower is one of Toronto’s most recognizable icons; it is the world’s tallest freestanding structure, an important telecommunications hub, and a major tourist destination. 2 This section is a summary drawn from Lemon (1985 and 1996). 3 The Province of Ontario created the OMB in 1897 to monitor municipal spending, but over the years the adjudication of municipal planning disputes was added to its responsibilities. It is the only one of its kind in Canada; in other provinces, municipal councils are usually the final decisionmakers on land-use development. Opponents to a decision can appeal decisions only to the courts, and then only if they can argue that a municipal

252 Notes to pages 23–43

4

5

6

7

council has gone beyond its statutory powers. In 1999–2000, approximately 2,100 cases were appealed to the OMB; of these, only 30 per cent concerned major planning and development decisions (e.g., appeals to municipal zoning bylaws, official plans, and plans of subdivision) (see Ontario Municipal Board 2000). The remainder consisted of appeals regarding minor variances, consent agreements, development charges, and the like. The board’s annual budget is around $7 million with approximately $500,000 recovered through fees. Most disputes do not proceed to a full hearing; instead, they are resolved through preliminary processes such as mediation. Eleven private properties were expropriated, but two appellants owned two properties each and one property owner did not object. The retailer was Lick’s Restaurant, at 285 Yonge Street. Some of the conditions imposed by the board included that, for the urban square, the City pass ‘A Nathan Phillips Square–type Municipal Code Amendment’ and undertake an ‘approved design process/competition for the square including participation/review by Toronto Safe Committee and the Toronto Police Service’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry 1998b). The 38-km-long Don River originates north of Toronto. Most of its watershed lies within the City of Toronto and its suburbs. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the river suffered much environmental degradation as a result of industrial development and the construction of an urban expressway (the Don Valley Parkway). Heavy industries began moving out of the valley after the Second World War, but the pollution, smog, and ecological damage remained. In the late 1960s, environmental activists began advocating the clean-up of the river and undertook several citizen-led initiatives. This action led to a City Council–supported initiative in the 1990s, the Task Force to Bring Back the Don (City of Toronto 2004). Bloor Yorkville is characterized as Toronto’s most fashionable shopping district and is located along and north of Bloor Street between Yonge and Avenue Road. Queen Street West, between University Avenue and Bathurst Street (and increasingly beyond), is characterized as Toronto’s trendy and alternative shopping area, with hip boutiques, offbeat cafés, bars, and galleries. See map 1.1.

3: The Secure City 1 To be safe is to be unhurt, uninjured, unharmed, and having been preserved from or escaped some real or apprehended danger. To be secure is to feel no care or apprehension, to be free from care, apprehension, anxiety,

Notes to pages 44–68 253

2 3

4

5

6

or alarm. Safety is the state of being safe, exempt from hurt or injury, and free from danger, whereas security is the condition of being protected from or not exposed to danger (OED, 2nd ed., 1989). A quote from Bob Sniderman, owner of Sam the Record Man and member of YSBRA. Focus group representatives: Toronto East Downtown Residents Association (1), Yonge Street Business and Residents Association (1), City of Toronto Task Force on Community Safety (1), City of Toronto Task Force on Senior Citizens (1), Women Plan Toronto/Planner Urban Strategies Inc. (1), Yonge Street Mission (1), Ryerson Campus Safety and Security (2), TTC (2), Toronto Parking Authority (1), Metro Toronto Police (2). There was no discussion of how representative this group was of the public. For example, in Ottawa, a regular panhandler in the central city received a notice distributed by Secureworks Protection Services, which had been hired by the business improvement area to police a car-free pedestrian mall. The notice stated: ‘This notice is to advise you that effective immediately, you are now barred from the specific property noted. The Courts of the Province of Ontario consider this property to be private property where the general public may be admitted with the expressed permission of the owner, proof of which rests on the defendant, and that said, permission may be withdrawn at any time by the owner or its designated agent of authority. Should you be seen on the property at any time, legal action will be instituted under the Trespass to Property Act of Ontario’ (Alliance to End Homelessness 2000). The bottom of the notice stated: ‘Please govern yourself accordingly.’ The Eaton Centre has a private security force of forty-nine guards and an electronic surveillance system consisting of some fifty-seven exposed and hidden cameras. In 1997, sixteen of these were converted to digital, and plans were underway for another fifty cameras with fibre-optic technology. These would allow security officers to ‘follow suspicious-looking shoppers from one end of the mall to the other’ (Mahoney 1997). Shoplifters caught on camera can be photographed, identified, and barred from visiting the centre again. The head of security operations claimed that the centre’s tightly sealed design is a crime deterrent and noted that there are many fewer exits ‘that determined thieves can use to escape outdoors, compared to most suburban malls’ (ibid.). Also, Eaton’s private security force collaborates with the Toronto Police Service, which has a substation in the centre. Paragraph 52, Section 207, of the Municipal Act, R.S.O. 1990, c. M-45. The Public Parks Act, R.S.O. 1990, c. P-46, extends a Board of Park Management authority for ‘the general management, regulation and control’ of land des-

