Potted palm trees. A white hallway decorated with cerulean and cinnamon tiles. The scent of freshly baked buns. The subtle smell of Pine-Sol. The Walmart sign shines as a light at the end of the tunnel of vacant units.
Scarborough’s Agincourt Mall looks like a time capsule from the 1990s — a reminder of the zeitgeist of an era of Beavis and Butt-head and AOL chat rooms. Everything seemed to be in place and yet, everything has changed.
This slowly dying mall, with shuttered-off stores and vacant hallways, is a relic barely hanging onto a time when physical spaces were the only option for social interaction. Yet, this is only a microcosm of the broader decline of third spaces in our culture today. Looking into the phenomenon of vanishing third spaces can help us understand Agincourt Mall’s decline, the subsequent loss of connection among youth, and what it means to navigate transitions in a world becoming increasingly devoid of physical spaces for connection and belonging.
Liminal space
The subreddit r/LiminalSpace, currently with 889,000 members, shares an appreciation for liminal spaces. The word ‘liminal’ describes something that is at a “threshold” or in an “intermediate state”. A space that is liminal, therefore, is a place where everything within that space is suspended in an in-between status. The subreddit defines a liminal space as, “the time between the ‘what was’ and the ‘next.’ It is a place of transition, waiting, and not knowing. Liminal space is where all transformation takes place, if we learn to wait and let it form us.”
Liminal spaces are often represented in media through imagery: photos capturing eerie spaces which are abandoned or seemingly deserted, with playgrounds, houses, and swimming pools being popular sites within the aesthetic. It’s clear that the appeal of this aesthetic has almost become a subculture of its own.
Growing up in the early 2000s was the closest I’ve been to seeing this mall in its prime. The mall’s existence signalled to me, at least subliminally, that we were in an economically, socially, and culturally stable era. It was an unspoken anchor in suburban life, an unspoken acknowledgment that people could congregate, wander into a store, and buy something there because they could.
Although I didn’t frequent the mom-and-pop stores inside the mall regularly, I knew of the little comic book store, the flower shop, and the classic mall Santa that came by every December to take photos with kids. But since all of those things have left, nothing has taken their place.
Watching it all come to a halt in real time gives me a twinge of remorse for what the mall used to represent. Agincourt Mall and I seem to have left our childhoods behind at the same time. In my case, university graduation is encroaching, and being a senior in university is kind of like being in a liminal space in a sense: between the end of adolescence and the working world. I feel for the mall in the sense that we’re both in the same seemingly endless hallway reaching towards ‘tomorrow’ — both in the same waiting room for different things. This mall also seems like it’s either ready to shed its own adolescent identity or to be put out of its misery. Either way, it’s in the space between what it was and what it will be.
The loss of the third space
The idea of third spaces — a term coined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg — refers to places of congregation outside the home, such as bars, coffee shops, and malls. In his book, The Great Good Place, Oldenburg describes three distinct spaces through which society operates: the first being the home, followed by the workplace, and the third spaces that are “inclusively sociable, offering both the basis of community and the celebration of it.”
When I visited the mall, it was the Saturday before last year’s Thanksgiving. I could see echoes of what the shared space used to be. The biggest unit left empty used to be a cafe. A rainbow-coloured mural of fruit and people that was painted on the wall is left as a reminder of when this mall still held community events. Now, the mural is roped off from the public and has been for the last decade.
When it comes to third spaces like malls, Oldenberg explains the loss decline of third spaces by likening the home and workplace to “shuttle back and forth between the ‘womb’ and the ‘rat race’” in which “a two-stop model of daily routine is becoming fixed in our habits as the urban environment affords less opportunity for public relaxation.”
This two-stop model refers to the daily routines of people being limited to two main locations: home and work. The model is becoming a regular part of people’s habits because there are fewer public spaces available in urban environments to gather in. Although this phenomenon is nothing new, this doesn’t make the sight of the abandoned mall any less eerie.
What killed the mall?
The COVID-19 pandemic no doubt played a factor in the death of Agincourt Mall, but it doesn’t tell the full story of the mall’s decline. Like in Agatha Christie’s Murder On the Orient Express, there is no one culprit.
For one thing, with the rise of online shopping, malls across the nation have faced stiff competition with the ease of clicking a button at home. There are still some consumers who want to go to physical stores, as the interaction that can be had with the products is a factor that can’t yet be replicated by technology. But, the reality is that even before the pandemic, mall visitors were down 22 per cent in 2019 compared to 2018, according to research from Deloitte Canada. As such, the influx of online retailers and e-commerce alone was enough to decrease the number of mall patrons and the need for the physical space of a mall.
The internet plays a major role in understanding how the loss of third spaces and the rise of technology are intertwined. In “Landscapes of Leisure”, Joan Abbott-Chapman and Margaret Robertson write that, “The internet may also provide a ‘virtual’ third place,” which begs the question as to whether the loss of third spaces can be somewhat mitigated by the online world.
According to Abbot-Chapman and Robertson, this shift in culture boils down to “globalization, consumerism, commodification and the rapid social, economic and technological changes” that advanced too fast for mall culture to catch up to. What compounds the gradual transference of the physical to the virtual communities over the tangible is loneliness — especially among university students. A 2021 study from Current Psychology found that heavy online usage and loneliness create a feedback loop, where each reinforces the other.
The paradox of young adults feeling isolated despite being virtually connected to more people than ever due to social media inadvertently reaffirms the need for the physical third space to remain commonly available.
