Poster Boy

by Peter Drew

  What complicated matters were all the non-white foreign residents already living in Australia, many of whom were essential to the growing economy. Those residents were encouraged to apply for exemption from the dictation test so they could leave Australia and return unimpeded. The exemption papers included photographs, taken by professional portrait photographers. There are thousands of these images hidden away in the National Archive, just waiting to be discovered. So, thanks to a racist immigration policy, we’ve inherited a beautiful photographic record of Australia’s racial diversity that might have otherwise remained invisible.

  There were no good photos of the lascar from the SS Clan Ranald, only handprints in black ink. These had an eerie quality of their own. You can see exactly where the sailor pressed his living flesh and marked the page.

  The story of the SS Clan Ranald is just one example of the many specific histories that tugged at my attention. The stories are so rich that I felt like they could pull my art in any direction. I’d come to the archive to find images of Afghan cameleers, but there were so many great photos. I decided to make high-resolution copies of everything I could find. I would work out how to use the images later.

  I spent two long days strip-mining the records at the State Library on North Terrace. I’d collected almost 300 images, but as I looked through them I knew I hadn’t quite found what I was looking for. I wanted an image that punched straight through that invisible boundary and clocked you right in the eye. But what ‘boundary’ exactly? I really wasn’t sure.

  That weekend, on 18 July, Reclaim Australia held nationwide rallies. I saw them march along North Terrace carrying banners that called for an end to non-white immigration. How times have changed, I thought. However, there was also a clear anti-Muslim flavour to the speeches. The more I listened, the more obvious it became that a fear of the Islamic bogeyman was the glue that held their whole movement together. I knew I had to find an image of a Muslim man who chose to live his life in Australia under the White Australia policy, someone who had every opportunity to leave but chose to stay.

  On the Monday following the rallies I booked a session at the National Archives in Melbourne. I flew across and, on the second day of searching through manila folders, I found this image.

  It would take another six months before I was ready to launch the new project, but the moment I found this photo I knew I had my hero image. He just looked so proud and stoic. Here was a man who worked for a living, who remained defiant towards life’s injustices, not embittered by its hardships. Here was a man who would have baulked at our culture of competitive victimhood.

  Of course, I don’t know any of that for sure. We can only imagine what it was like to be the man in the image. But that’s the difference between history and mythology. Mythology is where my curiosity catches fire. After all, I’m an artist, not a historian. Through mythology we can push past the knowable facts of this person’s identity as a Muslim man who was born in India but lived and died in Australia. Through mythology he can become more than an identity, he can become a personality. He can embody a story that modern Australians cherish and desire to emulate. The man’s name was Monga Khan.

  C’mon Aussie C’mon

  When I arrived back in Adelaide I noticed on social media that my friend and fellow artist Jake Holmes had designed his own poster that promoted a progressive cause through an optimistic appeal to our national identity.

  Jake Holmes with his rainbow-coloured ‘C’mon Aussie C’mon’ poster design, 2015

  I thought Jake’s design was brilliant. The phrase ‘C’mon Aussie C’mon’ evoked 1980s Australiana and encouraged the viewer towards a shared victory. The Irish referendum on marriage equality had passed in May 2015 and now it was our turn. At least, that’s the way it seemed from the growing enthusiasm in the media. Opposition Leader Bill Shorten had introduced a marriage equality bill to federal parliament, putting the Coalition government on the spot. Jake’s poster presented an opportunity to be part of a movement that might actually yield a tangible and historic change in the law. It was something I wanted to be a part of, partly because my own poster project hadn’t been able to gain any such victory.

  I contacted Jake and encouraged him to build a project around his poster design. I proposed that we make a video and crowdfunding campaign that promised to hand-print 1000 posters and distribute them around the country. It was based on the model I’d developed for the ‘Real Australians Say Welcome’ project, but rather than sticking up the posters personally, Jake could simply mail them out. This strategy would pull focus away from Jake himself and allow participants to use the poster and the subsequent hashtag as a platform for their own stories.

