Toronto isn't the city on the postcards. It's the everyday one, the one that happens far from the landmark and the famous view: people waiting, crossing, riding out the weather, taking over the street when something sets it off. A city that changes its skin with each season and keeps on, stubbornly, living itself out at ground level.

When the cold sets in, that same life goes underground. Down there the city disappears; what's left is the enclosure, the flat light, people folded inward, each one alone in the same crowd. Above or below, summer or winter, always the same thing: not what a city puts on display, but the ordinary gestures it lets itself be lived through.