Spotlight on Preservation Week: Emergency Preparedness in a New Era

Every year museums, libraries and archives around the country participate in Preservation Week to highlight preservation issues at both an institutional as well as a personal level. The New York City Municipal Archives is committed to the long-term preservation of all materials in its care. The Conservation Unit is responsible for the systematic planning and execution of preservation, rehousing, and conservation treatments of the holdings. Current projects include complex treatments on oversize architectural plans of the Brooklyn Bridge and Central Park, two of the most visually appealing collections in the Archives.

On this tenth anniversary of Preservation Week, the Municipal Archives is boosting its emergency preparedness plans. Having an up-to-date emergency plan has become increasingly vital in the era of climate change, and even more so now, amid a new type of emergency for most of us – a global pandemic.

With the Archives staff now teleworking, the normally very hands-on work of the Preservation Unit has shifted to what can be accomplished remotely. Conservators are diligently updating protocols, making plans for future projects, creating guides for future conservation interns, engaging in research and professional development, as well as supporting projects in other parts of the agency. Being removed from the Archives’ physical locations in Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, however, has brought collections security and continuity of operations to the forefront.

Like most large collecting institutions, the Archives has taken steps to prepare for water incursions, fire, and other typical disaster scenarios, but social distancing has never been in the equation. COVID-19 has changed the landscape in dramatic ways.

As a result, the Archives has taken some immediate steps to ensure collections are safe, such as scheduling regular walkthroughs of storage areas, checking to make sure freezers containing collection materials continue to run properly, and monitoring environmental conditions. This is also an appropriate time to reevaluate the broader emergency plan and to think creatively about future staff training and other ways to enhance preparedness.

Municipal Archives staff assisted the Museum of Chinese in America with collections recovery following a fire in their storage space in January 2020. NYC Municipal Archives.

Current COVID-19 research indicates the virus lives on surfaces for a maximum of a few days. Thus, fears of returning to contaminated books and documents requiring disinfection are largely unfounded. Simply leaving items alone for three days would render them safe. The more pressing concern remains person-to-person transmission and high-touch surfaces that need regular disinfection.

Despite this bit of good news regarding collection material, the COVID-19 situation raises other questions.  How to maintain social distancing practices once staff return to work, while continuing to provide access to the collections? How does the typical use of personal protective equipment (PPE) change during this time of supply shortages? How to maintain preparedness, when budgets are reduced? Responses to these questions will evolve as more information becomes available.

A facilities engineer addresses a water leak in one of the Archives’ storage rooms. NYC Municipal Archives.

Our archivists and librarians are planning how to safely reopen and restore services when the time comes. Protocols will be put in place for handling collections after patron use, and stricter enforcement of hand washing or hand-sanitizing may be necessary.  While planning is still in the early stages, undoubtedly greater effort will be required to support communication and keep projects on track.

We are also reviewing collection processing protocols.  Archivists who rely on PPE when working with moldy or dusty collection materials, may not have immediate access to these items on return. The Department rightly donated its extra stock of disposable N95 masks to support healthcare workers during the pandemic.  The Municipal Archives may consider using non-disposable PPE where possible, but of course, this requires an upfront investment and additional maintenance. Respirator masks should also be fit-tested for each user to ensure that they provide adequate protection. In the long run, however, these moves may ultimately prove more cost effective as well as environmentally sustainable.

Boosting preparedness in times of economic uncertainty is no easy task; however, there are a number of steps we can take, such as adding pandemic and social distancing protocols to our existing plans and conducting staff training exercises once back at work among them. A number of state and local grants are available to help organizations develop emergency plans. New resources are also  available, such as the NEH’s recently announced CARES grants for cultural organizations.

A water-damaged ledger shows severe mold growth following a water leak. NYC Municipal Archives.

We must not to lose sight of the importance of future preparedness. Science and recent history have shown that disasters are an ever-increasing threat, particularly as the planet continues to warm. While budgets are strained in mitigating the effects of climate change and super viruses, protectors of cultural heritage must continue to think creatively in order to safeguard our history.

