YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO BE HERE.
Fighting the man with the spirit of George Costanza
You ever see those old photos from when cities were developing infrastructure? How Boston came to be what it is today? The highways that line our towns and the mills that are now mostly shuttered?
People used to photograph those things..
I know, it sounds crazy. It used to be that if you had a camera, you could pretty much photograph anything. No red tape to cut through, people weren’t skeptical of what you were doing or where those photographs may end up. It was just people and place, existing together and eager to be seen.
I made this photograph two weeks ago - the demolition of I-195 in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Fenced off with union vinyl flags adorning the steel chained barricade - the foreman from the site saw me standing on the sidewalk and said if I had a hi-vis vest, I could come in. And wouldn’t ya know it, I have one of those.
With boyhood like wonderment, I sauntered in with the confidence of a veteran laborer. After all, the foreman gave me the go-ahead, right?
After taking my first image, I started to walk around, becoming more and more comfortable with my surroundings. I moved around the site with the grace of gazelle in the grassy plains of Africa. Majestic, almost hypnotic in my movements. Any stranger could see, I belonged there.
I focused my attention on one of the concrete pillars that had toppled over. The rebar sticking out of it like like jagged steel skewers, bent and mangled.
It was around this time that the Mass DOT (Department of Transportation) got wind that there was a strange man with a box camera taking pictures in the dark corners of the construction site.
He greeted me politely and said “You know you’re not allowed to be here right?”
I told him that I was a photographer who was drawn in like a month to a flame, remarking on the destructive beauty of a nearly a century old highway overpass.. Except, What I really said was “I may have overstepped my boundaries here fellas. I was told to stay by the fence and I just kept creeping in.. I know its not ok and I apologize, but honestly, I couldn’t pass it up”
Adobe transcribed the audio picked up from my lavalier mic - the audio is almost too embarrassing to stand.
Mass DOT asked me to leave but not without a glimmer of hope - He said, “You can come back in the daytime. Just meet with me or (the foreman). You just can’t be here when its dark, we cant really see what’s goin’ on and its kind of.. its like a huge liability for us”
On the ride home, I replayed how this could have went better - how maybe, if I chose the right words, I could have won them over. Maybe even landed a cool job where I get to knock big concrete stacks over with with an enormous metal arm. I thought about it all night. Silently contemplating as I turned into my driveway - ‘what would it be like if I left my office job for more manly work? ’ No more soft hands - I will trade them in for callused, more hardened hands that resemble the rocks that I will soon crush by my grotesque strength. ‘I will impose my might upon any stranger who dares to shake my deadly, chaffed hands’ I jokingly say to my wife after telling her about my nocturnal investigation.
My head was filled with ideas - the type of ideas that run like a movie. The ones that lead you on and on, they open a door to something more, something grander and then, even more grand! I find myself muttering ‘This is the shit that really matters!’ and then suddenly.. I’m returned to the reality of my dimly lit bedroom where I lay next to my wife. Emily is reading her kindle, the occasional light giggle erupts, breaking the quiet in the room. My gaze drifted toward the television where old episodes of Seinfeld were playing on a loop. Although, the thought of returning to the construction site was still turning in my head.
Hey, its the Soup Nazi episode..
When I return.. and make no mistake, I will return. I will be prepared - I will relive the days of old when people ogled at these modern monoliths. I may even wear some sort of fedora adorned with a press card sticking out of the fabric wrapping of my hat. Maybe even get me one of those fat ties and a tan, ill fitting suit with suspenders. Cigars? I can’t go back. Almost two years off those nasty smoke logs. But in the name of assimilation, I must break my vow..
My eyes are getting heavy.
I’ll finish that thought later.
For now, I will rest and reflect on how much has changed in 70 years while George orders his large crab bisque.
Access is the name of the game! Love the story here.
Have you listened to the WGBH PBS podcast about the Big Dig? If you're into infrastructure… def worth a listen. At the very least, interesting fodder for car rides to your locations. Enjoying your YT channel quite a bit. Cheers