The first thing you notice is the steam. It rises meanderingly into the darkness, stark and formless, illuminated by hundreds of florescent lights.

As you venture closer, the smell grabs hold of your attention. The scent is at once comforting, like your mother cooking in the next room, and foreign, infused with spices and herbs you’ve never seen but can already taste, their aromas marinating the air.

Then, rather abruptly, you are snapped out of this peculiar state of reverie. Dozens of men surround you like fleas to a dog, waving laminated menus in your face, clamoring for you to try their stall. All you want to do is sit and eat somewhere, but you are too overwhelmed to make a decision. You are standing amid the chaotic nighttime food stalls of Marrakech’s Djemaa el Fna market, and you are hungry.

*          *          *         *          *

In Arabic, Djemaa el Fna roughly translates as “Assembly of the Dead.” That title, however, is hardly appropriate. As Marrakech’s main square and marketplace, it is the very center of life in the city, continually filled with people – and animals – of all shapes and sizes. By day, the massive square is home to snake charmers, small boys holding monkeys, and stands hawking goods of all sorts.  But it is at night that Djemaa el Fna becomes truly alive.

Once the sun goes down, storytellers and musicians begin to appear, sharing strange tales and hypnotic melodies. Bare-fisted boxers battle for spare change. Acrobats startle and stun. And in the center of it all is the food stalls – dozens of them, set in rows, all constructed of rusty steel frames partially covered by yellowed white tarps.

Each stall – of which there are perhaps 50 or more – is set up in virtually the same way. A large counter showcases an impressive array of fresh meats, seafood, and vegetables, some of which is being barbequed on a massive grill situated just behind the stalls — each stall can serve about 40 people at a given time. The stalls don’t even have individual names – the only way to tell them apart is a small placard bearing a number attached to each stand.

The choices of meals, too, are all more or less identical. A wide selection of tajines – clay pots filled with a stew of meat and vegetables – are served, as well as several variations of couscous and kebabs. These main courses are preceded by a variety of cold vegetables, all eaten alongside a large slab of flatbread. To finish, you are presented with a small glass of hot mint tea, more refreshing and delicious than any tea you have ever tasted.

It is this uniformity that is especially important, as it the sole reason for the unbelievable frenzy that occurs in the narrow pathways between stalls. The stalls all have around 8 staff: 2 chefs, 2 waiters, 1 cashier, and 3 guys whose entire job is to attract more customers.

These salesmen have an extremely difficult task set before them – attempting to convince tourists that their stall is somehow superior to the other 49 indistinguishable, nameless competitors. The survival of the food stalls and their employees relies entirely on these individuals’ shoulders and as a result – as one might expect – some can get fairly aggressive.

As I walk toward the stalls, a young man bearing a wide, toothy grin quickly approaches me. “Hello my friend,” he says. “Are you hungry? You’ve come to the right place – we have the freshest ingredients in the whole market.” He is friendly enough, and very politely explains his menu, but I tell him I want to explore my options. “Just remember, brother – stall 36!” he reminds me as I head farther in. “You’ll be back!”

Within seconds, I find myself surrounded by a gaggle of salesmen, all demanding my attention.

“Right this way sir,” one says, “We have a full menu of meat and fish, unlike that stall over there. All they serve is intestines.”

Another tries a humorous approach. “Our stall is fully air-conditioned!” he proclaims, gesturing towards his stand – its open air, just like the rest.

“Japanese? Japanese? Konichiwa!” someone yells toward me.

Several are far more direct, reaching out and forcefully grabbing my arm. When I swing my elbow back at one of them, I hear him yell at me from a distance. “You’re a big ass! A big ass!”

The competition is a continual struggle. Like a flock of swans receiving breadcrumbs, greeters jostle for position and fight over tourists with such hostility one might think their lives depended on it.

In the end, my friend from stall 36 is right – I return to him. He and his colleagues see me approach from a distance, and begin to clap and cheer as I draw near. I feel like I just hit a grand slam to win the World Series.

Finally, I take a seat on one of the benches and – satisfied with both my decision and the large platters of food placed before me – I dig in.

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Special thanks to Jen Balisi for the use of her photographs.

“Visual Inspiration” is a new series of features on Ponder. The idea is fairly simple: each post will contain a collection of photographs that capture the objects, ideas, people and places that captivate and stimulate my imagination. For the first edition, we venture into the Brooklyn Flea, an eclectic weekend bazaar housed in Fort Greene’s historic One Hanson Place. 

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It’s a brisk November night in Prague, cold enough to make any sane person retreat to the warm comforts of home. But football fans have never been known for their sanity.

Tonight, two Prague-based clubs – Sparta Praha and Bohemians 1905 – face off in the Gambrinus Liga, the highest level of professional football in the Czech Republic. It’s a derby – as football fans term matches between teams from the same city – and the more than 7,000 faithful who cram either end of Stadion Evžena Rošického help to underscore the game’s importance. The rest of the 19,032-capacity stadium is mostly empty, but it makes no difference, as the rabid supporters from both sides chant and sing with the tenacity of a crowd three times their size.

Sparta! Sparta! Sparta! The chant erupts from the sea of blue, red, and yellow at the north end of the stadium.

Zeleny! Bila! (Green! White!) comes the deafening response from the opposite stand.