The Smelly History of Barren Island, a Piece of the Lost New York

Many pieces of New York have been lost over the years – from the days before European settlers arrived through the more recent places we loved, the restaurants we knew and even the sports teams we lost to California, New Jersey and elsewhere. One of the lesser-known losses – as infamous and smelly as it was – is Barren Island, which was located on the southeast shore of Brooklyn, on the way to the beach at Jacob Riis Park. Some of its history can be found in the Municipal Archives – largely in late 19th century state and local Health Department investigations – and in the digital collection of images from the early 20th century.  

Houses built on stilts over swamp land, Barren Island, Brooklyn, 1937. Photographer: Edwards. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Historical records indicate that the Canarsee Native American tribe used what became known as Barren Island as a fishing outpost in the early 17th century and later “signed over” much of it to Dutch settlers. Largely unoccupied for many years, by the mid-19th century it had become a vast dumping ground where tons of waste and dead animals like horses, cattle, dogs, cats, rats and many other species from Brooklyn, Manhattan and The Bronx were rendered in several large factories on the island.The grease extracted from the waste yielded more than $10 million in profits annually.  

Street scene, Barren Island, Brooklyn, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The residents, an ethnically diverse mix of blacks and poor European immigrants from Italy, Ireland and Poland, mostly worked in the factories and rendering plants, or service industries like grocery stores and bars. There also was a school, PS 120, and a church.  

Catholic Church, Barren Island, Brooklyn, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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A street in Barren Island, Brooklyn, Long Island, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The Island inhabitants apparently became accustomed to the odors and noxious fumes from the island’s incinerators, but people living in the rest of Brooklyn complained long and loud about the stench. Finally, in October 1890, Governor David Hill responded to complaints about the “nuisance” on Barren Island “which affected the security of life and health” throughout Brooklyn by ordering a State Health Department investigation. The report from that investigation, contained in the archives, noted that a rendering plant operated by Peter White’s Sons received the carcasses of all dead animals collected on the city’s streets. “On an average there are over two thousand hogs kept on the premises… and the dead animals are dismembered and boiled and oils extracted therefrom,” the report said, noting that the odors were carried along to Rockaway Beach and other neighborhoods, “rendering those inhabitants sick and destroying the comfort and enjoyment of their homes.” The report also noted that a fertilizer plant on the island received “large quantities of fish,” which were allowed to accumulate on loading docks. “The smells from those fish factories are so powerful that it is impossible to keep the doors or windows of dwelling houses open when the wind blows from the direction of Rockaway, and many persons have been made sick…” The report recommended that the factories take measures to contain the odors and that state health inspectors make regular visits.

P.S. 120, Barren Island, Brooklyn, ca. 1905. Lantern slide. Board of Education Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The results were mixed at best. An 1896 report from the Brooklyn Department of Health – Brooklyn did not become part of New York City until 1898 – found that nuisances were still rife on the island five years after the state report. “This bureau, together with the sanitation bureau and the inspector of offensive trades has kept a close watch of the manufactories situated on Barren Island,” but noted that as long as rendering and fertilizer companies exist, there will be noxious odors and complaints. A subsequent inspection “found at the rendering plant dock three garbage scows, two of them being full and the other about half full… the plant is running night and day.” An inspection report for January 1896 found the carcasses of 21 dogs, 17 cats, 35 rats, along with numerous dead cattle, sheep and horses, which led to the naming of the nearby Dead Horse Bay. The City stopped dumping its garbage there in 1919. Complaints worsened in the early 20th century and the island’s population dwindled from a high of about 1,500 to several dozen by 1936, when City Parks Commissioner Robert Moses ordered the eviction of all residents as part of his plan to expand Marine Park. Before that happened, many of the buildings were abandoned and crumbling, as can be seen in 1930s-era photographs in the Archives.

Abandoned rendering factory, Barren Island, Brooklyn, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives..

The island eventually vanished as the city used landfill and tons of sand to connect it to the rest of Brooklyn. It later become the home of Floyd Bennet Field and eventually part of Gateway National Park area. Now, it is gone and largely forgotten – yet another piece of the lost New York.

