by Peter Drew
Because the project failed to spread virally I resorted to advertising, which quickly ate into my budget. The crowdfunding campaign needed to reach its full target of $13,000, otherwise I’d receive no funding at all. As the weeks passed and support for the project slowly grew, I tried to focus on getting the posters printed.
A week after launching the project I received a concerned email from someone at the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, the organisation that publishes the Aboriginal language map I’d referenced in the campaign. It stated:
One thing you should be aware of is the map you are using, in some regions, such as with the Yorta Yorta, for example, is contested. We are undergoing a project to review the map as it is highly useful but was created a long time ago and contains some inaccuracies and the evidence base for some of the assumptions of boundaries sometimes varies.
I hadn’t even considered that possibility. What if I stuck up a poster in a contested area? Wouldn’t that be stirring up needless conflict? Maybe I could simply stick to the uncontested areas – but where were they? I could say goodbye to my free-range postering style. I’d need to add an extra layer of research before I even cooked my glue. I took a deep breath and tried to remind myself, This is what you wanted, a long, slow campaign that goes deeper than ever. I’d never felt this way before. This was the first time I could remember really doubting my own project before I’d even begun.
Permission
A few people suggested that I seek permission to use the names of the Aboriginal language groups. I’ve never sought permission to use a word, so I was initially sceptical. Surely my posters fit within the custom of ‘Acknowledgement of Country’, which is an established cultural norm for non-Aboriginal Australians? Who exactly owns these words? I thought. Could I ask permission from anyone who spoke that language? Probably not. Perhaps I needed to seek permission from elders. But isn’t direct communication between artist and audience the whole point of street art? And what about young Indigenous people who aren’t elders? Why couldn’t I seek their permission? I decided that the safest thing to do was to start making inquiries.
I contacted someone I’d worked with previously at an Aboriginal arts organisation. She said she ‘absolutely loved’ the project and was happy to put me in touch with Uncle Sam Diamond for permission to use the Kaurna name. Great! I thought. All I had to do was reach out and things would fall into place. I could repeat the process for every poster design around the country. I didn’t care how long it might take. But after a couple of weeks without a reply from Uncle Sam, I decided to go back to my contact. She knew another Uncle, Mitch Gabris. He was the son of a respected Kaurna elder. ‘He’s expecting your call,’ she said. I was excited to get started.
We met at a café in the city, but from the outset I knew it wasn’t going to unfold as I had hoped. Mitch wouldn’t look me in the eye. I’d brought along a poster to show him what the project was all about but he didn’t want to see it. Instead we sat down and he explained to me the importance of culture to his people.
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here,’ I said. ‘To ask permission to use the Kaurna name. The aim of this project is to celebrate that culture.’
‘But it’s not yours to celebrate,’ said Mitch. He opened a folder that he’d brought with him. It was filled with photos of his people. ‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘Do you look like this? Or this, or this?’ Until then he’d been sullen but now he was letting out his anger. Now he was looking straight at me.
‘Okay, I get it,’ I said. ‘I’m not Aboriginal but I thought this meeting was set up so I could ask permission to use the word.’
‘The answer’s no,’ said Mitch. ‘You people think you can take everything, but this is ours. It’s our culture, and you can’t have it.’
I leaned back and let out a long breath. ‘Can I ask you one question?’ I said. ‘Because I’m still having trouble understanding. You’ve been doing this a long time, right? This isn’t the first time a white person has come to you asking permission to use the Kaurna name?’
‘I’ve been doing this for ten years,’ said Mitch, still looking me straight in the eye. ‘I’ve had dozens of your people come to me, doing what you’re doing.’
‘And how many times have you said yes?’
‘Never. None!’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve never let any whitefella use the Kaurna name.’
I realised that I’d been brought here to be taught a lesson. It had never been a discussion. I looked up at the ceiling and let out a big sigh.
‘What, you think this is funny?’ he said.
‘Yeah, I do think it’s funny,’ I said. ‘I came here thinking I had a chance but now I understand that it’s not worth asking. What’s yours is yours and what’s mine is mine, and that’s that.’
‘Except, what’s yours isn’t yours,’ said Mitch. ‘You’re sleeping on stolen land, my people’s land. How’s that yours?’
‘You’re preaching to the choir, mate. Do you really think I’d make this poster if I didn’t already understand that?’ I pleaded, one last time.
‘You cannot use the Kaurna name,’ Mitch said finally.
‘Oh, I hear ya,’ I said, and stood up to leave.
I stuck out my hand and Mitch shook it reluctantly. As I walked to my car I wondered whether I’d been set up. Hadn’t my contact at the arts organisation ‘absolutely loved’ the project? Why would she send me to a guy like Mitch, who never grants permission?
By the time I’d arrived home I’d decided that I didn’t care. Now that I’d asked for permission and been rejected I couldn’t continue with the project as I’d originally planned. I simply decided to stop using any of the Aboriginal names. I would revert to using the original ‘Aboriginal Land’ poster and leave it at that.