254 Notes to pages 68–73

7 8

9

10

ignated as a public park. Section 2(1) states that ‘the parks, avenues, boulevards and drives, and approaches thereto, and streets connecting the same, shall be open to the public free of all charge, subject to the bylaws, rules and regulations of the board of park management.’ Nathan Philips Square is a public space in front of New City Hall at Queen and Bay streets. This so-called theory was coined by criminologist George Kelling, who popularized it in the 1990s by building on the formulations of Jane Jacobs that minor infractions and incivilities lead to bigger crimes and community breakdown (see Kelling and Coles 1996). The argument went that neighbourhoods could be improved and crime reduced through designs that enable natural social control and the enforcement of laws against practices such as open liquor bottles exposed in public, panhandling, loitering, and squeegeeing. All of these conditions were seen as creating disorder that increased the risk of crime and fear of crime. The Trespass to Property Act was ruled out because it could not be applied to restrict access to streets and sidewalks that are part of a common and public highway. Such a restriction was seen as an infringement on Charter rights such as freedom of expression. Also, the act operates on a system of fines as a method of enforcement but ‘most of the persons who might be fined under this legislation have no visible means of support’ (OMBBI 1998d). It was further noted that the act requires the posting of signs to ensure that the prohibitive nature of the activity is understood. And finally there was the issue of enforcement: although the policing of the square would not be onerous, because of its design and the special by-law, it would still require an active police presence to ensure enforcement, especially on the surrounding public sidewalks. It was noted that under the Municipal Act a council had the authority to enact by-laws for prohibiting and abating public nuisances, but that Charter and enforcement issues would be possible barriers. The Highway Traffic Act was also referenced. Section 177 prohibits persons being on the roadway, but only when the person ‘stops or attempts to stop a motor vehicle for the purpose of selling or offering any commodity or service to the driver or any other person in the motor vehicle.’ However, the lawyers argued that this might not apply to squeegee kids, who were attending to vehicles already stopped at a red light and so were not engaged in stopping vehicles for the specific purpose of offering them a service. After a five-year battle, the National Anti-Poverty Organization forced the City of Winnipeg to repeal its begging by-law. In a settlement, the city acknowledged the social condition of poverty in Winnipeg and the entitlement of poor people to be present, visible, and participating in public

Notes to pages 73–103 255 spaces, and that freedom of expression and equality are fundamental rights. See Hermer (2001). 11 Part XVII: Powers to Pass Bylaws includes the power to regulate vending, bathing or washing, littering, spitting, production of noise, public assemblies, public nuisances, posting of indecent material, and so on. Subsection 140 pertains to the regulation of nuisance (Ontario Municipal Act, RSO 1990, c. m-45). 12 See, for example, a first-person account by a black man who was stopped, detained, and harassed in Regent Park for allegedly spitting (Johnson 2001). 13 For example, although CAP was celebrated for its impact, it cost over $3 million for twenty-four weeks and was not renewed in 2001. Bringing the territory under the control of responsible groups would reduce the necessity of such costly measures. 4: The Consumer City 1 In chapter 7, I critically examine the interpretation that consumption is a conscious and deliberate search for distinction. 2 Cross-examination of Gary Stanoulis, owner of 323–325 Yonge Street, cited in OMBBI (1998a). 3 Cross-examination of Norman Hertzman, owner of 313 Yonge Street and 1 Dundas Street East, cited in OMBBI (1998a). 4 The Atrium on Bay is a high-density mall/office complex built in the early 1980s and located west of Yonge on the north side of Dundas. College Park, at Yonge and College was built in the 1930s as the Eaton department store. It was redeveloped and expanded into a retail/office/residential complex in the early 1980s. 5 See note 7, chapter 2. 6 As noted in chapter 2, although appellants argued that city policies and the Eaton Centre were the causes of the ‘under-development’ of the east side of Yonge, proponents provided examples of sites that had been redeveloped and improved along Yonge Street as evidence to the contrary. They contended that existing owners of the properties in question were just not interested in improving their properties and that expropriation was the only means to achieve improvement (e.g., Ex. 69 and Ex. 128). 7 In June 2000 it was announced that the high-end fashion store Harvey Nichols would be locating in the remade area. The announcement identified this as a symbol of the city’s resurgence. Marketing analysts stated that

256 Notes to pages 103–7

8

9

10

11

12

13 14

‘the typical Harvey Nichols shopper is aged between 25 and 40, very style conscious and has lots of disposable income ... The people who shop there will be the Cheshire set. They have bags of money, work in the city center and enjoy buying clothes’ (Donohue 2000). That existing owners had not attempted land assembly on their own was seen as an indication that they had not been interested in pursuing redevelopment toward more contemporary building formats and designs. It was only after the city pursued land acquisition that existing owners then came together to propose their own version of land assembly and redevelopment. Furthermore, the OMB ruled that the alternative proposals put forward by existing landowners faced significant hurdles and that existing circumstances prevented the ‘friendly assembly’ of their property in a timely manner (as it was divided among the city, Ryerson, and numerous individual owners) (OMBBI 1998b). This was also one of the reasons why the developers, PenEquity, while prepared to purchase the Ryerson air rights as well as 4 to 6 buildings on the northeast corner in 1996, did not proceed but instead sought a partnership with the city. Furthermore, the board noted that the fact that even expert witnesses for the appellants were not satisfied with the status quo was confirmation that these properties were in need of improvement. These changes represented a major reversal of a policy change that had been implemented in the 1976 Central Area Plan for the City of Toronto, which down-zoned parts of the downtown such as the area of Yonge-Dundas from high density to low density (see chapter 2). This was reiterated in the 1991 official plan, CityPlan. As argued by the city’s planner, the calculation of added benefit to the city ought to factor in both the public square and the new retail and entertainment facility (Ex. 69, 128). Density designations such as 2x (‘two times coverage’) refer to the permitted floor space of a building relative to the size of its lot; for example, a onestorey building completely covering its lot would result in 1x coverage, and a two-storey building covering the entire lot would result in 2x coverage. A variety of different configurations are possible, though; for example, a 2storey building covering 50 per cent of a lot would also result in 1x coverage. Height limits are among the many tools that constrain the possible configurations. These requirements would instead be met by the urban square and underground parking lot. In February 1996 the Planning and Development Department recom-

