How art can change how we think about homelessness: photo essay

Paul Salvatori

A man peering inside Emoh rushes over to Naji, telling him how excited he is about structure. “Bumboclaat!” he exclaims upon seeing the orb up close. He says that even as a prosthetic makeup artist, he’s never seen something as unique as Emoh.

Paul Salvatori

Inside Emoh is a bed (in this case, unmade from the previous night) and nightstand. Naji says he’s still working out how to include some sort of washroom, as well as making Emoh more nonflammable. I wonder what Naji does inside Emoh when it starts to rain. I didn’t notice before all the light fixtures, which would make for a difficult nap in wet weather.

Paul Salvatori

The exterior of Emoh is made of random materials from abandoned homes, mostly in Cleveland. There are also other structures: banisters, mouldings and siding. The rectangular panels were constructed one at a time by Naji. No two are alike, although each harkens back to a more economically prosperous era than today. Even the VHS hood-turned-mailbox evokes a happier, less busy analogue era. The hodgepodge undoubtedly reflects Loren’s philosophy: nothing should unnecessarily go to waste, especially when it introduces beauty to the world.

Paul Salvatori

After leaving Charles, Naji surprises people on Yonge and more Torontonians approach Emoh. They are curious about the bearded man exiting the colourful orb.

Paul Salvatori

The sidewalk soon becomes a classroom on Naji’s exit as he’s flooded by questions from onlookers. Many, referring to Emoh, ask some variation of the question, “What is it?” However, Naji’s replies do not focus only on the physicality of Emoh, but draw attention to its greater social and political meaning. He talks about how, despite there being available resources, governments do not guarantee shelter for all. Instead of following their obligation to serve citizens, they have instead become preoccupied with profit, tragically forgetting the homeless.

Paul Salvatori

It’s endearing to see people on the street asking Naji if they can take pictures of Emoh. “Of course!” he replies, often jumping into the frame himself.

Paul Salvatori

The police aren’t as impressed with Emoh. This officer, like another later in the day, asks Naji to move the sculpture. Alas, the momentary party is over and Naji and I were back in the car, moving it elsewhere. It’s a powerful and even unsettling reminder that public space isn’t always free space. It cannot be used by anyone at anytime. By the same token, homeless individuals are routinely asked to leave public spaces.

Paul Salvatori

Naji is curious what kind of response Emoh would get in the financial district, especially as a place where, arguably, money trumps humanitarian concerns. Perhaps because the lunch break of the day was coming to an end, fewer people are around than expected.

Paul Salvatori

Naji distributes flyers about Emoh in the financial district, and a few groups approache him to inquire about the structure. Overall, the area is much quietier and more reserved than at Yonge and Dundas.

Paul Salvatori

Naji doesn’t want to leave Toronto’s before talking to the homeless. One of his goals, in fact, is to create multiple Emoh structures for them in various cities and in a way that honours their perspective. I head to a nearby shelter with Naji but there are no homeless folks available to talk with him. Still, he decides park Emoh around the corner on King West, waiting to see if that might change. A man in tattered clothes came by and says he loves Emoh for its simplicity. He seems eager to buy it from Naji, who, though flattered, kindly replies it’s not for sale. They engage in conversation about forgetting the needs of others when we live a life of excess – perhaps the most important conversation Naji has with a Torontonian that day. We live in a culture where getting more than your fair share is both prized and encouraged. If we changed that, perhaps, we’d better value simplicity and building communities with others owning lots of stuff.