Only later was I offered an explanation for the rejection. I was told by email that because I’d already printed the posters and distributed them to several institutions, I had broken the rules. That was the reason Mitch was upset. It didn’t ring true to me. Mitch hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Besides, one of the institutions where I’d distributed the posters was the Aboriginal arts organisation itself, at its request! But by that stage I’d already given up.
I announced my decision to withdraw on social media, and immediately right-wing followers took the opportunity to gloat. The lefties jumped in to remind me that I was white and should just keep quiet. They fought it out in the comments section. It was just as constructive as you might imagine. However, some good did come of it. I received several messages from Aboriginal leaders who urged me to keep going. One was from a Kaurna man who’d already received one of my posters. He offered to meet.
I’d first met Sam when he did the Welcome to Country at an event I attended. I was struck then by his warmth and generosity. It was a relief to see him again. Something about his stocky build and thick beard reminded me of my dad. We met at a city café during his lunch-break, and I told him about what had happened with Mitch. He seemed to understand before I’d even finished.
‘You did it wrong,’ said Sam. ‘There’s a proper way to ask permission from elders and you’ve got to go through the right channels. Mitch isn’t an elder so I don’t know why you were sent to him, but that’s not important. What matters is that you do it right from now on.’
I agreed, and Sam took me to meet his dad, who is a Kaurna elder. I showed him the poster and explained the overall concept. It took about three minutes. Sam’s dad saw no problem and, with that out of the way, he proceeded to tell me the history of his people for the next hour. It was like standing under a waterfall. ‘People don’t realise,’ he kept saying, before throwing down yet another piece of knowledge about the land I thought I knew. My head was spinning but I didn’t want it to end.
I went home feeling overwhelmed. I’d come into the project knowing that it was a fraught landscape, filled with good and bad actors alike, but I hadn’t really questioned the possibility that I would lack th
e political fortitude for the necessary negotiations. The one thing I did know for sure is I had fundamental disagreements with participating in a system that guarded culture within racial boundaries. I understand the impulse to protect but I don’t think it works. In the long term I think it has the opposite effect. By imposing a false sense of vulnerability, culture tends to grow more dependent upon its protectors. But those boundaries aren’t really mine to break. Ultimately it’s up to Aboriginal artists to express their own frustration in having their work defined within racial boundaries, and plenty do.
I decided to stick with my decision to abandon further use of the Aboriginal language groups. By the time I pulled the plug I still had enough funds to travel and stick up some ‘Aboriginal Land’ posters. After all the back-and-forth negotiations, I couldn’t wait to get back on the street.
So What?
It was June before I stuck up a single poster. As I stepped out of the Sydney Central YHA in the pre-dawn light with a bag full of posters and a bucket full of glue, I thought, What have I been waiting for? This was what it was all about for me: an excuse to assault the urban land-scape with my posters.
I’m always nervous when I put up a new design. As I unfurl the poster I like to imagine a bystander shouting, ‘What the fuck!’ Their hands are over their head to prevent their mind from exploding. Of course it never happens, and that particular morning in Sydney was a strikingly low-key event. I stuck up the ‘Aboriginal Land’ poster on its own and also in a set of three. I liked the way it looked as a set. As the dawn light rose the rain started to fall and the streets filled with people who ignored my posters on their way to work. I pressed on.
In Darlington I found an old poster of Monga Khan that had actually improved with age. All the others were in need of replacement. After a few hours cleaning up my old work and occasionally adding new posters, I felt more like a gardener than any kind of rebel. It felt good. All over Sydney I found weather-beaten posters of Monga Khan that I lovingly replaced. Several times I attracted appreciative comments from passers-by, but when I stuck up the ‘Aboriginal Land’ posters they attracted barely any attention.
Well, this is nice, I thought as I went about my business. All the rage that had propelled my previous projects seemed to have melted away. As a result I was far less productive. What’s the point of getting blisters on your feet? The streets will still be there tomorrow! Take a rest. Answer some emails. That’s work too.
On the street I was less aggressive. It’s very easy to stick up posters and not get caught if you simply stick to the safe spots. In the past I’d pushed myself to hit the hard spots, the impossible spots. It’s a great feeling sticking up a poster in broad daylight on the headquarters of a multinational corporation. It’s a great feeling getting away with it by timing your attack to coincide with a delivery truck that blocks the security cameras. It’s a thrill. You get a little ego boost with every conquest. But this time around I just wasn’t feeling the need.
On my last day in Sydney I’d planned to focus on the downtown area. I knew plenty of easy spots and felt sure I could find some new ones. Counterintuitively, crowded areas are often the easiest places to stick up posters because everyone’s sense of personal responsibility is diluted.
My favourite spot in the whole city is near the intersection of George and Bond streets. There’s an awful grey wall that faces south, so all the foot traffic coming up George Street is forced to stare at it. I climbed onto the electricity box at the foot of the wall and stuck an ‘Aboriginal Land’ poster as high as I could. It was the last spot of the day and I was feeling good. But as I hopped down, a guy about my age in a suit looked me right in the eye and said ‘So what?’ as he walked past without pausing.