Notes to pages 107–9 257

15

16

17 18

mended to the Land Use Committee (LUC) that properties from Dundas Square to north of Gerrard be rezoned to reflect the same designation adopted as part of the redevelopment project. This was approved by the LUC but was deferred (that is, not forwarded to City Council) until such time as the recommendations of the Steering Committee involved in the development of options for improving Yonge-Dundas were received. When the Yonge-Dundas Redevelopment Project was put to City Council in December 1996, the proposed rezoning was then revised to fit with and accommodate the specific project. The significance of this is that by not adopting the rezoning that increased densities, the city was then able to proceed with expropriation based on the lower existing densities. Opponents argued that in effect, the city was denying existing property owners as-ofright increases in density (see note 15) and thereby was able to ‘bestow upon itself a cost saving in a proposed expropriation’ (OMBBI 1998e). As-of-right zoning removes the necessity of further planning permissions (e.g., Official Plan or zoning by-law amendments) by setting out all requirements for redevelopment in the zoning by-law. Removing the necessity of further permissions provides an incentive to developers. With regard to Yonge-Dundas, developments that provided new entertainment and retail uses were permitted at a higher density provided they conformed to built-form guidelines. One of the key arguments put forward by opponents was that reinvestment was not happening and that the area was declining due to existing city zoning policies. Just as zoning was understood as a means to guide development in a particular direction, it was also conceived of as an instrument to prevent development from proceeding in another direction. It was argued that existing zoning policies – the low-density designation of the area due to the forty-five foot height limit instituted in the early 1970s, and Official Plan policies that sought to maintain the historical fabric of this part of Yonge Street consisting of small two-storey buildings (see discussion in chapter 2) – were preventing the kind of redevelopment desired. However, proponents argued, and the board accepted, that within this policy regime, some landowners on Yonge Street had improved and redeveloped their properties. In contrast, the landowners expropriated to make way for the Yonge-Dundas redevelopment project had never taken any initiatives to redevelop their properties. The (Delta) Chelsea Inn is a nearby hotel on Gerrard west of Yonge. The Sheraton Centre is a hotel/retail complex on Queen west of Yonge, directly south of Nathan Phillips Square and New City Hall.

258 Notes to pages 110–18 19 The selection of a developer was not the result of an open competitive bid. Rather, the steering committee met with a number of potential retailers and developers and through this process selected a particular developer and cinema retailer. 20 There are many zoning and planning rules that contribute to the establishment of the value of a property. Minimum lot sizes and setbacks inflate the cost of the land needed for a unit of housing and thereby make modestly priced housing uneconomic. Also, there are building code regulations that inflate the cost of renovations and thereby make it uneconomic to renovate modestly priced housing in older neighbourhoods. 21 E-mail correspondence from Lois Dean, U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development. 22 Indeed, ownership may be less of an issue than it is made out to be: many publicly owned public spaces are becoming more restrictive and exclusive than some privately owned spaces. 23 For example, the city’s Official Plan states that the public realm extends beyond publicly owned spaces to include the built forms and designs of private developments. This includes features such as the creation of views and vistas, the relationship of buildings to streets and open spaces, the siting and massing of buildings, the enhancement of lighting, visibility, and surveillance, and the promotion of street activity and pedestrian amenities. 24 As argued by the city’s planner, the calculation of added benefit to the city included both the public square and new retail and entertainment facilities (Ex. 69). 25 Section 315 of the Toronto Municipal Code states: ‘No person shall at any time in, over or upon the road, sidewalk or boulevard of any public highway vend or otherwise stop, park, place, store, stand or leave any object, vehicle or thing on the road, sidewalk or boulevard for the purposes of vending.’ Licenses in Toronto were allocated either by lottery (for major arterial roads under the jurisdiction of the former Metropolitan Toronto government) or on a first-come-first served basis (for roadways under the former City of Toronto government). In the former case, which applied to Yonge Street, vending spaces were proposed by staff in consultation with vendor representatives and affected parties (such as abutting owners), approved by council, and then allocated for three-year periods using a lottery selection process (City of Toronto 1998a). Every three years, all previous vending locations as well as new ones approved by council were allocated again by lottery to vendors who applied for a licence. One of the noted benefits of the lottery system for allocating vending licences was that it offered vendors a chance to gain entry to the industry in

Notes to pages 118–34 259 spots that would not otherwise be available under the first-come, firstserved system. However, with the lottery system, existing vendors were likely to lose their spaces at the end of the three-year term. Since there were always more names in the lottery than spaces, they could be prevented from continuing in business. 26 Regulations require a 25 metre minimum separation from other vendors. Also, 3.66 metres of paved passable space must be maintained for pedestrian movement, and the vendor must be situated on the public road allowance. The vendor must provide a certificate of comprehensive general liability insurance, in an amount of not less than $1,000,000, before the permit is issued. The proposed vending location must not be situated in front of any entrance or exit. A trash receptacle must be provided. The vendor must maintain the area and adjacent pavement, sidewalk, and boulevard in a clean and sanitary condition. The proposed location must not to be in front of a name, municipal number, or display window (City of Toronto 1998a). 27 The Big Issue, like Toronto’s Outreach Connection, is a weekly newspaper produced by a charitable organization run by and on behalf of low-income and homeless people in England. 28 This was the method initially used in the 1970s to regulate massage parlours on Yonge Street. See Brock (1998). 5: The Aesthetic City 1 Imagineering is Walt Disney’s word for a contraction of imagination and engineering. Relph (1987) describes imagineering as ‘the imaginative engineering of deception,’ and argues that it has become one of the primary ways of making landscapes. 2 In Peterborough (City) v. Ramsden, [1993] 2 S.C.R. 1084, the Supreme Court held that a municipal by-law prohibiting all postering on public property was constitutionally invalid. The court decided that postering on public property, including utility poles, clearly fosters political and social decision-making. Also, no persuasive distinction existed between using public space for leaflet distribution and using public property for the display of posters. The question was not whether or how the speaker used the forum, but whether that use of the forum either furthered the values underlying the constitutional protection of freedom of expression or was compatible with the primary function of the property. 3 The wilful damaging or defacing of property belonging to another person or to the public is covered under Sections 387 and 388 of the Criminal Code

260 Notes to pages 135–50

4

5

6

7

of Canada dealing with ‘mischief’ and ‘wilful damage.’ Committing an act of vandalism is a criminal offence. Section 387 (1) states: ‘Everyone commits mischief who wilfully (a) destroys or damages property, (b) renders property dangerous, useless, inoperative or ineffective, (c) obstructs, interrupts or interferes with the lawful use, enjoyment or operation of property, or (d) obstructs, interrupts or interferes with any person in the lawful use, enjoyment or operation of property.’ The argument was that the design and distribution of density on a site rather than the amount of density is the significant criterion that determines the aesthetics of a building. Although the board was not adjudicating the specific design elements of the project, design elements were used to emphasize appearance and aesthetic concerns as central criteria in the judgement of density. A draft Site Plan approval application had been prepared with PenEquity and was used by experts at the board to demonstrate how the development would conform to the design and aesthetic criteria set out in the Official Plan and design guidelines. However, the authority of the Times Square model did not rely on the presentation of images. More often than not, both ordinary and expert witnesses simply mentioned Times Square without any reference to photographs or drawings. The metaphor was thus in part derived from its status as an exemplar that did not require defending or justification. As indicated in the chapter 4, appellants argued that the redevelopment project drew on selected images of Times Square rather than on ‘what Times Square actually is, and how it operates, that it is a function of high density buildings that surround it, and the intersection of two streets’ (OMBBI 1998e). Brown and Storey Architects; excerpted from their winning submission in the design competition for the urban square.