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Municipal Airport Floyd Bennett Field (remains of incinerator on Barren Island), July 27, 1934. Department of Bridges, Plant & Structures Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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Demolition of 227 ft. reinforced concrete chimney at Floyd Bennett Airport on March 20th, 1937. NYC Municipal Archives Collection.

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Floyd Bennett Field - aerial, May 7, 1970. Department of Marine and Aviation Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

In the Details

In the summer of 2018, I began work at the Municipal Archives as the lead archivist on the Manhattan Building Plans Project, a much-anticipated, years-long undertaking to process and rehouse more than 100,000 architectural drawings that had been filed with the Department of Buildings between 1866-1977. The drawings had been transferred to the Archives from the Department of Buildings in the aftermath of a less-than-successful microfilming project in the late 1970s. The microfilming vendor, believing the original material was going to be disposed of, haphazardly and messily re-wrapped the plans in acidic paper. They tightly tied each “bundle” with damaging twine and labelled with minimal, and often insufficient, identification.

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Pre-processing storage conditions of the Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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Post-processing (hooray!) storage conditions of the Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

My colleagues and I are processing and rehousing the plans to reestablish intellectual control over the material and to create more optimal retrieval and storage conditions. To do so, we un-roll the dusty bundles, identify the plans, sort, flatten, repair if damaged, count and catalog, carefully and neatly re-roll onto acid-free tubes, wrap with protective Mylar, and store in acid-free boxes.

We are organizing the plans according to BBL, or borough, block, and lot number, so that all the plans for all the buildings or structures built on a particular city lot, and all the changes and alterations made to an already existing building on that lot, are stored together. When sorting the plans, we verify the block and lot information and record it, as well as addresses, quantity of plans, dates, notes on architects, important features, and condition concerns. To date, we have processed and rehoused over 22,000 plans for buildings in lower Manhattan. They comprise all manner of architectural drawings—sections, elevations, floor plans, and details—as well as engineering and structural diagrams for every conceivable type of building—industrial, manufacturing, retail, financial, and residential. From stables to skyscrapers and everything in between.

Among the plans are obvious showstoppers, beautifully rendered elevations of well-known buildings splashed with color and architectural detail--what people think of when they think of historic New York City architecture. But most building plans are not that, and the vast majority of the tens of thousands of plans that we have viewed are far humbler and more mundane. They show alterations, fireproofing, elevator and boiler installations, signage, electrical work, and plumbing, plumbing and more plumbing. And they reveal a lot about the true nature of the building, the people who made and used it, and the city itself.

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Wooden elevator shaft with dovetail detail, 129 Mercer Street, 1896. H.G. Knapp, architect. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

When you look through 22,411 plans of the details of New York City, day in, day out, what catches your jaded eye? What are the small things that delight or confound you and make you stop for a moment and show your colleagues or take a photo with your phone to refer to later or simply to show a friend? For me these stop-and-look-closer moments seem to fall into three different categories:

1.   The “Awww! Pretty!” Plans

Finding beauty in unexpected places has been one of the highlights of the project. To see the intricate parts of a building drawn in two dimensions provides a new perspective that gives you the ability to appreciate the complexity and precision of something as ubiquitous as a foundation or a column or a plumbing fixture in a brand-new way.

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Surprisingly delicate rendering of a foundation pier for the Bowling Green Building, 11 Broadway, 1895. W. & G. Audsley, architects. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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Complex column details from an 18-story loft building, 460 West 34th Street, 1927. Parker & Shaffer, engineers and industrial architects. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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Two images showing the artistry of plumbing fixtures from two very different buildings. On the left is the plan for the barber shop basins at the former New York Life Insurance Building, 346 Broadway, 1895, McKim, Mead & White, architects.

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And on the right a plumbing detail from the plans for the “City Prison” [aka the Manhattan House of Detention], 100 Centre Street, 1937, Harvey W. Corbett & Charles B. Meyers, architects. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

2.   The “Wait, what?” Plans

We process so many plans that you can’t take too much time perusing every drawing. But when a confounding phrase or image is spotted, you can’t help but look a little closer and do a bit of research. You can’t just let the Coloramas, movie theater train cars, and doughnut computers of the world pass you by.