  One of the things that made Jake’s design so strong was the family history that prompted its creation. When Jake was thirteen, his mum came out as gay. As a result, his parents split and his mum moved in with her new partner. Jake’s dad married another woman, who already had a son. Then Jake’s sister fell in love with her new stepbrother! Obviously, when sexual orientations reveal themselves it can lead to a rollercoaster of emotion, even for the most supportive families. Through it all, Jake emerged as one of the most well-adjusted people I’ve ever met. His family remains connected and supportive in all the ways that matter. Jake believes that love can conquer all, because he’s lived it.

  Personally, I hadn’t lived it. I was simply impressed by Jake’s design and could see that it was perfectly timed to ride the oncoming wave of change. All it needed was to be thrust into the public eye. So we got to work building the campaign and managed to raise $7491, more than enough to cover our costs. The network of supporters I’d developed responded well to Jake’s design. We attracted some media attention and started to distribute the posters. Then everything ground to a halt.

  On 11 August 2015 Prime Minister Tony Abbott shut down the possibility of a free vote in parliament. Instead, he proposed to take the issue to the next election in the form of a non-binding plebiscite, so every Australian would have an opportunity to vote on the issue. The debate was over for the time being, so Jake and I decided to put the campaign on hold until it could be of better use. The few hundred posters we’d printed remained in a pile at Tooth & Nail. We got on with our lives. Then something unexpected happened. I received a birthday invitation from my younger brother, Simon. It read: In a month’s time I’ll be turning 30, so I think it’s about time that I came out as gay. You’re invited to celebrate the occasion at …

  My initial reaction was to assume my brother was making a tasteless joke. That’s how clueless I was. I sent him a quick message to check whether he was being serious. He assured me that he was and I felt immediately delighted – surprised but delighted.

  I let Simon know that he could rely on my support. At the time he was interstate for work, and he asked me to help smooth things over with Mum and Dad before he got back. So I caught up with Mum for coffee at the Adelaide Zoo. ‘Oh, I’ve known for years,’ she told me. She affected a schoolgirl’s glee at being entrusted with Simon’s secret for so long. But mostly she seemed relieved. We had one of those rare chats that make you feel more connected, but also lighter.

  I planned to see Dad the next day, so Mum promised she’d speak to him that night. I urged her to break the news in a responsible way and resist the temptation to deliberately throw him off balance. She assured me of her mature intentions, but I didn’t quite believe her. After all, what’s the point of keeping a secret for so many years if you can’t enjoy the momentary pleasure of taunting your spouse with its revelation?

  Dad was still adjusting when I spoke to him the next day. We spoke at length and it became obvious that he was grieving. In his mind he was saying goodbye to a long-cherished vision of a future in which grandchildren might redeem the past. I wanted to tell him Simon might still have children, but that wasn’t really the point. Nor would it have been helpful to lay down a condescending sermon on the toxic effect of the heteronormative assumptions surrounding parenthood
. What we both suspected, but neither of us could say, was that Simon might have felt comfortable to come out years earlier if ours was a family in which people were open and honest about their feelings. At the very least, there was a clear contrast between Jake’s family and my own. Jake was putting his story into public art projects, whereas my family could hardly speak about the things that matter most. Neither Dad nor I had the courage to confront that guilt, not yet. What mattered was that Simon felt loved and accepted right now. Dad could see that. By the end of our chat he was feeling much better. ‘This really doesn’t change anything,’ he said, and that seemed good enough for now.

  I reported back to Simon via email and he was characteristically unresponsive. I guessed he was feeling relieved but really I was only guessing. We hadn’t been especially close for several years, following a violent outburst that had put some distance between us. It’s a story that’s probably worth retelling because I struggle to understand it myself.