6: The Governable City 1 For example, in 1985 the Ontario government limited the term of appointments to the OMB from lifetime to three years with the possibility of reappointment. It is argued that this change would make members ‘do almost anything to get reappointed’ such as make decisions that were compatible with provincial government policies. See Livesey (2001). In 1995, a provincial government called ‘progressive conservative’ but politically aligned with policies of neoliberalism was elected. The government replaced about a dozen of the OMB members (out of twenty-seven); as a result, individuals

Notes to pages 150–6 261

2

3

4

5

6

appointed by this or previous Progressive Conservative governments now dominate. In 2000, of its twenty-seven members, twelve were lawyers and eight were planners. Most of the rest were professionals such as engineers, accountants, land economists, and insurance brokers. Seven were at one time municipal politicians. From Ontario Municipal Board (2000). For example, of the twenty-eight people who spoke at the evening public session, only two opposed the proposal. Of the ten ordinary witnesses, other than appellant property owners (two), only one witness spoke in opposition. Cited in Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry (1998b). In 1991, research undertaken by the two departments resulted in up-todate and compatible classification systems that reflect the current labour market. Taken together, the classifications organize occupations according to sophisticated criteria of skill level and type, duties and responsibilities, education requirements and required professional memberships/licences/ certification. These classification schemes broadly reflect changes in the sociological and political literature defining new class alignments in Western societies (e.g., MacDonald [1995]). The classification hierarchy starts with ten occupational groups based on skill types associated with a type of occupation (such as managerial) or work domain (such as health). The NOC further classifies these broad occupational groups by skill level, which corresponds to the type and duration of training: management, professional, technical/skilled, clerical, and labour. Professionals across different occupation groups therefore share the same classification at the second level. Finally, skill levels are further classified into minor groups such as supervisory, administrative, and secretarial. Of the 27 expert witnesses who provided sufficient information about years of experience, 2 had less than 20; 14 had 20 to 25; 7 had 25 to 30; and 4 had more than 30. Almost all of the main experts (those who provided the greatest amount of evidence) had more than 25 years of experience. ‘Notwithstanding Mr. Garry Stamm’s evidence, a well recognized and respected economist and market analyst, who was critical of the likely market success given his “Measles” map, Ex. 207A, that depicts the amount of existing and new theatre space in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA), the Board prefers the evidence of Mr. Narbey. Mr. Narbey’s considerable experience has been directly related to the marketability and success of new cinema space and he is convinced that Yonge/Dundas is a superior location and will be a success’ (Ontario Municipal Board and Board of Inquiry 1998b).

262 Notes to pages 157–71 7 Commenting on the evidence of Jeffrey Seider, financial analyst, Exhibit 54 (OMBBI 1998c). 8 See Canadian Institute of Planners (2000). 9 For example, urban planners Joe Berridge, David Butler, and Walter Sorensen, land economist Cam Watson, and marketing analyst John Williams. 10 Evidence-in-chief consists of the beginning arguments and affidavits of expert witnesses, and is distinct from evidence-in-reply, for example, which is submitted in response to questions or critiques arising from the evidence-in-chief. 11 Other examples: Canadian Association of Management Consultants’ Code of Professional Conduct; Ontario Association of Architects standards of professional conduct and ethics. 12 For example, the OPPI code states the member ‘shall not knowingly engage in anything which may conflict with the member’s professional duties to the client or employer, notwithstanding full disclosure by the member to the client or employer of a possible conflict of interest and duty’ (Ontario Professional Planners Institute 1996). 13 Summary of admissions of expert witness Harry Pellow, architect, in crossexamination in OMBBI (1998a). 14 For example, Harcourt (2001) and Miller (2001). An on-line colloquy on Broken Windows organized by the Chronicle of Higher Education revealed a division between academic scholars who disputed the claims, and frontline practitioners and professionals who argued that in their experience it works (www.chronicle.com/colloquy/2001/window/window.htm). 15 The fact that many studies are produced by different municipalities is often deemed sufficient evidence of a connection between adult entertainment stores and neighbourhood disorder and crime. Although no study has been able to prove a connection, they all note a perception of harm. That many municipalities have produced impact studies and implemented policies based on this claim has often been cited as sufficient evidence that adult entertainment stores cause harm (Papayanis 2000). 16 One expert report included a Boston Globe article reprinted in the Globe and Mail that promoted the ‘broken windows theory’ and its success in New York City (Kaplan 1997). No reference is made to studies and critiques of the New York program and the unproven link between the reduction in crime and broken windows programs. 17 The ‘normal’ category was not an average but referred to areas classified as having the status desired for Yonge-Dundas: Bloor Yorkville and Queen West.