The Czech football league might not be as glamorous or internationally respected as its English, Italian, or Spanish counterparts, but for the twenty-two men on the pitch, that doesn’t matter. On this night, they feel as beloved and adored as any footballer. And it is certainly of no consequence to those in the stands, waving homemade flags, their faces streaked in club colors. Prague’s true football fans, though small in numbers, are devoted and loyal. It’s not hard to see why, as the Czech capital is home to some of the most fascinating inter-club dynamics in all of professional football.

*          *          *         *          *

This season, there are four clubs from Prague competing in the Gambrinus Liga  – AC Sparta Praha, SK Slavia Praha, FC Bohemians Praha, and Bohemians 1905 – exactly one quarter of the 16-team league.

“Having four teams from Prague in the first Czech league is still something I have to wrap my mind around,” said Andrew Kliment, a midfielder for Bohemians Praha. “Fans are spread out between the four teams and any games when they play each other are both tense and exciting.”

Sparta and Slavia – collectively referred to as the Prague “S” –are both top-flight mainstays and perennial favorites, with a heated rivalry that began over a century ago during their very first match in 1896. Since the first Czechloslovak league began in 1925, they have won a combined 47 domestic titles. As the two most successful and famous clubs in the Czech Republic, Slavia and Sparta divide not only the majority of the football fans in Prague, but most of the Czech Republic as well.

“People either support our club or hate it,” Daniel Hrstka, a life-long Sparta fan, said. “But at least its good that people feel something, even if its hatred. It makes our matches more interesting and everywhere we go people are curious on our performance.”

The polarizing nature of the two archrivals developed following the Second World War, as their fan bases became more and more directly related to class.

“Under Communism, it used to be that Sparta was supported by the Communists and the working-class, and Slavia more by the intellectuals,” Jan Vasenda, another Sparta fan, said.

That historical social distinction has helped make the biannual Sparta-Slavia derby one of the most consistently fierce fixtures in football.  “In the weeks leading up to the game, you can feel the tension rising in both camps,” Pavel Horvath, who played for both Sparta and Slavia, once said. Over the years that tension would often lead to entirely electric atmospheres on game day with supporters declaring their allegiance loud and clear.

These days, the team you support has more to do with family tradition than social status. Younger fans like Vasenda, 27, say that the rivalry between the Prague “S” is no longer as “savage among normal supporters” and is now more about “joking [about one another] in a funny way.”

Regardless, it seems that even today the derby sometimes has a way of bringing out the worst in fans.

An “S” derby at Strahov Stadium in March 2008 resulted in a total of 26 fans detained by police, as the match was overshadowed by a series of unruly disturbances by supporters from both sides. Confusion and disorder took hold as fans threw flares and ripped off seats onto the pitch, causing police to use petards to disperse the crowds.

While such incidents would appear to indicate that the rivalry and support for the clubs is as strong as ever, these derbies are merely isolated occurrences that seem to lack, in some form, the true enthusiasm and feeling of their predecessors. After all, though 16,205 fans were present for the mayhem in March 2008, an average of less than half that many attended the rest of Sparta and Slavia’s individual home games that season – all of which, assuredly, had much more tame atmospheres.

The fans themselves are the first to admit the support for their clubs isn’t what it could be. When asked to describe football fans in Prague, the immediate response of several supporters of both Sparta and Slavia was “lazy.”

“Most people prefer TV, they go to games only when the weather is okay and are very passive,” Hrstka said. “Sometimes it feels like a theater at the stadium.”

For the kind of genuine passion Prague’s biggest teams seem to lack, one need to head only to Ďolíček Stadium, the home of Bohemians 1905 – or Bohemka, as their supporters call them. The club, which spent much of its recent history in the Czech second league before gaining promotion to the Gambrinus Liga last season, attracts a diverse group of dedicated followers.

“Bohemians fans are loud and energetic,” said Milan Gagnon, an American who has followed the team since moving to Prague three years ago. “For them it’s not just a sport, and that’s what I appreciate. In a way, it’s sort of a cultural experience.”

Every game, thousands pack into the fenced off supporter’s stand at Ďolíček, where they are greeted by a friendly atmosphere, a crowd that takes pride in standing and singing the entire game, as well as the familiar scent of a certain hallucinogenic plant.

“What I love most is the family spirit at the club,” said Robert Polacek, a Bohemka supporter since 1978. “There is a close relationship between the fans and the club – the players and management – which is rare.”

One reason Bohemians 1905 is so open with its fans is simply because the club owes them a great deal. When the previous owners nearly drove the team to bankruptcy, over 1,700 Bohemka supporters rallied together and managed to raise enough funds to keep the club afloat. Their devoted efforts, however, did not prevent the owners from selling the team’s name, colors, and beloved kangaroo logo to a club previously called FC Střížkov Praha 9 – now known as FC Bohemians Praha.

The situation came to a head this season, with both teams now in the Gambrinus Liga. To outsiders, it can be a little confusing having two teams competing with nearly identical names and uniforms. For fans of either team, however, the difference could not be clearer.

“There is only one Bohemka,” Polacek insisted. As of late, it is not uncommon to hear the fans at Ďolíček loudly singing, “Střížkov zajebanej je, střížkov zajebanej je!” which roughly translates to “Střížkov is fucked, Střížkov is fucked!”

