Across Northwestern Ontario—and in so many other parts of Canada—the old scaffolding is giving out. The factory’s gone, the mall (if you ever had one) is a ghost, and the storefronts are mostly “For Lease” signs fading in the sun.
People are still here, though.
There’s this persistent myth: that when a place loses its industries and people, it dies. But what actually happens is slower, quieter. The town doesn’t empty out all at once—it frays. The theatre group can’t make rent. The community paper stops printing. The youth art program folds when the grant doesn’t come through. The band hall gets turned into storage.
And still—people create. Not out of luxury, but because silence isn’t sustainable. A friend starts recording music in their basement. A cousin teaches beading in someone’s kitchen. An elder tells stories on TikTok because no one else is archiving them.
But even that’s getting harder. Because the social terrain has changed. Now everything is flattened through an algorithm. Your worth is measured by engagement, not impact. And in place of community, we’re offered an endless scroll of strangers performing as “main characters.”
Everyone’s broadcasting, but few are listening.
In towns where real connection used to be built through potlucks, workshops, open mic nights, zine fairs—now it’s harder to get people to show up. Not because they don’t care, but because so many are burnt out, isolated, or quietly ashamed that they’re not “doing better” in a world that celebrates aesthetic over substance.
The decline of local and regional arts and community groups isn’t just about funding cuts. It’s about the erosion of shared meaning. The devaluation of the slow, collaborative, imperfect work that holds a place together. The kind of work that doesn’t go viral but keeps people alive.
Creative work in these places isn’t content. It’s care. It’s memory. It’s resistance. And when it disappears, something in the social fabric tears.
But here’s the thing: we still need each other. Maybe now more than ever. And maybe it starts with just a few people deciding not to perform, but to build. Not to compete for attention, but to reconnect for real.
Start small. Host a potluck. Make a zine. Teach a skill. Revive the group, even if it’s only three people in a room. Show up even when you’re tired. That’s how community regrows—not with algorithm-driven followers, but with trust.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real.