The surprising stories and secrets of Sydney's City Circle line
'The governor used to come in with his horse and cart, straight into his train so he could go to his private residence in the Southern Highlands,' he says. 'General [Douglas] MacArthur [who came to Australia as Supreme Commander of the Southwest Pacific Area] in World War II was also known for using the trains at platform 1.'
Near the station entrance is a notch on a marble pillar, which Cote says is damage from a bullet fired when military guards subdued rioting soldiers – shooting one dead – in what is called the Liverpool Riot in 1916. The soldiers, protesting poor conditions at an army camp, had been drinking in Liverpool before commandeering trains then rampaging through the city.
Heading down towards the new Metro platforms there is a display – on a giant metal mural – of items unearthed on the site, including broken crockery, a horseshoe and a key.
The tour is only in public areas, but Cote points out, from an elevator, Central's two so-called ghost platforms, 26 and 27, that were built for possible future lines but never required.
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Taking in the station rather than rushing somewhere for a change, it is noticeable how stunning the redesigned Central looks now the Metro platforms are operating. 'They've done a really good job of not losing the old while making it look even better,' Cote says.
After catching a train to Museum, he points out old ads lining the platform for the likes of Mark Foy's, Mortein and Bushells Tea. Apart from the addition of an elevator near the main entrance, 'it's pretty much the same as when it was built,' he says.
The stop at St James takes in the displays around the station that include the old dead man's handle and a history of the ghost tunnels, built to future-proof the train network, that are due to be opened up for regular tours later this year.
Cote notes they have been used for film and television shoots, an underground mushroom farm, an RAAF control room and air raid shelters during World War II.
Circular Quay's big attraction is the view of the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House and Wynyard's is Chris Fox's sculpture Interloop, made from treads of the station's old escalators.
At Town Hall, Cote shows an old poster for an air raid shelter, halfway up a stairway, that was revealed after removing 70 years of paint in 2014. A sign says the State Government provided shelters for the travelling public when the perceived threat of war in Australia was at its highest in 1942.
The tour finishes in a cafe back at Central that was once the booking office. Cote points out a frieze that covers the history of the state that was rediscovered after a 2015 fire in a Hungry Jack's outlet. 'No one would notice it unless they're told,' he says.
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'Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?' Loading Like many Melburnians, I have my own photobooth memories. As a young adult in the 1990s, asserting an identity distinct from my suburban upbringing, a photo strip felt talismanic. It was a kind of proof, a way of claiming some small part of the city, and the wider world. There was something about the ritual of the process, the known steps, the tangible result, that felt significant. I was borrowing from popular culture, from the way photo strips were used in films, especially as totems of romance and remembrance. I still have a handful of them (I am also not one for throwing things out). Norman and Sutherland's Instagram archive, @flindersphotobooth, posts strips sent in by the public. Norman says: 'We get hundreds of messages throughout the year: 'This is me and my wife in 1974'. They've made an account just to DM me, and they've had that photo in their wallet all that time. Or 'This is the last picture of my brother before he passed away'. It's a real roller-coaster ride of emotion. I always try and send the happy ones to Chris.' Both speak of the photograph-as-object as part of the attraction. 'If you're under 30, your whole life is intangible,' says Sutherland. 'The reality is a lot of people don't have physical photos of their family and friends any more so that's why there's something [about analog photography] that really connects.' I'm curious about generational relationships to nostalgia. For those who remember the time before selfies, this exhibition will mean one thing, for later generations, something else. I wonder about the concept of 'borrowed nostalgia'. Marketers like to say that Gen Z, despite being true digital natives, have an intense longing for real-world connections, as well as a keen bullshit radar and a desire to find things without the false help of the algorithm gods. Considering this, it makes sense that Adler's 'reveal' was borne of social media, its stew of visual culture, digital communication, public interest (and pride) a modern form of collective consciousness. At the photobooth installed at RMIT for the duration of the exhibition, I watched a steady stream of young people going in and coming out, waiting the wait, excited. And then it was my turn. I remembered the half-curtain, the swivelling too-small seat (happily, the machine accepted cards). It was over in seconds. I felt faintly exposed in a way I never did back in the day – the whole doing-something-private-in-public thing. When I got home, I put the new photos against the old, and felt the pull of nostalgia, but also an appreciation for the fact that this was me now, as is, no retakes. I'll make meaning of it later.