The players themselves, perhaps wisely, seem to be trying to stay out of the matter. “The controversy I know between the two Bohemians is that the name was bought by the team I am with and that 1905 have been using the name unofficially,” Kliment said. “Now I’ve heard other rumors but I don’t want to give you any false information.”

This May, the Czech Industrial Property Office determined the green and white stripes and kangaroo mascot rightfully belong to the 1905 club, but their Střížkov counterparts have refused to back down and the issue remains essentially unresolved. In the meantime, the situation has resulted in a bizarre and completely unprecedented rivalry: the two teams battle not only for points on the pitch but also for their very identity.

With their storied histories and intriguing conflicts, it’s a wonder that more of Prague’s football fans don’t pay closer attention to the four top-level clubs that are right in their own backyard.

Jan Vasenda, for one, is not surprised by their lack of interest. “A lot of my friends make fun of the quality of local football,” he said. “They’d much rather stay home and watch the English Premiership or German Bundesliga.”

Kliment has heard those claims before, but doesn’t buy them. “The level here is high and competitive when compared to the top leagues in Europe,” he said. “I see only small differences in level and skill.

“The problem as always is money. Teams like Real Madrid and Manchester United buy players for hundreds of millions of Euro and it’s just not possible for Czech teams to do that.”

In the end, to those who already support the city’s four distinctive clubs, it really doesn’t matter who else is watching.

“To those who care, it matters a lot,” Gagnon said. “And that’s enough.”

At 5:30 AM on a blisteringly cold Friday morning, we arrived in Vienna. We wandered through the Austrian capital’s dark, empty streets before dawn and watched as they slowly came to life. The city is beautiful, to be sure – its buildings are adorned with the architectural grandiosity one might expect – but Vienna also possesses subtle charms, which reveal and endear themselves to you in unexpected ways. 

Below, you’ll find a smattering of photographs from throughout the day.

A group of young soldiers in Liberia (2003)

Words by Yang-Yi Goh | Photographs by Jan Sibik

The boy pulls the pin from the grenade. Silence fills the air. He studies the frozen, terrified expressions of the four European reporters who stand no more than 20 feet before him.

Please, please, don’t do it, don’t do it, they plead to the boy. At 13, he is easily less than half the age of the four men before him, but he literally holds their lives in the palm of his hand.  He is a soldier in the Liberian army, and he must be strong.

Smirking, he flicks his wrist towards his Caucasian counterparts, toying with them. He laughs as they tremble with fear. At the last possible second, he hurls the grenade in the opposite direction.

The reporters are still within range of shrapnel from the explosion, but luckily they remain unscathed. At this point, they’re just thankful to be alive. One of the grateful individuals is Czech photojournalist Jan Sibik.

“I almost started to pee,” he tells me.

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That incident, during a trip to Liberia in 2003, is reflective of the risks Sibik faces while traveling to the remote corners of the world to capture images of people who are suffering, unrepresented, or simply forgotten.

Sibik, 46, has made over 200 trips in nearly 25 years – covering and witnessing first-hand the various calamities that affect people across the globe. A glance at his resume is almost like looking at a summary of every major international conflict and crises of the last quarter century: the genocide in Rwanda; the tsunami in Sri Lanka; the conflict in Palestine; wars in Afghanistan, Croatia, Bosnia, Kosovo, and Iraq, to name a few. In the past year alone he has covered, among others, both the intriguing political situation in Iran and the outbreak of H1N1 in Mexico City.

Landfill workers in Phnom Penh, Cambodia (2007)

For a man who has seen horrors most of us can barely imagine, Jan Sibik appears surprisingly content and comfortable – at ease with both himself and the world around him. We are meeting in the offices of Reflex, the Prague-based Czech magazine where Sibik has worked since 1992. A shock of curly blond hair frames a lean face bearing a reserved expression. Sibik’s slight air of standoffishness seems to stem not from arrogance but rather an overstated sense of humility – at one point, he interrupts our interview to ask an English-speaking co-worker to help better express himself, but then proceeds to interrupt her translations with his own grammatically-correct statements. At various points, I’m worried that my subject appears annoyed, but another of his colleagues assures me that this is not the case.

“I think Jan has a problem with social intelligence,” Milan Tesar, the Culture Editor at Reflex, tells me. “His image is very rude, very brash, but he has a very good heart. Everything from Jan comes from inside of his person – his spirit – no brain, more heart.”

It is this combination of an aversion to social situations and a tendency to lead with his heart that endows Sibik’s photographs with their remarkable depth. He is able, as an observer, to disappear into a given environment and capture a situation with raw, untarnished honesty – nothing is posed, nothing held back. The emotional intimacy of his images is at times especially difficult for the photographer himself to deal with.

“Every time I don’t feel comfortable,” he says. “But I hope I’m not a hyena, and it’s important to have contact with people.

“These trips cost the magazine a lot of money, so I have to be strong because I need to bring the pictures. The pictures are important, because if they are strong, they can have big power.”

A member of the Taliban in Afghanistan (2002)

“Big power” is certainly one way to describe the intensity his pictures possess. Looking upon many of Sibik’s photographs – whether it’s children performing hard labor in Cambodian landfills, or Kenyan prostitutes suffering from HIV – one is immediately confronted by harsh realities, scenes that seize up every muscle in our bodies with an uncomfortable chill. Rather than face the brutal truths these images provide, however, many people choose instead to turn away – something that frustrates the photographer to no end.

