In 1976, a parking garage was torn down in Toronto (fig. 1). Unlike most parking facilities, however, this building was nearly a century old at the time of its demolition, predating the widespread use of motor cars or even the need for parking at all. Clearly this was a building with a storied past, but by the 1970s, few would have known it as anything but a garage.
Built in 1887, this large, polygonal brick building near the waterfront was once Toronto’s Cyclorama, a purpose-built structure intended for the display of panorama paintings. The building retained its original function for only six years of its existence: the last panorama was shown in 1893, and the building was left vacant until 1903, when it was transformed into a machinery exhibition hall, and then into a parking garage in 1928. The Cyclorama building was thus twice resurrected and adapted to serve a new function.
The short lifespan of the cyclorama speaks to the nature of quickly changing forms of visual-sensorial entertainment in the nineteenth century, but also to an interest in creating a spectacle within the urban fabric of a city. Strangely, but perhaps unsurprisingly given its changing uses over time, the Toronto Cyclorama has not been written about in any comprehensive manner.1 It is not mentioned within global studies of the panorama nor in any architectural histories. With this research, drawing on archival materials scattered across the City of Toronto Archives, the Toronto Public Library, and several historic newspapers, we start to piece together the beginnings of a comprehensive archive to tell the architectural history of the Toronto Cyclorama for the first time.
Although contemporary newspaper accounts and ephemera provide much of the context that we draw upon for the building and its use, it is important to note that scant visual material exists from the time that the Cyclorama operated as intended. To gain a fuller picture of the history of the site and to piece together the visual record, we had to turn to the subsequent lives of the building through to the 1970s. Architectural histories typically focus on original design and intent by calling on original drawings, contemporary accounts, statements by the architect, et cetera, often leaving the subsequent lives of a building overlooked. We argue, however, that they can equally provide valuable insight into a place, and in some instances, might in themselves be the best archival documents. This is the case of the Toronto Cyclorama—photographs and ephemera from later iterations of the building make up a substantial portion of the archival materials contributing to our understanding of the site and form the bulk of the visual record of the Cyclorama overall. That the building was made to last is a testament to the investment in panoramas across North America nearing the turn of the century and proved by its adaptive reuse over time. Moreover, in the case of cycloramas worldwide, if their reuse is discussed at all, it is simply to note the destruction or loss of the paintings. So, not only is this an interesting case study in adaptive reuse and expanded archival explorations generally, it also contributes to our understanding of cycloramas on a broader scale.
On a local scale, our interest in the Toronto Cyclorama is born out of a need to better understand Toronto’s heritage architecture over time. Architectural history and heritage practices in Toronto, as elsewhere, have typically focused on the biggest, best, most spectacular examples of architecture, stacked against a national or even global standard, and on buildings that retain their original function. Taken together, this neglects most types of buildings and relays only a small fraction of our shared history, impacting subsequent studies and heritage preservation.
Through an examination of the context, architecture and panoramas, we consider the legacy of the Toronto Cyclorama. With respect to architecture, this building reminds us that there is more at stake than the original lifespan of the buildings to better understand the phenomenon of cycloramas writ large. In this instance, the conversion and transformation of the rotunda, though now demolished, has left us with a rich visual record of a cultural history that would have otherwise been forgotten. In short, the Toronto Cyclorama demonstrates that there is often more than meets the eye, and that fascinating, important histories and lessons can emerge, even from a parking garage.
What is a cyclorama?
In North America and during the first half of the nineteenth century, the term “panorama” was typically associated with moving panoramas (where a static audience would be seated in an auditorium as a long roll-painting was moved before them) and not the circular panorama that had achieved great success in the United Kingdom and Europe. In the 1880s, however, there was a revival in interest in the latter. The circular panorama was rebranded the “cyclorama,” with many paintings now addressing topics of particular interest to a North American audience: namely scenes of recent warfare, such as the Battle of Gettysburg and Battle of Atlanta. The history of panoramas worldwide has been well documented, notably, and most recently, in Erkki Huhtamo’s Illusions in Motion: Media Archaeology of the Moving Panorama and Related Spectacles (2013), Katie Trumpener and Tim Barringer’s edited collection On the Viewing Platform: The Panorama between Canvas and Screen (2020), and Helen Kingstone’s Panoramas and Compilations in Nineteenth Century Britain: Seeing the Big Picture (2023).2
To display these massive paintings, large rotundas or what were called cyclorama buildings were erected. The term “cyclorama” often stood as a shorthand for the building type, as well as for the paintings held within. Centralized in plan, the building typology featured a raised platform in the centre, on which the viewers would stand to take in the continuous painting that lined the walls. The platform would be reached by a kind of enclosed tunnel from the exterior entrance. The scenes were lit from above, either by natural daylight—from which the viewers were shielded by draped fabric—or lit by electric lighting, especially at night.
“What is that strange looking building?”3
The Toronto Cyclorama was built in 1887 at a cost of $25,000 CAD. Designed by Thomas Kennedy (1849-1916) and William J. Holland (1848-1899), the building caused a stir with its massive size and peculiar appearance. Described as “a high octagonal structure with not a window in its walls,” (“The Amusement World” 3), the Cyclorama was articulated with classical details, like the pilasters framing each corner of the (actually sixteen-sided) polygon, the broad cornice of textured brick patterns below the massive dome topped by a lantern, and the large round-headed entrance arch framed by multiple, stacked orders (figs. 2a and 2b). The use of brick as the main construction material speaks to the intended permanence of this Cyclorama as compared to many of its temporary counterparts.