A Nose for Trouble
It's amazing how any action that is slightly out of the norm is seen as dangerous.
When I was in gradschool in Boston I was constantly going back and forth between Boston and New Haven. One afternoon in Boston just before I was heading back to New Haven, I got in a car accident with some Armenians. I happened to have my digital camera with me, so I immediately took some photos of the scene and the damage. I try to keep my camera with me at all times, because you never know when something absurd and fascinating will rear its head. I took down the driver's info from the accident. They later called and said they'd rather not go through the insurance and just pay for damages. We agreed on $300 and were scheduling a meeting some time later in the week.
Back in New Haven about 3 days after the phone conversation, I get a call in my studio from my girlfriend saying that she just had a private investigator at the door asking whether I was an animal rights activist, whether I had been following anyone, whether I was taking pictures on the Mass Pike recently.
"you've got to be kidding me", was my response. The investigator left his number and advised that I call him. Hearing about the photos being taken, both my girlfriend and I associated it with the accident with the Armenians. Were they up to something? Reporting me as a stalker or terrorist? I had no clue, but it was a lesson on how quick we are to put the blame on things/people that are foreign or unfamiliar to us.
I called the private investigator and he started asking me the questions:
"Have you ever been suspected of terrorist activity?"
"Do you like animals?"
"do you consider yourself an animal rights activist"
"Have you recently been taking photos on the Massachusetts Turnpike?"
I answered,
"I don't think so, I was in an accident in Boston and took some pictures"
then I ask,
"how did you find my address in New Haven?"
he replied,
"you were reported as taking pictures on the Mass Pike by an employee of a perfume company. The employee took your license number down and the company hired me to investigate."
By this time it came back to me. I was in a stand still at one of the toll booths on my way back to New Haven. The sun was going down and beaming an amazingly fiery orange light that cast bluish shadows. The light was hitting part of my face and the shadow from the top of the windshield cut across my face. It was a patch of light cutting across my mug. Captivated, I started taking pics of the light on my face viewable in the rear view mirror.
It became apparent to the private investigator and myself that the car in front of me was the employee from the perfume company who thought I was taking pictures of her. Apparently, because of the testing they do on animals, animal rights activists target members of the company.
I apologized for being an artist, and I then called the owner of the company to explain the situation. I thought, "what are the chances of something like this happening?" "Insane!".
I'm now convinced the statistics aren't as slim as I formerly thought.
Six months later, I was in New London, and that glorious orb the Sun was throwin' down rays on the bridge that connects New London to Groton. I drove underneath the bridge and started taking snapshots for the use of background props for paintings. If you know my paintings, you can make sense of the interest in bridges. You have to understand, I take pictures all the time, so It doesn't seem unusual.
Two days later, one James B. Mulcrone, special agent for the United States Naval Criminal Investigative Services knocks at the door. I was a little quicker in placing why he was there, this time. We invited him in and explained that I was an artist, I showed him some paintings, explained my process of making pictures and talked about my interest in industrial structures. He explained that it was unusual seeing someone take a picture of a bridge, and the fact that it was one near a naval submarine manufacturing plant made it equally suspicious. "You can never be to careful these days." He was generally interested and amazed that someone could make a living making pictures (I'm still not convinced of it). I showed him the pictures I took and burned a disc with the images on it for him.
James B. Mulcrone left with some new found art education and was persuaded but I doubt entirely convinced I wasn't a terrorist. "who the hell takes pictures of a bridge, after all?"
Following his departure, Joy said, "Is this something I'm going to have to get used to.... Criminal Investigators showing up every few months?!"
I replied "Most girls that are with artists already have a bad boy complex, now that I'm a terrorist, what do you think of me?"
(since then, we've had 3 children)
(all named James B. Mulcrone)
When I was in gradschool in Boston I was constantly going back and forth between Boston and New Haven. One afternoon in Boston just before I was heading back to New Haven, I got in a car accident with some Armenians. I happened to have my digital camera with me, so I immediately took some photos of the scene and the damage. I try to keep my camera with me at all times, because you never know when something absurd and fascinating will rear its head. I took down the driver's info from the accident. They later called and said they'd rather not go through the insurance and just pay for damages. We agreed on $300 and were scheduling a meeting some time later in the week.