“For many people, it’s only important to think about ‘I, I, I,’” Sibik remarks. “Many people forget that during communist times, some in other countries helped us. But now, it’s time when we must sometimes help others.”

When I ask Sibik if he’s ever tempted to put down the camera and start helping people and saving lives himself, he promptly shakes his head, “no”.

“I want to help through photography,” he tells me. “I think the professional way of doing something is to try to do the best at what you know. I don’t know how to do humanitarian work professionally, but they don’t know how to take pictures like me. The best way for me to help is by taking pictures, publish pictures, speak about pictures, and do exhibitions.”

This line of thinking has proved extremely effective, with public response to Sibik’s photographs often allowing him to contribute other forms of humanitarian aid. In 2000, he started a campaign entitled “Podejte ruce dětem ze Siery Leone” (“Give the Children of Sierra Leone a Hand”), which raised 1.1 million CZK for child victims of war and civil conflict. Then, in 2005, he organized a charity called “Chci ještě žít!” (“I Want to Live!”), raising 900,000 CZK for AIDS victims in Odessa, Ukraine – a city where 1 out of every 10 people is HIV positive.

Kushti Wrestlers in Kolhapur, India (2003)

Throughout his career, Sibik has primarily been a war photographer,  but not all of his photos are of horrifying situations. Most notably, in 2004, his photos of Indian Kushti wrestlers took third place in the Sports Action category of the prestigious World Press Photo contest. And lately, not all of his photos are taken so far from home.

“In the past, he thought that in the Czech Republic there aren’t interesting topics,” Tesar tells me of his colleague. “But he’s changed his opinion, because not only war and drama somewhere in Africa is interesting – he’s learned to take interesting pictures in the Czech Republic in less spectacular situations.”

Though he stays home more often now, Sibik appears determined as ever to raise public awareness and help foster social change in a world where he’s seen more than a fair share of misery, cruelty, and suffering. Ultimately, though, he knows that it’s not up to him to decide.

“I still believe what I do is important, but I’m not naive – it helps, but just a little,” he says. “Photography can’t change or stop a war – it just shows the bad things, and it depends on you how you will react.”

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For more about Jan Sibik and his photography, please visit http://www.sibik.cz/

This piece was originally written in September 2009 for a Travel Writing class.

Mark and Rachel Price are visiting Prague from Birmingham, England. They are standing in front of the famous Nationale-Nederlanden building – known colloquially as the Dancing House – gazing up at its parabolic glass exterior.

“I quite like it, yeah,” Rachel says. “It gives the city a bit of an edge, doesn’t it?”

Mark looks at his wife quizzically.

“I don’t know really,” he says. “I’m not sure that it fits. I feel like that bloke who ate lunch on the Eiffel Tower because it was the only place in Paris he couldn’t see it.”

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It’s been 13 years since the Dancing House was first built along the Vltava, but it remains perhaps the most polarizing building in Prague. Designed in 1992 by Croatian-born Vlado Milunic and Canadian Frank Gehry, the structure received its light-footed moniker from its resemblance to two dancers – Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Since its completion in 1996, the building and its avant-garde design has been argued over by locals and tourists alike.

As Gehry hails from my hometown of Toronto, seeing the ultramodern building for the first time felt like finding a small piece of home. Beyond my national pride, however, another connection to the Dancing House soon began to emerge – one more closely related to the controversy that has always followed it.

While a wonder of contemporary architecture, the Dancing House’s modern exterior sticks out amongst Prague’s medieval skyline like a lightning bolt in the night sky. When people walk by the building – regardless of whether they love it, hate it, or merely accept it – they stare. They stare at its whimsical curvature, with a midsection that appears squeezed into the tightest of corsets. They stare at its wild, eye-popping proportions, which give the precisely strewn windows a three-dimensional quality. But most of all, they stare at it for the simple reason that it is different – a completely alien structure amid a sea of Neo-Gothic façades.

Since arriving in Prague, I’ve encountered similar stares wherever I go – on the Metro, in supermarkets, even at the park. Some of these onlookers have been friendly, some of them cold. But a surprising number simply appear in awe, bewildered by the appearance of a foreigner intruding into their everyday lives, rather than merely sticking to the tourist attractions.

I came to Prague, among other reasons, to experience another culture – to immerse myself in a different way of life. It is only now, though, that I realize that my own differences might keep me from doing so completely. As long as I am “the other” – more of an exhibit than a functioning individual – I will never achieve the level of comfort in Czech society I desire.

So I try. I use my extremely limited Czech to initiate conversation; I explore side streets and neighborhoods and act like I belong; I smile and look right back when people stare.

And yet, no matter how hard I try to fit in, as a Chinese-Canadian in a country that is 95% Czech, I know that in four months I’ll still be exactly what the Dancing House is after 13 years – an outsider whose very presence stirs mixed feelings in those around me.

You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm. – Colette


People say a lot of things about mistakes – everybody makes them; you learn from them; they’re human. Nothing they can tell you, however, will take away the initial sting of regret that siphons through your body when you realize you’ve erred in some way.

My mistake, in this case, was launching this website two days before leaving for a full semester in Prague. At the time, it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume I’d be able to balance writing material for Ponder on top of schoolwork, an internship, weekend trips, and, of course, adjusting to the sudden shock of finding myself living in Central Europe. I was wrong.