Notes to pages 172–87 263 18 Newspaper articles submitted as part of the expert witness statement of Ron Soskolne (Ex. 55A) included several Toronto Star reports on what was described officially as the ‘Yonge Street Riot’ of May 1992. The incident followed the acquittal of four Los Angeles police officers in the videotaped beating of a black man, Rodney King, and the police shooting death of a young black man, Raymond Lawrence, in Toronto. A peaceful protest led by the Black Action Defence Committee at the U.S. Consulate escalated into a march to Yonge Street and the looting and destruction of a number of Yonge Street stores. While the so-called rioters consisted of youth from a variety of racial backgrounds, attention focused on black youths and activists. A second set of newspaper articles was submitted as part of the expert report of Gregg Lintern (Ex. 69B) and included a variety of topics such as concerns about the condition of Yonge Street, recent trends in entertainment and movie going, and editorials supporting the redevelopment project. 19 This history of the planning profession is summarized from Wolfe (1994). 20 The Ontario Professional Planners Institute states that ‘the basic objective of planning is the promotion of the general welfare.’ 21 The CIP lists the following examples: city planner, community development officer, conflict resolution mediator/negotiator, economic development officer, environmental planner, geographic information system planner, heritage coordinator, housing analyst, industrial planner, land use planner, municipal planner, planning director, planning consultant, policy analyst, recreation and park planner, regional planner, resource development officer, social planner, strategic planner, transportation planner, and urban designer (Canadian Institute of Planners 2000). 22 Statement made at a meeting by a member of the public-private partnership that led the redevelopment initiative. Minutes of the Steering Committee Meeting for the Downtown Yonge Regeneration Program, 4 June 1997, in OMBBI (1998c). 23 A Toronto Star report on racial profiling by the police service in 2002 and subsequent public debates in the media highlighted how drug dealing and using were commonly connected to blacks in Toronto. One of the findings was that according to the police’s own statistics, blacks are disproportionately stopped, searched, and charged with simple drug possession. The connection between young black men and problematized youth was also made in the media accounts on the ‘Yonge Street Riot’; see note 18 above. 24 In its decision, the board did note that immigrant families were tenants or owned some of the expropriated properties (OMBBI 1998b). 25 As noted earlier, the experts were predominantly professionals (upper

264 Notes to pages 187–234

26

27 28

29

middle class), with a white and Anglo background. With regard to most ordinary witnesses, the surnames and occupational titles suggest a similar social positioning. Further evidence of their class position is that many of the ordinary witnesses were either condominium residents or owners of major retail establishments. As-of-right permission means, for example, that the owner of a building zoned for one use (e.g., commercial) can convert it to another use (e.g., residential) without having to obtain a zoning by-law amendment. See further discussion in chapter 4, note 15. Source of promotional material: www.dundeedevelopments.com/ communities/toronto/pantages/pantages.htm For example, the real estate guide highlighted the relationship between crime and quality of life in a special summary article on security that measured ‘the 25 safest areas’ in the city, which happened to be wealthy innercity or suburban enclaves. Furthermore, the same issue of Toronto Life contained a ‘murder map’ of Toronto that plotted the locations of fifty-nine murders in 2000. Here, the exclusive districts fared well whereas the downtown and the low-income suburbs were over represented (Pupo 2001). These were characteristics cited in a number of demographic profiles discussed in chapters 4 and 5.

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282 Bibliography Utting, Gerald. 1978. Toronto the Good: An Album of Colonial Hogtown. Vancouver: Bodima Books. Valpy, Michael. 1998. Reclaiming a Site Nearly Malled to Death. Globe and Mail, 8 December, A13. Valverde, Mariana. 1991. The Age of Light, Soap, and Water: Moral Reform in English Canada, 1885–1925. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart. – 1996. ’Despotism’ and Ethical Liberal Governance. Economy and Society 25 (3): 357–72. – 2001. Targeted Governance and the Problem of Desire. Paper presented to the ‘Risk and Morality’ Conference, Vancouver, Canada, May 2001. Valverde, Mariana, and Miomir Cirak. 2001. Governing Bodies, Creating Gay Spaces: Policing and Security in ’Gay’ Downtown Toronto. British Journal of Criminology 43 (1): 102–21. Vasan, R.S. 1980. Public Place. In The Canadian Law Dictionary. Don Mills, ON: Law and Business. Veblen, Thorstein. 1994 (1899). The Theory of the Leisure Class. 2nd ed. London: Constable. von Hirsch, A., and C. Shearing. 1999. Exclusion from Public Space. In Workshop on Situational Crime Prevention: Ethics and Social Context. Cambridge: Fitzwilliam College. Wainwright, Martin. 1999. The Gritty City Goes Lookie-Feely. Guardian, 14 April, 11. Waltzer, Michael. 1995. Pleasures and Costs of Urbanity. In Metropolis: Center and Symbol of Our Times, edited by P. Kasinitz. New York: New York University Press. Ward, Stephen V. 1998. Selling Places: The Marketing and Promotion of Towns and Cities, 1850–2000. London: Spon. Weber, Max. 1985 (1905). The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Translated by T. Parsons. London: Unwin. Wekerle, Gerda R. 1991. Planning Safer Parks for Women. Landscape Architectural Review (July): 5–6. Wekerle, Gerda, and Carolyn Whitzman. 1995. Safe Cities: Guidelines for Planning, Design, and Management. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. – 1997. Toronto Safer City Guidelines. Toronto: Toronto Community Services, Healthy City Office. Wheeler, Glenn. 1997. The King of Downtown: Gay-Proud Kyle Rae Has Outgrown the Ghetto, but Is He Ready for the Megacity? NOW, 26 June–2 July, 9. Whyte, Murray. 2003. Sit, Look and Marvel at New Public Space. Toronto Star, 29 May, B1.

Bibliography 283 Wilson, Elizabeth. 1991. The Sphinx in the City: Urban Life, the Control of Disorder, and Women. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wolfe, Jeanne M. 1994. Our Common Past: An Interpretation of Canadian Planning History. Plan Canada (July): 10–34. Wong, Tony. 1997. Square Dealings on Yonge. Toronto Star, 23 February, D1. Wright, Cynthia Jane. 1993. ’The Most Prominent Rendezvous of the Feminine Toronto’: Eaton’s College Street and the Organization of Shopping in Toronto, 1920–1950. PhD dissertation, OISE, University of Toronto. Wright, Talmadge. 1997. Out of Place: Homeless Mobilizations, Subcities, and Contested Landscapes. New York: State University of New York Press. Wynne, Derek. 1992. The Culture Industry: The Arts in Urban Regeneration. Ashgate, UK: Avebury Press. – 1998. Leisure, Lifestyle, and the New Middle Class: A Case Study. London: Routledge. Wynne, Derek, and Justin O’Connor. 1998. Consumption and the Postmodern City. Urban Studies 35 (5/6): 841–64. Zukin, Sharon. 1991. Landscapes of Power: From Detroit to Disney World. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. – 1995. The Cultures of Cities. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. – 1998. Urban Lifestyles: Diversity and Standardisation in Spaces of Consumption. Urban Studies 35 (5/6): 825–39.