  Back in 2008, a friend and I hosted a late-night radio show at Radio Adelaide. One night we invited Simon onto the show and all decided to get heroically drunk before going on air. Simon is a little bit shorter than I am but more than a little bit stronger. He’s stocky and good-looking like my dad but he also has Dad’s short fuse. Unlike Julian and me, Simon likes to dress well, which was the only indication that he might be gay. He has a collection of crude tattoos from his time in the Navy. Unfortunately, one thing he didn’t acquire in the Navy was an ability to hold his liquor.

  My co-host and I were keeping it together, but Simon was falling off his chair. At one point Simon snapped his mic stand off its perch. I was too drunk to convey my concerns to Simon in a respectful manner. Instead, I said something like, ‘Get your shit together, you woeful fucking embarrassment.’ Before I realised how insulting my choice of words might be, Simon was climbing across the control desk and punching me in the face.

  When I regained consciousness there was blood all over the place. I felt certain that I hadn’t hit Simon so it seemed the blood was all mine. The glass door of the studio was smashed. Simon was gone. I raced out onto the street and saw him storming off. I chased him down to attempt a blubbery reconciliation, but the cops intervened and sent me to the hospital, where I cried it out in front of a tired medical student who listened patiently while simultaneously attempting to stitch up my busted lip.

  It wasn’t much fun, but the weirdest part came when I appealed to Mum to help mend the rift. Simon was living in the family home at the time, so I told Mum in the car one day that I wasn’t walking through their front door until he’d apologised. I knew I’d provoked him but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook until he’d taken some responsibility for his violence. Mum didn’t seem to care. I said it was her responsibility to let him know that violence was unacceptable within the family, but she just scoffed at our ‘little tiff’. That set me off. As I lost my temper she started to laugh, which sent me into complete meltdown. She was screaming at me to stop before I realised that I’d kicked my foot through the windshield. She gave me a minute to stop crying before she suggested that I walk home. I staggered off in a daze. I was twenty-five, too old to be having violent temper tantrums. I guess I just snapped. It’s one of those memories I wish I could forget. I wish I hadn’t lost control. I wish I hadn’t put Mum in that position, but I did.

  It’s difficult to convey or even understand the tensions that pass between brothers. From my experience it’s a volatile mix of love, resentment, affection and jealousy. Simon never really apologised, but after a while I just let it go because I intuited that things were harder for him. Besides, he hadn’t hit me that hard and I’ve never been one to hold grudges. I knew he’d apologise when he was ready. I could wait. Sometimes that’s all you can do.

  On 14 September 2015, Malcolm Turnbull challenged Tony Abbott for the leadership of the Liberal Party and duly became the twenty-ninth prime minister of Australia. As he was a prominent supporter of same-sex marriage, everyone expected him to announce a free vote in parliament. Instead, Turnbull retained the policy to hold a plebiscite after the next election. The following week Simon held his birthday celebrations. He apologised for hitting me seven years earlier and we hugged it out.

  Money

  Around that time I realised I was about to run out of money. I’d like to avoid writing one of those artist memoirs that seem to float down from a place where money doesn’t exist. Instead I want to be open about how I make my money. Unfortunately there’s not much to tell.

  Before the ‘Real Australians Say Welcome’ campaign I’d been working in hospitality for ten years, mostly washing dishes. I’d started in 2002; it was my first year at uni and I needed cash while I was studying. Then I decided to be an artist. Had I known that being an artist would mean washing dishes for the next ten years, I might have approached the task with more humility. After all, no chef wants to share their kitchen with someone who’s nurturing delusions of a higher station. I thought I could hide my contempt for the job, but the chefs sniffed me out. As a result I was bullied and ostracised, but I deserved it. After a few years of hiding behind my aloof detachment I had to admit that I wasn’t entitled to anything better. I belonged in that job, until I’d earned my escape. The moment I flicked that mental switch, washing dishes became bearable. I started to respect the chefs and they respected me. That’s how I was able to stick it out for seven more years.