Over the last three months, I have seen and done a number of extraordinary things, most of which I could not have anticipated while eagerly uploading the site in late August. I’ve guzzled beers at Oktoberfest, ridden camels in the Moroccan desert, and listened to the Dalai Lama speak about the development of democracy in Asia. What I haven’t done is properly maintain the magazine I’d dreamed of starting for years. And it bothers me – a lot. 

The reason this magazine is called Ponder is partly because that’s how it began life – as a daydream, a doodle in the corner of my notebook. Unfortunately, constantly dreaming does not equate in any way with doing, which is something it has taken me much longer than it should have to learn.

What I hope for now is twofold: first, that I have learned from my mistakes, and that I’ll be able to manage my time more successfully; and second, that I’ll be able to take some of the strange and wonderful experiences I’ve had and share them here. I never wrote out a full mission statement or description of Ponder, because it was hard to put into words. I only had a very abstract vision of what it could or should be, and figured that over time, as I wrote about whatever I please, it would sort of solidify itself. We’ll soon see if I was right.

Starting this week, there will finally be a steady stream of updates on this website – I’ll be aiming for about one or two a week. I realize that very few, if any, people are reading or care about Ponder right now, but if you are, then please stick around for the ride. And if you happen to like what you read, don’t hesitate to pass the word along.

For now, though, feel free to take a look at a few pictures from my various travels after the jump.

The Lennon Wall in Prague, Czech Republic. 

A view of the city from Prague Castle. 

His Holiness the Dalai Lama shares his thoughts at a conference on Peace, Democracy and Human Rights in Asia.

Thousands of beer drinkers inside the Augustiner-Festhalle at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany.

Decorative sculptures on the roof of the Duomo di Milano in Milan, Italy. 

Scrumptious tapas at Bodega Santa Cruz in Seville, Spain.

A gorgeous Moorish domed ceiling in the Alcázares Reales in Seville, Spain.

Camels resting in the desert  a few hours outside of Marrakech, Morocco. 

Two of the many remarkable spires on the still-unfinished Sagrada Família in Barcelona, Spain. 

There are plenty of things you might expect to find in a deserted back-alley: discarded junk, old tires, perhaps a rodent or two. Chances are, though, that “menswear boutique” wouldn’t be high on that list. After three and a half years on Toronto’s main shopping strip, owner Matt Robinson made the unconventional decision to move his shop, Klaxon Howl, into the far corner of a dusty alleyway.

To some, the relocation seemed ludicrous – but it couldn’t have turned out to be more perfect. The reconverted 19^th century coach house – chockfull of rustic, quirky charm – provides the ideal setting for Klaxon Howl’s eclectic mix of vintage workwear and military apparel, alongside its exceptional private label.

Perhaps even more remarkable than the store itself is the enthusiasm of its owner. A conversation with Robinson reveals not only his extensive historical knowledge of the goods he hawks, but also his undeniable passion for his craft.

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Literally speaking, a “Klaxon Howl” is the sound made by an electromechanical horn. How was that chosen as the name of the store?

It came off a long list of names. This is our third store, so we knew what to expect. The “Klaxon” part came off of some liner notes from a Clash album, Sandinista, so I’d spied that and written it down. The “Howl” part was actually a sort of play on like Thurston Howell, like somebody’s name. So a lot of people think Klaxon Howl is a name, or they say “Klaxon” and “Howl” like it’s two different people’s names.

But yeah, the Klaxon was an old horn technology that you’d hear on ships, submarines, old Model Ts, the Tin Lizzies. It’s that real distinctive Ahyoooogah!

When you were first conceptualizing the store, what was the aesthetic or vibe that you aspired to?

It was something that had been growing in my head for a while. I’d been collecting military stuff for probably a good three or four years before we actually opened the shop, so it was something that sort of grew out of that.

There was actually a dream that I had, where I went in this place –it wasn’t as curated as something like this – but basically it was a store where every rack I went through was just the best military stuff, the best vintage, and piles of it. Things that you just don’t see – you’re lucky to find one piece in a mess of everything. It was kind of a dream idea of having a place where you would come and see things you normally wouldn’t see, and sort of see it in abundance and be able to touch it and look at it.

The original concept was to mix lines that were inspired by these things with the real vintage pieces. Now, it’s sort of diverted from that into us doing our private label, us doing the things that we want to do, and select vintage pieces and a couple of heritage brands. But when it started we were thinking of things like WTAPS and MHI, and we’d stock brands like Stone Island, and AK from Burton – so it was things that kind of touched on those things – some new school stuff, some heritage stuff. But it’s definitely gotten away from that now, which I prefer. I think it’s got more legs this way – us doing our own thing definitely gives people exclusive product.

So with your private label, can you describe the design process, the manufacturing, and all that’s involved with it?

We start with an idea – sometimes it can be taken from an actual garment, it can be taken from a photograph, something I’ve seen in a film. We reference all kinds of things. It’s usually classic pieces, or films that I’m watching. I watch a lot of TCM, so I’m watching all sorts of films from the silent era right up to the 70s – a lot of them are period pieces. It also comes from looking at items I’ve seen, I have, or wish I had – same with going through reference books. It’s sort of like sampling music, you know, you’ll like a pocket detail here, but maybe not the pocket detail, or the fits off.