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Illustration Credits

Brown and Storey Architects: winning design for Dundas Square Corporation of the City of Toronto: Eaton Centre; retailing prior to redevelopment (photo 2a); proposed redevelopment project; drawing of concept plan; computer model of concept plan E.F. Isin: Retailing prior to redevelopment (photo 2b); Queen West; Bloor Street; media tower; billboard with Olympic Spirit torch; billboards on Eaton Centre and Hard Rock Café; Pantages Tower; proposed Metropolis Centre; opening day of Dundas Square; Olympic Spirit torch

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Index

abstraction, 165, 196, 221–2 adult entertainment, 9, 17, 122, 262 advertising, 19, 69, 128, 139–41, 160, 177, 196, 232 aestheticization, 90–1, 126–8, 138, 141–3, 147, 174, 179 AMC Theatres, 23, 39, 101, 154, 170–1 antisocial, 72, 86, 128, 229 Architects’ Act, 157, 174

‘broken windows’ theory, 72, 134, 164–6, 221, 262n16 Brown & Storey Architects, 229, 260 business improvement areas (BIAs), 49, 56, 62–5, 69, 90, 110, 142, 232 business improvement districts (BIDs), 62–3, 65, 81, 120, 134, 142, 145 busking, 118–19, 123

Bachelard, Gaston, 5, 191 begging. See panhandling billboards, 129, 139–41, 232 blight, 9, 28–9, 39, 43, 45, 103, 151, 166, 231 Bloor-Yorkville, 34–5, 94, 172, 186, 252, 262n17 Board of Management (for Yonge– Dundas Square), 49, 65, 68–9, 120, 232 bonusing, 19, 106, 110, 117, 179 Bourdieu, Pierre, 5, 13, 91, 126, 191, 193, 195–201, 203, 205–11, 213, 223–4 Boyer, M. Christine, 4, 126, 141–2, 180, 210 Bratton, William, 71

Canadian Association of Management Consultants, 157, 161, 183, 262n11 Canadian Civil Liberties Association, 74 Canadian Institute of Planners, 157, 179, 263n21 capital: cultural, 91, 199–203, 211, 223; economic, 198, 200–3, 207, 213–14, 226; professional, 199, 201– 2, 209, 214, 226; social, 200–1; symbolic, 201, 203, 207, 211, 214, 223, 225–6, 231 Charter of Rights and Freedoms, Canadian, 67–8, 73–4, 83, 254n9 City Beautiful movement, 126, 147 city making: defined, 5, 199, 234;

288 Index field, 199–203, 211–12, 214–17, 222–3, 226, 227; practices, 3, 7, 30, 126, 128, 149, 164, 220 civility, 45, 73, 83, 85, 92, 125, 128, 161, 188–9, 194, 206 classification: of city forms, 206, 210; of land, 104, 113, 115, 178; National Occupational Classification (NOC), 153, 240, 261n4; of occupations, 153, 167, 261n4; of the public, 186, 209; of Yonge-Dundas, 12, 29, 34, 40, 43, 103, 129, 152, 174 classing/classist, 7, 186, 207–8, 228 closed circuit television (CCTV), 54, 56–7, 61, 65, 80, 101, 229–30 CN Tower, 14 common sense, 29, 152, 164–6, 171, 211 community action policing (CAP). See targeted policing community improvement project (CIP), 21–2, 26, 29, 43, 62–3, 92, 94, 104, 108, 152, 239, 263n21 conduct. See moralization crime: and fear, 41–3, 46–7, 49–50, 57–9, 71–2, 77, 133, 164, 176, 216, 254; statistics, 26, 44, 46, 163, 167, 195 Crime Control Commission, 74 crime prevention through environmental design (CPTED), 7, 49, 53, 56, 58–61, 69, 83, 121, 142, 165, 175– 7, 181–2, 202, 216, 218–19 Criminal Code, 75, 133, 141 criminogenic, 41, 43, 46, 59, 147 Crombie, David, 15, 36 defensible space, 56, 58 degeneration, 29, 33, 92, 164, 172, 185 demographic, 31, 48, 97–100, 112,

123–4, 129–30, 146, 153, 167, 170, 186–7, 189 design guidelines, 53, 104, 135–7, 139, 141, 165 discount stores. See low-end retailing disorder and crime, 41, 43, 47, 51, 57– 8, 71–2, 76–9, 133–5, 164–5, 168, 216, 254n8 disorderly conduct, 49, 59, 78, 80, 143 disorderly environment/space, 42–3, 47, 85 disposition. See habitus dollar stores. See low-end retailing Dundas Square, 23, 51, 56, 65, 68–9, 95, 123, 132, 136, 140, 165, 187, 228– 30, 232 Eaton Centre, 9, 16–17, 21, 27, 35, 37, 47–8, 50, 66–8, 94–6, 108, 124, 137, 140, 169, 185, 189, 235, 253n5, 255n6 expert: evidence, 25, 151–4, 159, 162– 4, 169, 193, 236; opinion, 155, 162– 3, 183, 201 expropriation, 11, 22–4, 26, 28, 93, 104, 107–9, 111, 114, 117, 179, 231, 257n16 Expropriations Act, 22, 24, 108 ‘eyes on the street,’ 54, 119 Facade Improvement Program, 95, 131 Fantino, Julian, 56 Featherston, Mike, 90–1, 127, 180, 203 field: of city making, 199–203, 211– 12, 214–17, 222–3, 226–7; defined, 198; of power, 203, 205, 208. See also social space