  If I’m honest, working in kitchens was better than bearable. It was actually something I needed to help me shake off the baby fat of middle-class adolescence. Besides overcoming my stifling sense of entitlement, kitchens also rid me of my fear of masculinity. Ever since playing team sports as an early teen I had never felt comfortable around groups of guys, at least not the kind of guys that regard themselves as normal. I didn’t want to be normal. Under the pressure of intense work, people quickly slip into archetypes. In the kitchen that meant you were either a man or a mum. Boys and girls were placed front of house, where their pretty faces would please the customers. Back in the kitchen the mums held matriarchal authority and the men won man points by confronting the pain and ugliness of work. My favourite example of this was the way male chefs dealt with injuries. They all had scars to prove their dedication to the job. One chef kept a tube of super glue in case he sustained a serious cut. He’d pour the glue into the open wound to stop the bleeding, then continue service and only seek medical attention after his shift. In that environment I quickly learnt the recipe for masculinity: Make yourself useful and never let your discomfort be a burden to others. It’s hardly a comprehensive value system, but it’s also not a bad place to start.

  When I finally quit hospitality it was to start the ‘Real Australians Say Welcome’ project. I’d managed to save enough money to last six months, but I had no financial plan. For some reason I believed that a business model would coalesce around my enthusiasms if I pursued them with enough vigour. To some extent, I was right.

  Since then I’ve made enough money through selling posters that I can afford to travel around and stick them up. However, all my personal funds come from my other career, in which I shoot and edit videos for commercial clients on a freelance basis. That work started soon after I left hospitality. Having the two separate income streams means that I can maintain a divide between my art funds and my personal funds. Sometimes I’m flush with money made through art, in which case I simply expand the art projects until the money’s gone. That might even mean commissioning other artists to produce work. Other times it’s simply a case of sticking up more posters or giving them away.

  I’ve never really trusted the clichéd wisdom that art and commerce don’t mix, so it irritates me to admit that it’s a cliché that I conform to. I guess I’m happy to keep going with whatever feels right.

  By October 2015, ‘whatever feels right’ meant being broke. As a result, I spent the remainder of the year focusing on making videos so I could regain some financial stability. If I was going to i
mprove upon ‘Real Australians Say Welcome’, I would need enough money in the bank to cover my rent for at least a few months. So I took on as much freelance work as I possibly could, and by the end of the year I’d made enough money to start 2016 with a clear focus on my new poster project. All I had to decide was what I wanted my new poster to say.

  Zippole

  Julie’s grandma is Italian. Her name is Rose but everyone calls her Mamma. On Sundays Mamma has the family around for dinner, but at Christmas and Easter Mamma invites the extended family over to feast on zippole. It’s not essential to this story, but you should probably know that zippole are anchovies wrapped in pizza dough and deep fried. Obviously, they’re delicious. I can usually eat four zippole before I’m full. Then I like to sit back and enjoy the warm chaos of Mamma’s house. It’s not really chaos – it’s more of a dance between the generations, where, over time, everyone finds their own way to balance their personality within the tribe. But it is raucous. Everyone talks at once, so I like to listen.

  At Christmas in 2015, my own family were invited for zippole, which meant I could forget about relaxing and having fun. It would have been fine if only Mum and Dad had come, but Julian had also decided to attend. I knew he’d latch on to me and steer the conversation towards one of his pet interests. Ever since Julian had lost his job in Canberra, nobody asked him about his personal ambitions. Simple questions like ‘So, Julian, what have you been up to?’ became impossible. For the past eight years he’d been up to exactly nothing. He sat at home trolling the internet, which is awash with people like Julian who think of themselves as warriors in a grand political narrative. I didn’t want to hear about his petty victories over people he’ll never meet. However, it’s difficult to have a real conversation with someone when you’re constantly trying to avoid stepping on the landmines of their self-loathing. So I tend to indulge his interests. Unfortunately his interests always circle back to the politics of race.