So we’re just sort of pulling pieces. Sometimes it’s completely literal; we’ll copy it exactly, but tweak the fit, because a lot of the older fits are not intended for contemporary wear. A lot of people wear their shirts un-tucked, but real older shirt tails are quite long – they’re meant to be tucked in and stay tucked in, so they’re cut for that and don’t quite work. So we tweak things, but some of the other fits – things like high armholes, tighter shoulders, that kind of military fit – we definitely hold on to and carry over.

That’s pretty much the process. We work with our patterns, and do all the stuff ourselves. We use old machines for construction – chain stitch machines, bar tacking, gusseting, and everything’s made with interlocking flat felt seams. Just things that a lot of people don’t do anymore.

Is almost everything done around here?

Yeah, it’s all done in the city. We have an atelier in the back, where we start the process. The patterns are usually done by our pattern maker – we tweak the pattern, she grades the patterns. The design process is obviously all done here, and then manufacturing is all done here in the city as well.

The fabric all comes from Canada, some stuff from the States. We use vintage fabrics when we can, vintage notions (notions being buttons), zippers, snaps, things like that. Whenever we can get that sort of stuff we definitely use it. All the shirts we’ve made to date have had vintage buttons on them.

So it seems like a lot of your inspiration comes from the early to mid 20th Century.

Yeah, definitely.

What about that era appeals to you the most?

It was definitely less label-driven. A lot of these things didn’t even have labels, or if they did have labels they were meant to be removed, or they would disintegrate with one wash – you know, paper labels, cheesecloth labels. It wasn’t really about the brand; it was more about the quality. Things were made a little more earnestly. Things were meant to last. The fabrics were pretty modest. It was pre-synthetics – it was cottons, wools, linens, and mixes like that.

Also the styling – sportswear didn’t really exist until probably post-World War II, at least what we think of as North American sportswear. And a lot of those pieces are military pieces. That whole American sportswear look came from soldiers returning home after the war. The chino is definitely a military issue item that they incorporated into their civilian wardrobe when they got back home.

You’ve got to remember that the majority of the male population during the Second World War was in uniform, so during war years they weren’t producing civilian clothes on the same scale. Suddenly you’ve got all these returning men who need clothes, so there were shortages. Levi’s were a much sought-after commodity – people were lining up to get them, whenever they were available they were selling out. People would write letters to Levi’s begging for pairs. It was hard to get stuff post-World War II. So, you know, it was the leather aviator jacket, the leather A2 jacket, white t-shirt, aviator glasses, service shoes…

It’s kind of like the Marlon Brando look.

Yeah, yeah – even in A Streetcar Named Desire, if you look at the clothes he’s wearing, he’s mixing those pieces. That’s the thing, too – I’ll watch a film like On the Waterfront and I’ll be picking out things like US Navy deck jackets or M-41 jackets.

Chambray shirts make up a large part of the store’s collection, and the fabric seems to have had resurgence lately…

Oh, yeah. It’s pretty trendy right now.

Yeah, it seems like it’s everywhere right now. What do you think gives the material its appeal?

Well, it’s a fabric that was used in work wear shirts and the US Navy. Their shirts, other than the wool shirts, were all chambray or plain-weave poplin which is another fabric we use – our heritage poplin. Those fabrics, those are pieces I collect, hence I reference them. But we’ve been doing it for four years, the chambray thing…

It’s really started taking off in the last little while. It’s crazy.

Same with chinos – we’ve been trying to push chinos for the longest time. I remember people making jokes about chinos, like, [puts on funny voice] “Eh, you can’t go anywhere in chinos!” And now everyone’s on the chino tip.

[Laughs] Is that kind of gratifying for you?

I dunno if it’s gratifying, but… [laughs]

I mean, I’ve been coming to this store for a while now, but it’s suddenly been popping up a lot on a bunch of blogs lately.

Yeah, it’s been getting a little bit of love on the Internet for sure. But then I don’t know if that’s one person mentioning it, and then everyone’s looking at that particular blog. I don’t know what started it. We’ve kind of being doing our own thing for awhile, and we’ve only had our website for less than a year, so it’s sort of organically mushrooming.

Yeah, definitely. So a lot of people lately have been talking about getting back to this vision of “traditional American style”. Do you think there’s a distinctive Canadian style that’s separate from that at all?

I think it definitely crosses over. I find Canadian pieces, I find American pieces. Definitely in the military, there’s a very distinct difference between American military pieces and Canadian. But there’s also some crossover – like the US Navy Marine Corps flight jacket, the G1. There’s a Canadian version of that that was issued to the Royal Canadian Navy for the fleet air arm – for pilots that flew off of aircraft carriers – so there is some crossover there. We have our own version of the deck jacket that’s really popular, so there are pieces. The Americanite jacket came from the British and Canadian battle dress.

So yeah, there are some similarities, but for the most part they are very distinct kind of things, so you can definitely see it. Or at least I can. [Laughs.] To most people a green army jacket is a green army jacket. And then for sportswear, yeah, there are definitely parallels.

Is having a Canadian identity important to the store at all?

I wouldn’t say it’s so much Canadian, I wouldn’t say that. To say that a flannel or check shirt is a Canadian thing, that’s definitely not true…

But I mean in terms of the importance of using Canadian fabrics and constructing pieces locally…

Yeah, well I want to keep things in North America. The industry here is waning, so it’s nice to be able to contribute to its longevity, because a lot of manufacturers have gone tits up since they dropped all the tariffs and quotas for importing from places like China and India. The floodgates sort of opened.