Index 289 Forty-second Street Development Corporation, 109, 116, 134 Foucault, Michel, 13, 32, 191, 193, 197–8, 214–16, 218, 225, 233 Friedmann, John, 3–4, 10 Fulford, Robert, 30, 188, 250 Garland, David, 59–61, 165–6, 175, 217, 219, 233 gendering, 7, 186, 228 genealogy. See history of the present gentrification, 9, 89, 124, 126–7, 187–8 Giuliani, Rudolph, 36, 63, 71–2, 120, 134 globalization, 10, 38, 87, 90, 100, 222 Goffman, Erving, 160, 211, 213 governmentality, 218, 233 graffiti, 11, 35, 43–4, 46, 53, 55, 72, 78, 81, 94, 128, 130–5, 141–3, 164, 168 Graffiti Eradication Program, 133, 164 Graffiti Transformation Program, 132 habitus, 205–6, 208, 211–13 Hacking, Ian, 196, 207 Hard Rock Café, 101, 140 Highway Traffic Act, 73–4, 254n9 history of the present, 233 Holmes Howland, William, 6 Hunt, Alan, 33, 83 immigrants, 185, 231, 263n24 improvement. See Community Improvement Project incorporation: of local management, 61–2, 69–70; of professions, see professions inscriptions. See strategies

Jacobs, Jane, 3, 54, 58, 75, 164–5, 176, 254n8 Jacobs, Jane M., 4, 10, 127 Kelling, George, 164, 254 knowledge: claims, 13, 152, 164, 166, 215, 219; power, 218–19, 234 Lastman, Mel, 56, 232 Latour, Bruno, 166, 221 legal enclosure, 66, 69 Lemon, James, 6, 114 Levi, Ron, 166 Ley, David, 10, 30, 127, 142 litter, 7, 11, 19, 35, 43–4, 46, 53, 59, 72, 128–31, 134–5, 141, 168 loitering, 11, 17, 39, 43, 51, 55, 61, 71– 2, 75, 78–9, 123, 164, 185–6, 208, 254n8 low-end stores, 9, 17, 33, 35, 62, 67, 92–4, 96–8, 102, 117, 123–4, 130–1, 166, 173, 209–10 Manchester: City Centre Management, 65, 134; city centre remaking, 27, 39–40, 56–7, 65, 79–82, 101, 110, 115, 134, 136, 146; Crime and Disorder Partnership, 72, 79 Media Tower, 23, 139–40 Metropolis, 23, 33. See also urban entertainment centre misrecognition, 206–7, 211, 214, 225–8 mobilizing consumers, 91, 101, 124 moral economy, definition of, 192, 196, 198, 213–14, 225–6 moral geography, 30, 115 moralization: of conduct, 5–7, 10–13, 18, 40–1, 87–9, 123, 125, 127–8, 148– 9, 186, 191, 194–7, 204, 207, 209,

290 Index 211, 214–15, 219, 225–8, 230–2; definition of, 195 Municipal Act, 68, 73, 108, 122, 254n9, 255n11 Nathan Phillips Square, 68, 108, 119, 232, 251n1 National Occupational Classification (NOC). See classification New York: business improvement district, 63, 134, 145; Times Square, 14, 19, 27, 36–40, 56, 63, 71, 79, 81– 2, 87, 100–1, 105, 109, 115, 118, 134, 139–41, 145, 147, 165, 173–4, 190, 221, 260n6 Newman, Oscar, 58, 176 Olympic Torch, 69, 139, 232 O’Malley, Pat, 59–60, 85–7, 217–19, 233 Ontario Coalition Against Poverty (OCAP), 74, 188 Ontario Municipal Board: adjudication, 12–13, 24, 67, 150, 152, 162, 251nn1, 3; administrative hearing, 24–5, 150, 251n1; structure, 11, 23 Ontario Professional Planners Institute (OPPI), 157, 160, 174, 183, 262n12, 263n20 Ontario Professional Planners Institute Act, 174 Operation Broom, 76, 119. See also targeted policing panhandling, 7, 11, 14, 17, 39, 42–5, 59, 61, 68, 71–5, 82–3, 96, 119, 121, 123, 134, 164, 184–5, 188, 253n4, 254n8 Pantages Tower, 187 Pellow proposal, 24, 105, 245

PenEquity Management Corporation, 23, 189, 256, 260 perception: of crime, 41, 44, 47–8, 50–1, 59, 164, 168; of disorder, 41, 47, 166, 168; of the street, 48, 102, 130 Piccadilly Circus, 14, 36–7, 118, 173–4 Planning Act, 21, 23–6, 28, 103, 106, 108 plans and by-laws, 104–5 Polanyi, Karl, 193–4 postering, 7, 130–2, 134–5, 139, 141, 259 practices: economies of, 198, 202, 213, 222; regimes of, 13, 214 problematization: of aesthetics, 128; of consumption, 92; defined, 5; of security, 43 professionalization, 59, 175–7, 180–1, 223 professions: accreditation, 13, 153, 157, 160, 175–7, 181, 201, 213; architecture, 7, 177–8, 181, 199– 200; authority, 148–9, 167, 174, 191, 198, 203, 211, 214–15, 222; autonomy, 203; capital, 199, 201–2, 209, 214, 226; code of conduct, 121, 157, 160–1, 175; crime prevention, 175; habitus, 205; incorporation, 223–4; independence, 160, 183, 197; jurisdiction, 118, 177, 212; legitimacy, 175–6, 182, 198, 202; management, 161, 183, 261–2; marketing, 7, 124, 177, 222; security, 43, 175–6, 217; urban design, 180–1; urban planning, 7, 149, 152, 160, 174–5, 177–8, 181–2, 199 prostitution, 7, 71, 77–8, 81, 96–7 public good, 103–6, 112, 114–17, 122– 3, 143, 217