Back in New Haven about 3 days after the phone conversation, I get a call in my studio from my girlfriend saying that she just had a private investigator at the door asking whether I was an animal rights activist, whether I had been following anyone, whether I was taking pictures on the Mass Pike recently.
"you've got to be kidding me", was my response. The investigator left his number and advised that I call him. Hearing about the photos being taken, both my girlfriend and I associated it with the accident with the Armenians. Were they up to something? Reporting me as a stalker or terrorist? I had no clue, but it was a lesson on how quick we are to put the blame on things/people that are foreign or unfamiliar to us.
I called the private investigator and he started asking me the questions:
"Have you ever been suspected of terrorist activity?"
"Do you like animals?"
"do you consider yourself an animal rights activist"
"Have you recently been taking photos on the Massachusetts Turnpike?"
I answered,
"I don't think so, I was in an accident in Boston and took some pictures"
then I ask,
"how did you find my address in New Haven?"
he replied,
"you were reported as taking pictures on the Mass Pike by an employee of a perfume company. The employee took your license number down and the company hired me to investigate."
By this time it came back to me. I was in a stand still at one of the toll booths on my way back to New Haven. The sun was going down and beaming an amazingly fiery orange light that cast bluish shadows. The light was hitting part of my face and the shadow from the top of the windshield cut across my face. It was a patch of light cutting across my mug. Captivated, I started taking pics of the light on my face viewable in the rear view mirror.
It became apparent to the private investigator and myself that the car in front of me was the employee from the perfume company who thought I was taking pictures of her. Apparently, because of the testing they do on animals, animal rights activists target members of the company.
I apologized for being an artist, and I then called the owner of the company to explain the situation. I thought, "what are the chances of something like this happening?" "Insane!".
I'm now convinced the statistics aren't as slim as I formerly thought.
Six months later, I was in New London, and that glorious orb the Sun was throwin' down rays on the bridge that connects New London to Groton. I drove underneath the bridge and started taking snapshots for the use of background props for paintings. If you know my paintings, you can make sense of the interest in bridges. You have to understand, I take pictures all the time, so It doesn't seem unusual.
Two days later, one James B. Mulcrone, special agent for the United States Naval Criminal Investigative Services knocks at the door. I was a little quicker in placing why he was there, this time. We invited him in and explained that I was an artist, I showed him some paintings, explained my process of making pictures and talked about my interest in industrial structures. He explained that it was unusual seeing someone take a picture of a bridge, and the fact that it was one near a naval submarine manufacturing plant made it equally suspicious. "You can never be to careful these days." He was generally interested and amazed that someone could make a living making pictures (I'm still not convinced of it). I showed him the pictures I took and burned a disc with the images on it for him.
James B. Mulcrone left with some new found art education and was persuaded but I doubt entirely convinced I wasn't a terrorist. "who the hell takes pictures of a bridge, after all?"
Following his departure, Joy said, "Is this something I'm going to have to get used to.... Criminal Investigators showing up every few months?!"
I replied "Most girls that are with artists already have a bad boy complex, now that I'm a terrorist, what do you think of me?"
(since then, we've had 3 children)
(all named James B. Mulcrone)
posted by Hobo Wilson at 7:55 PM
4 Comments:
I see how you develop this blog like a painting with the balance scientist snifing armpits up top japaneese folks sniffing farts on duh bottom. P.S. I'm drinking at anna liffeys tonight with a bunch of real japaneese folks as well as some chineese and crap load of french.
Pong out
coincidence or genius, you decide. Enjoy your meeting of the nations.
That's because any action that is slightly out of the norm is dangerous.
National security is sometimes seen as an inconvienince. However, regardless of the circumstances involving my visit to your place of residence, I was delighted to meet such an insightful, charming and handsome young artist. Truly, one of the great minds of our times.
J.B.M
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