I’ve been in retail for a long time and I remember when there were certain things that we wanted to bring in from lines that we bring in because they didn’t meet the quotas for that particular country. It used to be they could only import a certain amount of stuff under each heading, like, Oven Mitts, Babies’ Clothes, Rain Jackets, Men’s Pants, Men’s Shirts…those sort of things. Each of those things had a limit and if it met those, then you weren’t getting them, which was usually the case.

That must’ve been really frustrating.

Yeah, kinda. When you see something that’s cool you’d go, “Oh, that’s cool! Oh, it’s made in Macau. Oh, alright, we can’t bring that in. So it was frustrating. But now it’s the opposite, I would rather have it back that way. As appealing as lower margins and higher profits are, I would rather make everything here in Canada and the United States, and buy from Canadian and American companies.

[Gestures to vintage pieces around him.] A lot of these clothes were very regional and local. Every small town or area would have its own woolen mills, its own boot maker, its own denim maker. If you lived in Pennsylvania, you wore these kinds of clothes because they were usually just made there. The west coast definitely had it’s own thing going on…

That’s what I was just reading about Levi’s, that they were only on the west coast for a long time.

Yeah, Lee was in a certain area, and Wrangler, and then all the other little guys that you see that have sort of gone on the wayside. Those are the big three that people still remember and are still around doing stuff, but every little town and every region would have their own manufacturer of everything – milliners that would make hats, and shoemakers, and all that.

Almost all of those things in Canada are gone. The United States is a little bit better. There are still companies, like woolen mills that are still making things. There are shoemakers like Alden, or Russell Moccasins, still a family-owned business, still making shit, or Dayton Boots in Canada, still doing their thing. But it used to be in abundance, now it’s not so much.

So I have to say, very few people would choose to move their storefront off a main street into a back alley. Obviously it’s given the store a measure of authenticity and character, but was it risky at all business-wise?

Oh yeah, for sure. There was a definite worry as to whether it was going to work or not, but there are other places in the world where very successful boutiques are more hidden away than this one. We’re not really that far off the beaten path. We’re maybe, what, 25 meters from Queen St.? Like a quarter of a block? It’s not very far, and it’s got access off of two streets. Our other shop, Delphic, is right on the northeast corner, so there are definitely referrals from there. The fact that we were already in business for three and a half years was helpful as well; we’d already established a customer base. But saying that, we’re still getting new people in – things like these bloggers saying kind things, or the article we got in The New York Times, and other local press have definitely helped to bring people in and increase our customer base. So yeah, it’s good – it’s growing, but not too fast.

It must be fun back here too, kind of like a clubhouse.

It is – it’s totally a clubhouse back here. The temperature’s a little bit cooler, the air is just a little bit fresher, not being right on Queen St. with all the cars…

[Laughs.] It sort of feeds right into that whole tree fort mentality.

Yeah, it’s definitely got that feeling. You look out in the back laneway and nature’s sort of growing out of every crack and out of every fence. I’ve had squirrels walk through here. A cat walks through here. I’ve had a couple pigeons. I’ve had a robin. There’s fucking spiders and bugs all over the place. We’ve got a wood-burning stove. There’s definitely a connection to the outdoors even though we’re right smack in the middle of the city.

We had a customer come through who was like, “Oh, it reminds of me Hawaii.” I hadn’t it really thought of it, and I sort of looked out, and it was a summer day, and it was a little humid, with that kind of jungle sort of feel with flowers growing out of the fences. I was kind of like “Wow, I’ve never been to Hawaii, but I can sort of see what you’re talking about…”

It probably feels the exact opposite in the dead of winter – it’d be more like a log cabin in here.

Well, we’ll see – we’ve only been here since April, so we’ll see what winter’s like. We’ll be doing a lot of shoveling I’m sure. [Laughs.]

How do you yourself see Toronto’s retail or fashion landscape?

It’s tough. I’ve been doing this since ’93. Our first store was Number Six, and that was definitely a groundbreaking shop. In ’93, style in Toronto was definitely kind of small and not very interesting. It was on some levels – there were definitely subcultures and things that were happening that were exciting, but they were really on a small scale. Access to information was a lot different then. The Internet wasn’t what it is now. Technology wasn’t the same. Real estate hadn’t boomed. Immigration hadn’t spiked like it has in the last little while. So I’ve been there from that time till now.

Our first store was 250 sq. feet, and it stocked a bunch of English and Streetwear lines that nobody had ever heard of. We were selling dead stock Adidas old school shell-toes; that whole thing hadn’t blown up yet, it was still very underground. We’d mix British Paul Smith suits with spray tips and graffiti mags and videos and mix-tapes. It was a real sort of eclectic mix of things that all seemed to sort of fit. All things that were relevant at the time, and kind of underground. The American Streetwear stuff was sort of rooted in the rave, hip-hop, skate culture, while the British stuff was more about Mod revivalism, but they mixed really well.

It’s funny, but it sort of seems like Toronto’s entire menswear market is centered on two Matts – you, and Matt George.

Yeah, we’ve both been doing it so long. I remember when Matt first started his running shoe business, and it was just online. He’d drive down to Chicago and fill his Volvo up and come back and hustle his Dunks out of the trunk of his car.