Index 291

Racial Discrimination Act, 113 racializing/racist, 7, 186, 207–8, 228 Rae, Kyle, 19, 21, 29, 128–9, 235 rationalities: neoliberal, 12, 86–7, 143, 179, 196, 217, 219, 260n1; riskoriented, 59, 78–9, 87, 112 rationalization, 12, 36, 61, 111, 114–15, 142, 151, 194, 214, 216, 218, 225, 227 recognition: of credentials, 148–9, 152, 154, 190, 202; of cultural capital, 201–2, 223 reflexivity, 38, 207 Relph, Edward, 14, 126, 142–3, 180, 259n1 responsibilization, defined, 5, 60, 85 retailers, transnational, 11, 37, 90, 101, 111, 117, 124, 194, 226. See also low-end retailers risk: of conduct, 49, 51, 59, 87, 164, 216; of crime, 50–1, 59, 164, 254n8 Rose, Nikolas, 42, 70, 84–5, 89, 91–2, 193, 217, 221, 224 Ryerson University, 9, 22–3, 65, 107

sense of place, 37, 131, 144–7, 202, 205, 210–11 shoppers, 11, 16, 26, 48, 93, 95, 123–5, 140, 185–6, 189, 208, 229 situational crime prevention. See crime prevention through environmental design (CPTED) skateboarding, 54–5, 68, 186 social space, 199, 203–6, 208–11, 215, 227, 233 squeegeeing, 7, 11, 41, 45–6, 61, 68, 71–5, 77, 80–1, 83, 96, 123, 164, 185, 209, 251n1, 254n8 Steering Committee (Yonge-Dundas), 22, 110, 236, 257n14, 258n19 Strange, Carolyn, 6–7, 17 strategies: design, 49, 202, 219; disciplinary, 71, 84; imagineering, 128, 131, 135, 140–1, 147, 195, 232, 259; incorporation, 49, 61–4, 69–70, 104, 231; legal enclosure, 66, 69; licensing, 92, 118, 122; management, 61, 71, 85; permitting, 118; punitive, 71; sanitizing, 128, 131, 133, 141, 147, 195; zoning, 92, 102, 104, 135 street entertainment. See busking street youth, 11, 17, 49, 51, 53, 61, 80, 123, 185–6, 207–9 suburban consumers, 16, 99, 124, 189 surveillance, 49, 53–5, 57–8, 60–1, 80, 85, 136, 165, 230, 253. See also closed circuit television Swartz, David, 212 symbolic: code, 139, 141; economy, 39, 90, 101, 124, 143–4; power, 166, 223; violence, 207, 209, 224

Safe Streets Act, 74–7, 84, 96, 230 Safer City Task Force, 77–8 Salvation Army, 17, 23–4, 62, 188

tagging. See graffiti targeted policing, 49, 71, 76–80, 87. See also Operation Broom

public interest, 12, 25, 118, 150, 152, 159, 190, 231 Public Parks Act, 68, 253n6 public-private partnerships, 22, 64–5, 106–7, 109–10, 115, 117, 178–9, 187, 217, 232, 263n22 public square. See Dundas Square quality of life: crimes, 43–4, 65, 164; index, 30–1; offences, 43, 71 Queen West, 34–5, 94, 102, 172, 262n17

292 Index technologies: of governing, 217–19; of incorporation, 223; of inscription, 219 Thompson, E.P., 191–2, 195 Times Square. See New York Toronto East Downtown Neighbourhood/Resident Association (TEDNA/TEDRA), 51, 65, 188, 235 Toronto Life, 30–1, 264n28 Toronto Municipal Code, 118, 258n25 Toronto Police Service, 51, 56, 76–8, 133, 164–5, 235 ‘Toronto the Good,’ 6–7, 17 tourists, 9, 11, 26, 35–6, 39, 44–5, 50, 62, 90, 96, 98, 123, 144, 185, 189, 209 town center management committees (TCMC), 64–5, 142 Town Planning Institute of Canada (TPIC), 177–8 Trespass to Property Act, 73, 230, 253n4, 254n9 urban: economic development, 90, 92, 101; entertainment centre (UEC), 9, 22–3, 40, 66–8, 99–101, 103, 106–8, 110–12, 124, 139–40, 170–1, 189, 230–1; redevelopment, 89–90, 109, 115, 124, 147, 156, 179,

220, 231; regeneration, 90, 92, 101, 188; square. See Dundas Square vagrancy. See panhandling Valverde, Mariana, 6–7, 61, 84, 115, 121, 166, 219 vending, 19, 35, 44, 54, 74, 82, 96–7, 118–21, 123, 129–30, 186, 235, 258– 9n25 Walker proposal, 24, 105, 153 Wekerle, Gerda, 58, 175 Yonge Street: Business and Residents Association (YSBRA), 21–2, 44, 95, 110, 130–1, 231, 235; business improvement area (BIA), 63, 232; clean-up campaigns, 16–18, 36, 96, 124, 131, 137; ‘Main Street,’ 7, 14, 22, 32; problematizations of, 14, 19, 29, 103, 124, 129, 172; ‘riot,’ 263; strip, 9, 19 zoning by-laws, 22, 104–6, 109–10, 113–14, 116, 136, 257, 264 Zukin, Sharon, 10, 39, 61, 63, 65–6, 81, 87, 89–90, 101, 109, 115, 117, 125, 127, 140, 142–4, 146–7

Cultural Spaces explores the rapidly changing temporal, spatial, and theoretical boundaries of contemporary cultural studies. Culture has long been understood as the force that defines and delimits societies in fixed spaces. The recent intensification of globalizing processes, however, has meant that it is no longer possible – if it ever was – to imagine the world as a collection of autonomous, monadic spaces, whether these are imagined as localities, nations, regions within nations, or cultures demarcated by region or nation. One of the major challenges of studying contemporary culture is to understand the new relationships of culture to space that are produced today. The aim of this series is to publish bold new analyses and theories of the spaces of culture, as well as investigations of the historical construction of those cultural spaces that have influenced the shape of the contemporary world. Series Editors Richard Cavell, University of British Columbia Imre Szeman, McMaster University Editorial Advisory Board Lauren Berlant, University of Chicago Homi K. Bhabha, Harvard University Hazel V. Carby, Yale University Richard Day, Queen’s University Christopher Gittings, University of Western Ontario Lawrence Grossber, University of North Carolina Mark Kingwell, University of Toronto Heather Murray, University of Toronto Elspeth Probyn, University of Sydney Rinaldo Walcott, OISE/University of Toronto Books in the Series Peter Ives, Gramsci’s Politics of Language: Engaging in Bakhtin Circle and the Frankfurt School Sarah Brophy, Witnessing AIDS: Writing, Testimony, and the Work of Mourning Shane Gunster, Capitalizing on Culture: Critical Theory for Cultural Studies Jasmin Habib, Israel, Diaspora, and the Routes of National Belonging Serra Tinic, On Location: Canada’s Television Industry in a Global Market Evelyn S. Ruppert, The Moral Economy of Cities: Shaping Good Citizens