Dexter Hall, the largest of the august galleries at the New York Historical Society on 77th Street and Central Park West, is typically immune to the disturbances of the present and its 24-hour news cycle. But on Wednesday, the room was abuzz with anticipation, as the Society, led by historian Nick Yablon, prepared to open a bronze chest that had been sealed for a hundred years. Journalists and historians and amateur historians and all sorts of people in between gathered around to gaze on history, or at the very least, snap a good photo.
In May of 1914, a month before Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarajevo, members of the Lower Wall Street Business Men’s Association gathered, surrounded by patriotic pedants, and assembled a time capsule for the future. Many of them were dressed for the occasion in the wigs, hats and breeches of the American Revolution, and for the opening of the capsule had fixed on the date of May 22, 1974—the bicentennial of the drafting of the first declaration to call for “a virtuous and spirited union” of the British colonies, a document that would come to be seen as an antecedent to the call for all-out revolution.
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“Had George Washington’s statue on the steps of the Sub-Treasury come to life,” a witness reportedly said, “he would surely have thought that the old Revolutionary days had returned.”
On May 23, 1914, the Lower Wall Street Business Men’s Association marched before sealing their time capsule. Image: NY Historical Society
The plaque they erected at 91 Wall St.—at the site where that letter was drafted in 1774—was lost when the building was demolished. The capsule, entrusted to the Historical Society, was also forgotten about, until recently. (The letter itself had also been lost for a time, in the archives of the New York Public Library.)
Now, the capsule was finally being opened, beneath the watchful gaze of George and Martha Washington (which, painted by Rembrandt Peale in 1853, as the Civil War raged, were themselves historical fiction of a kind).
The first thing discovered in it was a letter from the 1914 mayor, Abraham Wakeman, to whomever would be governor of New York in 1974. “New York is prosperous now. May it be prosperous in 1974… may [the capsule] find the State tranquil.”
Reporters thronged the time capsule. Image: Alex Pasternack
“Not sure it was in 1974!” said Yablon. And indeed, we have the turmoil of the 1970s to thank for the time capsule going unopened for more than its allotted fifty years. It was uncatalogued and consigned to outside storage, at a warehouse in Chelsea. “The process of being forgotten has added another layer of fascination,” said Yablon, adding that “prematurely-opened time capsules lose their aura.”
He warned everyone that, “disappointment is the most common response to time capsules,” but the general sense of delight, his own and that of observers, was difficult to suppress.
“Is there any chance some anarchists might have snuck something in?” asked Kosmo Vinyl, a British artist best known for his association with The Clash. He had stopped by to join his friend Steven Messner, both of whom had been eagerly anticipating this event since reading about it earlier in the month.
Vinyl was referring to the anarchist bombing on Wall Street of 1920, when a horse-drawn buggy loaded with explosives blew up outside the offices of J.P. Morgan, killing 33 people.
“Not given its location,” Messner mused, noting that those chosen to choose the contents of the box were, “a VIP list.”
“Maybe if it was out by the airport,” Vinyl said.
Images by Alex Pasternack and Lucy Teitler
Beneath a mad media frenzy of cameras, out of the bronze chest came a quotidian selection from the life of a banker in 1914: The constitution and directory of the New York Stock Exchange, the 25 th annual report of the Board of Managers of the Coffee Exchange of the City of New York (among the purposes of the event, Dr. Yablon explained, was to boost the coffee and tea industry), the Daughters of the Cincinnati Yearbook, many similar financial documents, and business ephemera.
A headline from the day’s Times proclaimed in large letters about forgotten sensations: “Becker Again Found Guilty of Murder Again”… “DYNAMITE PLOT OF PANAMA.”
Yablon informed the crowd that Governor Wakeman thought that newspapers were the source of true history, and that historians were unreliable.
The most excitement surrounding a single object came from a well-preserved letter, of which the conservationist Alan Balicki, noted: “What’s remarkable is the condition of the paperclip…it’s not rusted. It looks brand new.”
The rubber bands were not so resilient. “This is what rubber bands turn into,” he said, pointing out some crumbling, dark twigs at the bottom of an envelope. “They become desiccated.”
A copy of “The World” almanac of 1914, and a poster of the 1774 letter the time capsule intended to commemorate. Image: Alex Pasternack
The second-most admired object was a colorful World Almanac. “Oh! That’s actually interesting,” said Balicki. “Look at those colors. That’s beautiful.”
