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[John Howe] Newsletter: "HOLD THE LINE, PLEASE."

Or Conversations from Outer Space


Here is an exchange I recently had with a local newspaper:

"Picture research, please."

"Speaking."

"Hello, I'm phoning about an image of mine printed in last Sunday's paper."

"?"

"You know, the paper you print on... well... Sunday. The day before yesterday."

"?"

" Well, there was one of my images, printed in last Sunday's edition, I was wondering who was contacted concerning permission to use it."

"I don't have the paper in front of me, hold the line a second." (follows a long hunt for the edition in question, interspersed with comments from a distance along the lines of "Some wierdo on the phone" "What's he want?" "I don't know, something about a picture." amidst a rustling of paper and finally approaching steps.)

"Okay, I have it, what page?"

I give the page, explain which image, where.

"And?"

"Well, I wondered where you went to get permission to use it, since it's not credited."

"?"

"Let me rephrase that more clearly. DID you get permission to use it?"

"No..."

"You just printed it like that?"

"Uh-huh."

"I'm sorry, but is that how you normally work? Just print pictures without wondering where they are from?"

"?"

I'm starting to loathe this conversation, and beginning to feel like it's all my fault for making a fuss - well, not a fuss, really, I'm practically apologizing for bothering this individual by now.

"You know the image is under copyright."

"?"

"Perhaps I should put you in touch with the editor?"

"You mean for money?"

Now I feel like a space alien whose GPS fouled up on entry into the troposphere. I have landed outside a roadside hamburger joint in Iowa instead of the UN and when I say "Take me to your leader" the dimwit burger jockey slopes off and returns with his "leader". Heaving into view is a monstrous belly in a grubby t-shirt, topped with an unshaven oval countenance complete with a cigarette butt bobbing in the corner of a batrachian mouth. The being is holding a spatula and a fly swatter and I bet there's a sawed-off shotgun under the counter. What AM I going to tell them when I get back home? If I get back home. I just knew this whole thing was a bad idea.

"Take me to your leader."

"?"

"Sorry, can I talk to someone else please? This is giving me a headache."



Actually, rewind to the space alien, that's where this conversation petered out in contrite mumbling on my part. The next day when the journalist phoned to apologize and I felt even worse. John Howe's not here I said, he left the country, he uhh... got plastic surgery, and... changed his name and went pearl diving in Iceland. Maybe it was surfing. Yes, in the Kalahari. Or the Gobi. No, I'm sorry, he didn't leave a forwarding address.