The redevelopment plan
With an official plan in the works since 2017, Toronto’s City Planning Division intends for Agincourt Mall’s decline to pave the way for a larger community. Its demise allows for “building heights and densities, affordable housing, parks and open spaces, streets and blocks, improvements to existing transportation systems, servicing infrastructure[,] and community services and facilities.”
I talked to a few of the mall’s remaining small business owners, but none were particularly eager to share their thoughts on the redevelopment — and I can’t say I blame them. There was a general sense of keeping one’s head down and continuing to work. It was business as usual, even as surrounding stores disappeared. The silence only seemed to grow louder whenever I tried to address it. But anyone could tell — it was only a matter of time.
A niche attraction
Agincourt Mall was featured in a YouTube video by a channel called “tshod.” The title was a blunt truth: “Exploring Toronto’s Failing Malls,” posted the same year I visited. The camera captured what I saw — shuttered stores, a mix of struggling franchises, and mom-and-pop shops barely hanging on. Agincourt Mall appears second to last on the YouTuber’s list, alongside other high-profile malls like Woodbine Mall, Fantasy Fair, and Cumberland Terrace all face a similar decline. Interestingly, the video’s commentary is minimal, perhaps allowing the mall to speak for itself through its silence.
And yet, the niche and growing interest in dead malls has evolved into a subculture of liminal spaces. Instagram accounts like @deadmallscroll and @deadmallwalking romanticize the post-mall era, where the allure of abandoned malls, intertwined with the vaporwave aesthetic, creates its own subculture: an antithesis to late-stage capitalism. As an art style, vaporwave is associated with early internet imagery, glitch art, corporate logos, beaches, and cyberpunk visuals. This could explain why vaporwave’s emergence in pop culture resonates with young adults, fostering a broader appreciation for liminal space and dead malls.
The beauty of the dead mall lies in the very fact that it has left behind a relic of the past. Much of its mass appeal stems from the contradictions it represents. University of Queensland PhD candidate Maria-Gemma Brown captured this perfectly when she described the allure of the dead mall subculture as “A tension between nostalgic longing and critique, a tension between history-feeling and future-feeling, and finally a tension between dreaming and awakening.”
To me, dead malls are fascinating because they’re ‘real’ — a living artifact of something that once held significance. Brown refers to dead malls as “petrified utopias,” adding, “Videos and images of dead malls contain ghostly whispers from past consumer cultures — spectral traces of long-lost dream worlds.” In many ways, the dead mall becomes a paradox; it begins as a temple of consumerism, only to transform into its own antithesis.
Final signs of life
To say the mall is completely dead might not be entirely accurate. During my visit, I saw two older friends sitting on a bench, with an entire wing of the mall to themselves. They spoke so quietly their voices seemed to blend into the silence. Perhaps, for them, the mall’s slow pace was just right. Even as the hallways remained suspended in silence, they stayed, sitting with it.
At the opposite wing of the mall was the lottery kiosk, its sign flashing in red LED lights. I joined a cluster of middle-aged men clutching grocery bags as they stood in line to buy tickets. It was the largest crowd I’d seen all day, huddled around the mall’s smallest corner. The cashier kept her head down, only glancing up to scan the tickets as they were handed to her. We all watched the winnings unfold. The only sounds were murmured voices and the lotto machine blurting out, ‘Winner! Gagnant!’
That little place in the mall continued to sell dreams. There is a deep irony in this scenario, where Brown’s words ring true once again: “In a time of cancelled futures, we should embrace this haunting. To remember how to dream collectively is to begin loosening capitalism’s grip over reality.” Could it be that, amid the decay of what mall culture once represented, something refreshingly real has emerged?
As I sat across from the lottery kiosk, just observing, a toddler climbed onto a nearby bench as if it were a jungle gym. Her lone laughter filled the empty hallways. This place might as well have been Disneyland: after all, there was plenty of room for her antics, and no one cared to stop her. She jumped down from the bench and ran to her mother, making a point to avoid stepping on any of the lines in the ground. I used to do the same thing. Only, when I was a kid, there was a plastic carousel and a claw machine filled with candy.
I don’t remember the exact moment those attractions disappeared. While the same could have been said 10 years ago and wouldn’t have been entirely wrong this time, the mall ‘really’ was at the end of its rope.
After people-watching for hours, it was the toddler and the elderly who seemed most at ease spending time there. Although I’m not sure if age was the primary factor, I suspect it had more to do with people who are comfortable with silence — who can ‘befriend’ the liminal space, where the mall’s loneliness becomes a companion.
Farewell to an era
At five o’clock, most stores called it a day — and the mall had an hour until closing. After giving the mall one last once-over, I decided to head toward the same doors I had come in through. Down the empty stretch of shuttered stores — all but one. The hair salon remained open with its last customers. The afternoon sun warmed the vacant hallway, spilling over the potted palm trees and seeping into the abandoned stores. The only sound was the hum of an electric razor. I felt as though I was witnessing not only the mall but an entire era taking its last breaths.
And yet, even as the remnants of its past were all but dead, the mall wasn’t ready to let go of the husks of stores that remained. It held onto glimmers of its own childlike idealism, clinging to a future that promised to be different. Like a university student putting aside their youthful eccentricities in favour of becoming a productive member of society. Instinctively, I left the electronic brick in my pocket untouched — the one that connects the world, making meeting places virtual and leaving physical spaces forever changed.
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