But that’s how it starts – you have a dream and a passion for something and make it happen. It’s interesting to see how it’s all changed. Even style-wise, all that stuff has changed. All those kids who were gagging for that steez of matching your printed graphic tees to your kicks, a lot of those guys have gone away from that…

…And veered in this direction, it seems like. [Laughs.]

[Laughs.] Yeah, yeah…oddly enough.

 Where do you find most of the vintage stuff in the store? Like even just the little knick-knacks in the counter?

Anywhere I can. I’m a real scrounger, so I’m always looking. Like I said, I’ve been doing it for a while. I was collecting long before the store was open, buying things for myself personally, buying things for the collection, buying things to reference for design. That’s kind of where it started, actually — from the years I’d been in the retail game, seeing pieces that I’d recognize from my previous life in the military, and growing up sort of around all this stuff, and military stuff always being in the mix of the different subcultures I’d been a part of.

So wait, you were in the military yourself at one point?

Yeah, I went to a military boarding school for three years and then I was in the reserves for a couple years after that. But also just growing up around my grandparents, and everybody from that generation –

That’s kind of where your interest in all this sort of stuff originated.

Yeah, and also just from The Rat Patrol and Hogan’s Heroes, and watching movies on TV and G.I. Joes, that type of thing.

What items would you personally label an essential – the things every man should own?

Depends on what you need in your wardrobe. I kind of believe in building a wardrobe. The way I dress is kind of based on back-story – when I put something on, it’s got a connection to something I’ve already got in my mind. It just makes me happy.

Yesterday, I was wearing some WWII US Navy herringbone twill pants. I just got them, didn’t have them in my collection, and they’re fucking badass. It’s just those little things, you know? I rock those with my WWII US Navy belt, a chambray shirt, a pair of vintage aviators, my US Navy BuShips watch, and I’m like Yeahhhhh! If things have a back-story to them and a feeling, it brings me pleasure.

It’s a different way of dressing – it’s definitely style. It’s not like, “Yeah, I’m wearing this because it’s this label or that.” Each of those things kind of has a feeling, and I think because they are vintage pieces they have a life of their own, just through the fact that they’ve been around for so long. They’re iconic pieces – you see them referenced here and there. They’re definitely not new ideas, but I think because they’re not new ideas there’s sort of a soul to them. There’s something about them that other contemporary pieces don’t hold for me, even if they’re referencing that period. So when I produce my clothes, I’m trying to inject that feeling into it – that feeling of having been there and done that.

So even when all those kids rocking chambray shirts and chinos right now are back to their neon Bapestas, you’ll still be doing what you’re doing.

I don’t know, who knows? I might be on to something else. To say that going forward is hard. Back when I was wearing Nike Wovens, a SSUR shirt, and a Supreme hat, I thought, “Oh yeah, this is the coolest shit in the world.” You know? I was wearing British DPM shorts at the time, too, though…

But there’s definitely an element of timelessness to the stuff in here.

Yeah, we’ve got pieces in here from the 1940s that are definitely still relevant. A 13-button navy pea coat will always be what it is, whether it’s the hottest or most desirable thing or not. There’s denim pieces in here that, in my collecting time, have gone from crazy prices to more affordable prices, and other things that used to be affordable have gone nuts. There are people out there who are walking parallel lines to me. Things we were once into, we’ve seen for a while or sort of moved away from and gone onto something else – but it might not be that far of a leap.

It used to be N-2Bs or N-3Bs – those coyote-furred, US Air Force short and long parkas – were the shit. And now, they’re not nearly as collectable. Things like the 507 Type-2 jackets used to sell for a lot more money, now things like change-button locomotive jackets are a lot more sought-after. Silk-embroidered tour jackets that people used to go nuts for aren’t quite as popular. This Edwardian, sort of 1910s, 1920s, 1930s stuff is really popular at the moment. It goes through changes. Canadian military and WWII stuff is really popular right now with military guys, especially here in Canada. It used to be like Canadian battle dress tunics – you wouldn’t even pick them up. And now, good ones will sell for 600 bucks.

What do you have in mind for the foreseeable future for the store?

Just keep doing what we’re doing. Just keep making things that interest me, or inspire me, and keep doing them honestly and as best I can. It’s that old saying: You aim for the sky, and you hit the streetlight; aim for the streetlight, and you hit the gutter. So I try and do the best that I can, and it usually turns out pretty good.

It might not be perfect, but that’s some of the charm of what we do – it’s not perfect. And a lot of the vintage stuff that you look at wasn’t perfect. I see check woolen or flannel shirts, and the checks don’t match. These days, you’d be like, “The checks don’t match?!”  [Laughs.] But they didn’t think about it. It was stuff for working in, and once in awhile you might get one that didn’t match. The pocket wouldn’t match, or the stitch was irregular.

You can see that in a lot of the lines that are trying to reproduce that – doing running stitching on purpose, or uneven, crooked stitching, trying to recreate that older construction style. I don’t do those things, but when referencing our stuff we definitely try to do it as authentically as possible. I could pull out a chambray shirt from 1940 and compare it to one of ours, and show you the same details, and similar construction techniques and notions and things like that. I try to get it as bang on as I can. They’re not reproductions, because they’re our own interpretations of them, but they’re pretty fucking close.

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