By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
Here's my tortured premise.
Just after 11:59 p.m. December 31, 1999, the Y2K disaster occurs, all right, but not exactly as foreseen. Instead of moving into the year 2000, not only do our computers roll back to 1900, but so does our computer-driven society. And so do we.
At first glance, this wouldn't change much for me. I could still walk one block from my office, a pre-1900 building in lower downtown, to the circa 1893 Oxford Hotel, have a drink and consider the implications. In fact, I think I'll practice that right now.
A few restorative toddies later, I call the Colorado Historical Society. (The phone was invented by 1900, although back then the Oxford didn't have pay phones outside the men's bathroom with the giant urinals where Bat Masterson once relieved himself.) Over at the briefly historical society--Colorado had been a state for only 24 years in 1900--at least one employee thinks my Y19C fantasy sounds like the promised land.
"Machines would be much more simple and beautiful," says Eric Paddock, curator of historic photographs. "When you went shopping, your change would be whizzed along the ceiling in a cool little basket."
He's got a point. Modern times, thanks to Martha Stewart and her cartel, are lousy with little baskets, but the baskets never seem to be working for a living, and I can't tell you the last time I saw one whizzing along the ceiling. And Paddock is right about machines, too. I feel like crying whenever I open the hood of a car built in the last 25 years. Who but Mr. Goodwrench knows what all that computerized crap is or what crucial part of the machine it runs? By contrast, what could be more beautiful than a big cast-iron gear, or a leather fan belt, or a machine through whose elegantly simple moving parts you can see the sky?
On my way down to the historical society, I decide that 1900 will suit me just fine. I'll have to make a few changes, but they'll all be improvements. For instance, I could continue to take vigorous exercise through the auspices of the Denver Parks Department, but I would wear the "bloomer costume" instead of obscene Lycra separates.
Further along on my way to the historical society, I reconsider. Everyone I know has a green-phlegm cold, treatable with antibiotics. In 1900, green phlegm could kill you.
I'm allowed to choose which collection of photographs I'd like to see first: assorted views of Denver, 1900, or something called the Lillybridge File. The work of Charles S. Lillybridge, Paddock says, is a familiar mystery around the historical society's library. Little is known about this photographer, who operated a studio in Denver on and off between 1893 and 1925. A collection of his work was donated to the society by one John Werness long before Paddock's day, and for a long time, it was known simply as the Werness Collection.
From tantalizingly few clues, an intern discovered that the artist was actually Lillybridge, who had died in the Colorado State Hospital in 1935. She became so intrigued that she tracked down a Lillybridge descendant in Texas and traveled there to discuss the collection. The few notes that appear on the back of some photographs--identifying one or two people, as well as one dog--come from that interview.
The society's official description of the collection points to its importance in chronicling a time when Denver "shifted from agriculture to heavy industry." Sounds dry. Isn't.
Ten pages into the first box of maybe 200 8-x-10 prints, I am through speculating about what life might have been like in 1900, because I am looking right into it, through a window that is admittedly small but extremely specific.
There is a picture of Lillybridge's studio in 1900, a run-down shack on the banks of the South Platte River, perhaps twenty feet from Alameda Avenue. Lillybridge is 53. He is a short, slight man with a tightly curled white mustache. His son--either Allen or the other one, whose name has been forgotten--is taller and beefier. Both men pose next to suitcases amid drifts of snow. Are they going somewhere?
One of them is. In 1901 Lillybridge photographs a funeral procession for one of his sons--Allen or the other one. There are two black horses, matched, and the hearse driver wears a top hat and carries a long black whip.
Is Lillybridge destroyed by this, relieved, or something in between? Is it any of my business? What can you tell, anyway, from looking at a face?
That is a question Lillybridge himself could have answered definitively. In the years between 1893 and 1925--but mostly between 1893 and 1909--he seems to have stepped out of his studio onto the dirt path that ran beside the South Platte thousands of times, and each time, he took a photograph.
His subjects look surprised, and not always happily so. Where the hell did that little old man come from? they seem to be asking, or Hey--YOU looking at ME? Some of them--the young couples out for a walk in a place more private than a parlor--seem ill at ease. Some of the women appear tortured in thought, or at least preoccupied. Some of the men--the ones with the beer bottles and the missing teeth--seem out to have a good time in the weeds, where they can't be located by, say, a prying wife. In Lillybridge photographs, life looks interesting but not easy--and in no way antique.