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Colorama display detail from a plan entitled “Colorama Room Plans and Traverse Sections, New Bank Entrance,” The Bank for Savings, 280 Fourth Avenue [now 280 Park Avenue South], 1953. Alfred Hopkins and Associates, architect. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives. Coloramas were spectacular 18-foot by 60-foot color transparencies created by Eastman Kodak and displayed on the east balcony in Grand Central Terminal from 1950-1990. Only 565 were ever made and a few were later cut down in size and displayed elsewhere, which seems to be the case here. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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Plan for alterations to theater interior, 46 East 14th Street, 1906. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives. In the early 1900s the area around 14th Street had many nickelodeons and theaters competing for business. The Brady-Grossman Company featured Hale’s Tours, where patrons sat in simulated Pullman cars and watched films of picturesque railroad routes as if they were travelling. The “tours” became more and more sophisticated, with panoramas, sound effects, and a rocking motion making it feel like the “train” was moving; this seems to be an early version of the attraction.

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Plan entitled “Additional Steel Support of IBM Units” for the Doughnut Corp. of America, 45 West 36th Street, 1954. J. Gordon Carr, architect. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives. The Doughnut Corporation of America was founded in 1920 primarily to sell doughnut-making machines to bakeries. They later expanded to manufacturing doughnut mixes for home use as well as running a chain of coffee shops. They also founded the National Dunking Association in 1931 to encourage doughnut-eating. So it is really not too surprising that such innovators were also early adopters of the most modern (but heavy) technology.

3.   The “That’s so cool!” Plans

There are some things that are just too fun not to pay attention to. Whether it’s a hand-drawn detail that shows a draftsman taking artistic liberties or a floor plan that proves New York City building façades could contain any and all sorts of interesting enterprises.

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A charming drawing for Bear & Son clothing store near Union Square, 50 East 14th Street, date unknown. Note that the draftsman went to the trouble to write in “Bear’s Head” and “Cub’s Head” at the top. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

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Floorplan for the Julian Billiard Academy, 138 East 14th Street, circa 1933. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives. This second-floor pool hall was owned by the same family for over 50 years and its closing in 1991 was felt by many New Yorkers to be a real blow for “old New York.”

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Longitudinal section drawing for Ogden & Wallace Iron Warehouse, 583 Greenwich Street, 1893. John A. Hamilton, architect. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives. Though many architectural drawings depict both exterior and interior elements, this is the only one we’ve seen with such a cozy (lit!) fireplace.

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Alteration plan for Electric Lady Studios, 52-54 West 8th Street, 1969. Storyk Design, architect. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives. Soundproofing and vocal booth construction details for the recording studio built for Jimi Hendrix in 1970 and still in demand today. Very cool.

And I’ll close with one of the first drawings that caught my eye and is still one of my favorites It spans all three categories. It’s a beautiful drawing of a beautiful object, its history certainly deserves some further research, and the structure is a cool, and recognizable detail of New York City architecture.

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Tank and tower drawing for House of Relief, 67-69 Hudson Street, 1912. Felber Engineering Works. Department of Buildings Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Like many New Yorkers, the Building Plans Team is telecommuting now, and the plans are waiting for our return. And with many tens of thousands of plans remaining, who knows what else we’ll find.

PPE in NYC

As the COVID19 pandemic continues, there has been much discussion surrounding personal protective equipment, or PPE.  Hospitals have struggled to get sufficient supplies of protective equipment for the healthcare professionals who are working tirelessly keep the public safe.  How would this be relevant to the Municipal Archives? Conservators and archivists in many cultural institutions, including the Municipal Archives, use PPE  such as N95 masks and nitrile gloves while working with items contaminated by dust, mold spores, or other harmful elements. Since we are now working remotely and not handling archival items, the Department of Records and Information Services (DORIS) recently donated its stock of N95 masks and nitrile gloves for use by healthcare workers.