I’d never had a reaction that was quite so casually dismissive. I was a little taken aback, so I packed up my gear and took off my hi-vis vest and anonymously watched people’s reactions for a while. There was a steady stream of about fifty people a minute coming up George Street. Maybe one in ten looked up at the poster. Every now and then someone would roll their eyes. No one looked surprised. They’d heard the message before. ‘Aboriginal Land … no shit!’ they seemed to say.
The longer I stayed the more disappointed I felt. I didn’t particularly mind that my old posters had become part of the scenery, but my new design wasn’t even interesting to begin with. It didn’t provoke any new thoughts. It wasn’t a catalyst for change. It just seemed to land on that place in people’s mind where hypocrisy is shrugged off and forgotten.
But wasn’t this what I wanted? Hadn’t I deliberately set out to achieve something ‘off to the side’ and ‘uncontroversial’? I was beginning to realise that it wasn’t much of an achievement. The graffiti kid in me wasn’t satisfied. What was the point of assaulting the urban landscape if the passers-by felt nothing? I’d been in Sydney for a full week. I was just as exhausted as I’d been the previous two years. I’d covered a vast amount of territory. But the most fun I’d had was repairing old posters. The ‘Aboriginal Land’ design had no fire in it, and I realised I wasn’t okay with that. I wanted to know what I’d missed. I needed help to understand.
Apologise!
The pattern continued in Melbourne. I set up shop in the YHA on Flinders Street and spent most of my time replacing damaged posters across the city. I’ll admit that the ‘Aboriginal Land’ poster did receive a positive reception in Hosier Lane, but that’s hardly an achievement. People go to Hosier Lane to take wedding photos with murals of celebrities. Elsewhere in Melbourne the poster attracted the same indifference as it had in Sydney.
I had an old guy tear down one of my fresh Monga Khan posters early one morning in Footscray, but that was pretty ordinary. What made his reaction odd was that he ignored a nearby ‘Aboriginal Land’ poster and went straight for Monga Khan. Once he was gone I simply retrieved the torn poster from the ground and stuck it back up again. I was left wondering what made Monga Khan so provocative. Or, more to the point, why didn’t anyone seem to care about ‘Seeking Welcome’ on Aboriginal Land?
Late one night I was back on the Melbourne University campus, happily postering the Morris columns when I finally encountered someone with a strong reaction. I heard a sound behind me and turned to see a man in his early twenties. He was filming me on his phone as he stood about five metres away. Before I could say anything he commenced the interrogation.
‘Peter Drew, when will you apologise for your disrespect of Indigenous culture?’
There was an awkward pause.
‘How’s that?’ I said, looking him up and down. It’s impossible to describe him accurately without evoking the stereotype. This guy was covered in all the latest accoutrements of wokeness. Coloured hair, piercings and esoteric tattoos were just the beginning. Even his posture suggested a kind of limp superiority. His pallid complexion completed the cliché. I had a sudden urge to eat a steak. This guy was beyond white; he was transparent, in every sense. He was also safe behind his camera. In the video he was making, it was just me against his anonymous accusations.
‘When will you apologise for appropriating Indigenous culture? When will you apologise for your attempts to exploit Indigenous culture for the rehabilitation of the very structures that profit from dispossession, mass incarceration and genocide?’ he said with impressive speed.
‘You mean Australia?’ I asked. ‘You want me to apologise to you, for Australia? That’s just fucking ridiculous.’ I turned back to my poster. It was almost done. Just a couple more licks of glue and I’d have no more reason to stick around. But I didn’t want to leave. Part of me was arrogant enough to believe that I could turn this guy around. I heard him step closer before he repeated his accusation.
‘When will you apologise to elders, past and present, for your attempts to rehabilitate Australia’s white supremacy?’
‘Don’t you think you might be overstating that just a little?’ I said, still facing my work. ‘Besides, shouldn’t demands for an apology come with th
e possibility of forgiveness? You don’t seem like you’re interested in forgiveness.’
He took another step closer.
‘When will you apologise to elders, past and present, for your attempts to rehabilitate Australia’s white supremacy?’ he tried for the last time.
‘You seem like a nice guy,’ I said, ‘but I’m just not ready for that level of commitment. We can still fuck, obviously, but no kissing, okay?’
There was a pause. I had finished gluing the poster three times over, so I turned to face him.
‘When will —’ he started, but I cut him off.
‘I should tell you, I have herpes,’ I said. ‘Full-blown genital herpes … I don’t have a break-out right now, but you should still wear a condom.’
He didn’t even blink. He just kept looking at me through his phone as the silence stretched out between us.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve got AIDS,’ he spat out with a smirk, before spinning around and walking away faster than I could think.
I stood dumbfounded under the lamplight, watching him disappear into the night. He’d outdone me at my own game. A big grin crept across my face as I wondered whether I’d ever again meet someone so completely at ease with their own absurdity. I was almost disappointed when the video failed to surface on the internet. Actually, that’s not true. The last thing I want is for anybody to know I have herpes.