When the Arbitration records of the Chamber of Commerce emerged, Yablon the historian and Balicki the conservationist spoke simultaneously: “What everyone’s been waiting for!” said Balicki. “I was looking for this!” said Yablon. “I warned you about disappointment,” he added.
And pretty much everyone with a stake in the bounty was disappointed, but not enough to puncture the good mood.
“I hoped Peter Stuyvesant’s wooden leg was inside,” said Gert Tetteroo, the Executive Director of the Henry Hudson 500 Foundation. “Or Henry Hudson’s ship logs.”
Images: Alex Pasternack
Those logs, the original of which have never been found, include the first sentence ever written about New York: ‘Then we anchored and saw that it was a very good harbor for all winds.’
“But I love what they put in it,” said Tetteroo. “It’s so everyday.”
The event also served as the celebration for a new time capsule, to be opened in 2114, that a group of teenaged Student Historians at the Society spent the summer putting together. “The new time capsule reflects popular culture and culture seen through the eyes of teenagers,” said Margi Hofer, curator of decorative arts, “instead of the captains of industry.”
Among the objects to be put inside, and assembled on a table on the other side of the room, were: an ATM card, an e-cigarette, headphones, a gay marriage tee-shirt (“Some Dudes Marry Dudes. Get Over It”), a bottle of Purrell, a poster for last month’s People’s Climate March, an Occupy Wall Street button, a Starbucks cup, and a holographic ticket to a Lady Gaga concert.
The ticket was chosen by Emilia Dabrowska, a senior at La Guardia High School. “Live concerts might be something rare [in 2114],” she said. “The idea of a tangible ticket might leave us in the next hundred years.”
It was also significant, she noted, because the concert was the last-ever show at Roseland Ballrom, a venue where people had been enjoying themselves for a long time, first when it was a roller rink, and then in its latest incarnation.
Items from the students’ time capsule. Image: NY Historical Society / Alex Pasternack
Lady Gaga herself also struck Dabrowska as a good emblem of present day New York. “Lady Gaga was born here. She was an ordinary girl who pushed herself and worked hard, exemplifying our New York values of working hard, making ourselves the best we can be.”
On a personal note: “It was a great moment for me… I’m not usually sentimental about objects, but this was special to me.”
Emilia Dabrowska, a high school senior, with her contribution: a holographic Lady Gaga ticket. Image: Lucy Teitler
Was it hard to give it up?
“I felt like a little part of me was being torn away, but my sister has one. I still have my sister’s and I have my memories.”
Charles Barton, a Student Historian from Regis High School said, “[The 1914 time capsule] was made by old, white bankers on Wall Street. We’re trying to focus more on the people.”
Another student cautioned reading too much progress into the narrative. What might the student historians of the future put into their time capsules? “We went from business files to e-cigarettes,” he chimed in. “Where are we going after e-cigarettes?”
Margaret Borozon, 16, a student historian concerned with the ways in which historians often misinterpret their own times, said that the blurbs that the students provided about their choices was crucial to their communication with future historians. “By asserting the historic meaning to us, it gives [the objects] greater historic value.”
And this moment was, she and her classmates emphasized, a chaotic, historic time.
Issac Troncoso, 17, pointed to Eastern Europe, Ebola, ISIS—”but it’s not as if the Middle East hasn’t been chaotic for, like, thirty years.”
“With everything going on right now, this moment is definitely momentous,” said Charles. “I know that’s redundant.”
Issac Troncoso, Margaret Borozon, and Charles Barton with their time capsule contents. Image: Alex Pasternack
Asked what they wanted to do when they grew up, the teens expressed an interest in diplomacy, history, and art.
“And I want to live long enough to see this opened,” said Charles.
“Me too, so much,” said Margaret.
Was that a prediction? Charles thought about it for a moment. “I meant it ironically, but it’s not that unfeasible of an idea. It wouldn’t shock me at all. Google is working on a project to prevent death.”
Is preventing death a good idea, from their perspective as burgeoning historians?
“I think that’s too deep for a sixteen year-old,” said Charles.
“If we live forever, what’s the value of history?” said Isaac. “Personally I think it’s good that generations get swept away. They’re biased about their own time. They can’t evaluate it.”
“The fleeting nature of it is what makes history special,” Charles added.
“What if they’re bored?” said Margaret. “What if we’re not interesting to them, just like how this was a little boring? …Maybe I don’t want to be there to see that.”