Recent reports indicate that the City is receiving large quantities of PPE from around the country. But every bit helps and to donate boxes of unopened PPE visit NYC.GOV/ppedonations  

The existence of PPE goes back thousands of years. In the first century AD, Pliny the Elder wrote about using masks made from animal bladders to protect Roman miners from breathing in toxic dust. Wearing gloves and aprons for various purposes is so ancient that their origin cannot be traced. 

The use a full protective outfit for doctors probably originated in the early 1600s, when a French physician named Charles de Lorme proposed a head-to-toe protective costume for treating plague patients. The attire consisted of a long waxed coat, a brimmed hat, goggles, leather gloves, and a distinctive mask shaped like a bird’s beak. At the time, bad smells were thought to  cause  the plague, and the long beak was designed to hold flowers and fragrant herbs to mask this “miasma” while allowing the doctor to breathe. Over the next two centuries doctors adopted this distinctive get-up for treating plague victims.  The most obvious element—the bird’s beak mask—lodged itself so deeply in the popular imagination that it became a common feature of scary costumes for Venetian masquerades. The mere sight of the doctor’s mask was enough to terrify. 

The  beaked mask may have hindered bad smells, but it was not effective at blocking germs. A better technology was a mask that passed air through a filter as the wearer breathed. In the 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci suggested using a wet cloth as a respirator to prevent inhaling toxic gas, a technique still used as a last resort in fire emergencies. By the end of  the 18th century, modern masks began to appear, some using charcoal to filter the air. In 1889, William Stewart Halsted invented surgical rubber gloves to protect doctors and nurses during medical procedures. By this time, medical personnel used cloth surgical masks during procedures, and lab technicians wore medical gowns over their clothes.

Wearing protective garment while developing X-rays, Municipal Sanatorium, Otisville, N.Y. Department of Public Charities Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Operating room nurses with protective masks and gloves, Bellevue Hospital, May 1950. Department of Public Charities Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Masked operating room nurses, Bellevue Hospital, May 1950. Department of Public Charities Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Masked operating room personnel, Kings County Hospital. Department of Public Charities Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Not only did PPE change over time, but so did the way it was worn. As our understanding of infectious disease  grew, so has awareness of the most effective uses of PPE. Early photographs in the Department of Public Charities collection at the Municipal Archives show doctors wearing masks covering only their mouths. Today, this would be considered incorrect, as it still allows the wearer to breathe in unfiltered air. In fact, today, the goal is to prevent air from passing around the edges, forcing all air to be inhaled through the material of the mask. Modern masks are designed with a metal strip at the top that can be shaped to the bridge of the nose. The N95 mask also includes two straps that hold it tightly against the face. When worn properly, the N95 filters 95% of breathed air.

As a large city and trade port with a diverse population, New York City frequently has been at the forefront in the fight against infectious disease. Collections such as the Archives’ Almshouse ledgers, Department of Health and Mental Hygiene records, and Department of Public Charities and Hospitals photographs provide ample documentation for research in topics related to public health. Of particular relevance today is New York City’s response to outbreaks of diseases such as typhoid and cholera in the 18th and 19th centuries, and to the erroneously named “Spanish” flu pandemic of 1918.

“New Operating Room,” with models. Exhibit in the Golden Jubilee at the Grand Central Palace, 1948. Department of Public Charities Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Nurse taking notes with infant patient, Bellevue Hospital, 1950. Department of Public Charities Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

“Surgery in Progress,” painting, Harlem Hospital Conference room. Public Design Commission Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Vinegar Syndrome Testing and the WNYC-TV Film Collection

Nothing is immune to time, but as any preservationist can tell you, there are many possible actions to delay the process of deterioration and prevent an asset from disappearing into oblivion. Although considered fairly stable, especially when compared to video formats, 16mm films can be susceptible to physical damage (such as base and emulsion scratches, torn sprocket holes, etc.) as well as breakdown of the magnetic stock, mold, color dye fading, and—if cellulose acetate-based—vinegar syndrome. Vinegar syndrome, also known as acetate film base degradation, is characterized by a strong vinegar smell and eventually buckling, shrinkage, and weakening of the film. Since this reaction is autocatalytic, it is important to identify compromised films and prioritize them in preservation plans.

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The WNYC-TV Film collection contains over 4,500 films. Although there are 35mm films in this collection, the majority is made up of 16mm films. With the LGRMIF grant, we aim to digitize close 900 films, creating master preservation copies, access copies, and providing content online.

When the Municipal Archives was awarded the Local Government Records Management Improvement Fund (LGRMIF) grant to digitize 16mm films from the WNYC-TV collection, it was clear one of the first steps of the project would be to identify which films were suffering from vinegar syndrome, and which ones were at the later stages of this reaction.

The WNYC-TV Film collection is currently housed with other collections in a room where the relative humidity (RH) can range from 39% in the winter to 60% in the summer, and the temperature is kept at around 70°F. As we know, the relationship between temperature and RH has a direct impact on how fast acetate-based films decay, and since the Municipal Archives has housed the collection for over 30 years, we expected many of the films to already show signs of decay.

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The Image Permanence Institute (IPI) time contours graphic estimates how many years it takes for the onset of vinegar syndrome in acetate-based films.

To test the films, we employed the use of A-D Strips—small paper strips coated in dye that react to the presence of acidic vapor. The strips change color from blue to yellow indicating the level of degradation of the film.

Because we have over 4,000 films in the collection and a limited amount of strips, we decided to run the A-D strip test in three phases.

Phase One consisted of placing from three to four A-D strips in each shelf dedicated to the WNYC TV collection, with one strip in each film can. We made sure to distribute the strips evenly, typically choosing cans that were in the middle of a stack. 251 films were tested during this phase and we kept careful documentation of which cans were being tested and the dates when the strips were placed.

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A-D strips come with a handy chart, printed onto a pencil. Since color variations can be subtle during testing, it is helpful to take pictures and use them as reference.

A full day after we placed the A-D strips, we started retrieving them and checking each strip's color to determine the amount of acidic vapor it had been exposed to. The strips are compared to a color chart that assigns each color a numeric value representative of stages of film deterioration, from zero (blue) to three (yellow) with varying levels of green between.

Out of the 343 films tested during Phase One, we documented:

• 12 films scored 0.1

• 76 films scored 0.25

• 115 films scored 0.5

• 77 films scored 0.75

• 37 films scored 1.0

• 2 films scored 1.25

• 3 films scored 1.5

• 1 film scored 2.25

• 7 films scored 2.5

• 7 films scored 2.75

• 2 films scored 3

On Phase Two, we placed A-D strips on cans that were physically close to the ones tested during Phase One. The results were then documented 24 hours later and on the following days due to the high number of films being tested.

This phase produced some surprising results. Quite a few films that were located in close proximity to the ones that scored high levels during Phase One showed low levels of acidic vapor. Since these were sealed cans, the acidic vapors were most likely trapped in the can, adversely affecting the deteriorating film in the cans, but not spreading to the cans nearby. It would be interesting to investigate what other factors were keeping certain films healthy, even when located next to ones that were already showing signs of degradation.

We did notice some concentration on shelves where the older, sometimes even rusty cans were stored. It could be that the age of the films was key factor or perhaps the rusting cans were not air-tight and exposed the film to off-gassing and humidity fluctuations. Contrary, though, we also noticed higher levels in films stored in newer cans, which perhaps had been recanned at some point in an attempt to slow down degradation.

As a way to obtain more complete data on the collection, we used the remaining A-D strips on Phase Three, where we tested more than 200 additional films, focusing on shelves that had delivered higher scores. Over half of the films tested during this phase scored a 0.5 or higher.

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Level three was noticed on magnetic tracks that carried sound effects, narrations, and music.

After compiling the test results from all three phases, we decided to prioritize all films that scored 0.5 or higher for digitization and recanning.

Although A-D strip testing can be considered slightly subjective as the reading of the test results is largely based on how the tester perceives color variation, it is a practical and nondestructive way to identify the severity of degradation in films. The process allowed us to create a prioritization plan for the next step in the efforts to preserve and increase access to the rich WNYC-TV film collection at the Municipal Archives.

Caroline Z. Oliveira is the film archivist digitizing the endangered WNYC films for a Municipal Archives project funded by the New York State Archives. Ms. Oliveira has already digitized much of the collection and the digitized content will be made available online sometime this year. Look for future blogs highlighting some of the footage in the collection.

Sources Reilly, James M. “IPI Storage Guide for Acetate Film,” 1993.

The Occupation of Sydenham Hospital

By 1975 New York City had run out of money. The City of New York faced a fiscal crisis that precipitated massive budget cuts to almost all public services. With the budget problems too big for the City to solve itself, the Emergency Financial Control Board was created to rein in spending. Run by New York State, the ECFB successfully slashed the City’s budget, defunding libraries, schools, welfare programs, public transit, hospitals and more.

One of those cuts was Sydenham hospital, a Harlem based health center that historically served and employed African Americans. Sydenham Hospital was founded in 1892 as a private hospital corporation but by 1949 due to shaky finances it became a part of the municipal hospital system. This meant that Sydenham became both funded by and controlled by local taxpayers and voters- or so they believed.

Edward I. Koch was elected Mayor in 1977 with the promise to revive the City.  Soon after taking office he announced that Sydenham Hospital in Harlem and the Metropolitan Hospital in East Harlem were to be closed. That same year, Harlem was designated a health disaster area by President Jimmy Carter’s Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, Joseph Califano.

Harlem residents had been working with City government for decades to improve local healthcare outcomes and services to little avail. The Harlem Health Alliance was led by Marshall England, a long-time public health advocate with a focus on Manhattan’s poorer residents. He created a plan to improve Harlem’s healthcare system at the behest of Mayor John Lindsay, but the plan was never implemented. In the 1970s, Harlem residents worked with the Comprehensive Health Planning Agency, but still saw their healthcare quality decrease.

The Koch administration announced plans for new ambulatory clinics in Harlem, but it later became clear that these new clinics were meant to replace the much larger Sydenham and Metropolitan Hospitals. Despite the dwindling availability and level of care, healthcare costs continued to rise for Harlem residents.

The closure announcements immediately led to a backlash from Harlem residents. They formed groups like A Coalition to Save Sydenham that lobbied politicians, organized picket lines and tried to raise awareness of the implications of closing Sydenham. The Committee for Interns and Residents held a one-day walkout.

Although the hospital eventually closed in 1980 after years of debate between City and State government, protests grew in the lead up to its closure, ultimately resulting in an occupation by neighborhood residents who feared the loss of a vital part of their community. During the occupation the NYPD’s surveillance unit, the Bureau of Special Services and Investigation (BOSSI), created a number of 16mm black and white films to document the events and those involved.

Metropolitan Hospital in East Harlem was saved and still operates today but Sydenham could not be saved. In a final move, demonstrators forced their way into the building and began a 10- day occupation to halt the closure of the hospital.

The desperation of this move becomes more understandable when one compares the healthcare statistics of Harlem residents to other New York City neighborhoods. In 1977, the infant mortality rate in Harlem was twice that of the borough of Manhattan. The overall death rate in Harlem was 54% higher than other Manhattan neighborhoods, like Kips-Bay and Yorkville. Rates of tuberculosis infections in Harlem residents were more than twice that of the entire City in 19. Despite this glaring inequality, the City and State governments planned to close not one, but two public hospitals in Harlem against the wishes of the local taxpayers.

Although healthcare and poverty rates have improved in the City over the last 40 years, Harlem residents still suffer from higher infant mortality rates and premature deaths, less access to healthcare and far higher rates of asthma and other chronic conditions when compared to other parts of the City. In times of crisis, already underserved neighborhoods like Harlem get hit harder than others, further delaying the achievement of equitable healthcare outcomes for all New Yorkers. It is also in times of crisis that disparate communities come together in pursuit of a common goal. To those fortunate enough to have escaped the worst effects of the COVID-19 pandemic and its economic impact, please consider how you might be able to help those in dire need.

Years after he was no longer Mayor, Ed Koch famously said that closing Sydenham was a mistake.