by Anita Heiss
‘How many coffees have you had today?’ Denise asked as she scanned the pages.
‘One coffee this morning with Caro and a can of caffeine a while ago to keep me awake. Now it’s just adrenalin.’
‘Well, to be honest, I was also a little excited about your trip and …’ Denise pulled some printed pages out of her orange handbag. She was convinced last winter that orange was the new black. ‘I did some research,’ she said handing me the paper.
‘Really? Wow, that’s very cool, Denise, thanks.’
‘No probs, I had to do some school work anyway and just did a little extra “qualitative research”,’ she made air quotes, ‘to see who the world’s best lovers are.’ She showed me highlighted sections of her printed pages.
I was trying not to look totally gobsmacked that she’d actually researched the world’s best lovers. ‘Oh no, that’s not the research I need, sis, really.’ I shook my head just slightly, trying not to offend my caring, generous, considerate yet misguided friend.
‘Don’t shake your head at me, I’m trying to help.’ I could see that Denise was a little disappointed at my lack of gratitude for her man-hunting assistance.
‘So what did you find?’ I sighed, scanning the pages and feigning interest in the topic when all I wanted to do was talk about Paris and my plan.
‘Well, a general search found the best lovers to be the French, Spanish and Greek.’
Denise had said the magic word, French.
‘Great!’ I responded enthusiastically, to her surprise.
‘Um, excuse me,’ Lauren piped up. ‘Can I please add Native American to that list?’
We all laughed.
‘All these foreign places could do with an Aboriginal cultural injection, I’m sure,’ Denise said, running her fingers down the pages. ‘But before you make a decision you may want to look at this.’ She handed me a googled printout of pics with shirtless men.
‘According to a Cleo survey of fifteen thousand women internationally, German men were considered the worst in bed, the English came second on the shame list because they tended to let women do all the work, and the Spanish were at the top of the list, followed by Brazil and Italy.’
I was amazed by the number of photos she had collected. ‘When did you actually do this? I only decided that I wanted to travel this morning.’
‘I made a quick search before I left home. Caro told me you had brekky this morning and she recommended South America, so Brazil might be the go – look at the photo here under “Latin lovers”.’ Denise opened her eyes wide, nodding yes, anticipating my agreement.
‘I guess I should look too, just to support you,’ Lauren said cheekily peering over the page. ‘I love Wyatt, but that doesn’t mean the odd perve isn’t allowed.’
‘You are seriously crazy,’ I said, looking at both of them.
‘Where do you want to go then?’ Lauren asked.
‘Well, rest assured I’m not that interested in going to Germany or England, it’s bad enough being in a colony as it is. Spain, Brazil and Italy do spark some interest though, but …’
Before I had a chance to say I wanted to go to Paris, Lauren cut in.
‘You did a year of Spanish at CIT so it makes sense to go there.’
‘That’s true. I’m not fluent, but neither am I useless.’ I looked at the pages again. ‘I have to be honest with you. I’ve pretty much decided I want to go to Paris.’
‘Ah, Paris,’ Denise said. ‘Who wouldn’t be drawn to the architecture: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame Cathedral, and of course you’d love the Louvre too.’
I didn’t have time to respond to the list of iconic buildings or add a few of my own as Lauren jumped in.
‘Oh my god, the food! Endless pastries, croissants, French bread, cheese, oh, and the macarons! All to die for. Tell me you want to go for the food, please? We both know it’s better than Canberra and definitely New York!’
Lauren was known as ‘the palate of the posse’ – more interested in dessert menus than the wine menu when we went out for dinner.
‘Let’s face it, a girl’s gotta eat, and dress, and Paris is the fashion capital of the world. You do need some decent clothes to go with your fabulous shoe collection. You can’t be Koori Bradshaw with only half the wardrobe.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, half-hurt, but Lauren didn’t notice, she was too excited.
‘And let’s not forget it’s the city of love, also, just as an aside,’ Lauren added with a wink.
‘A coincidence, as it were.’ Denise embellished the moment.
‘You know, you could do a few cities on a Contiki tour, so you could do Paris and go through Spain if you wanted and then onto Greece?’ Lauren suggested.
‘Or you could go backpacking,’ Denise quickly added.
‘I’m not going Blackpacking. And Contiki? Please. I like my creature comforts, and I am NOT prepared to share a dorm with strangers snoring and farting and peeing in the shower and shagging when they think everyone’s asleep. God, how awful.’ I screwed up my face. ‘What’s worse than not having sex yourself is having to listen to other people having it. The thought of that does not inspire me at all.’
I knew I sounded like a Bourgeois Black. I didn’t like that label, and I wasn’t the only one in our group who would get tagged with it. Lauren never said it, but she was a target also, as were Emma and Caro. It was a common practice in our community: any educated woman with an interest in fashion and world travel had to deal with tall-poppy syndrome – oddly enough, the ones trying to cut us down were other Black women.
Lauren and I often discussed the issue of Black woman on Black woman criticism, confused that we were supposed to get educated and get good jobs and have decent, healthy lifestyles only to be condemned by some for selling out when we did. We were apparently ‘living like whitefellas’.
Well, I didn’t want to live like my mum did in Moree with no rights until she was thirty, not even allowed to go in the local pool or the club. Nor did I want to be like my grandparents, who were poverty-stricken. They wanted me to have all the creature comforts they never had, and that also meant seeing the world. I’m sure they’d be happy for me not to Blackpack either.
‘So what’s your plan then?’ Lauren asked with heightened interest.
‘If you look at this list,’ I pulled a final page from my big black folder, ‘you’ll see that I’ve been trying to find ways of incorporating some professional development into the trip. I know travel is educational anyway, but I’ve decided I want to do something meaningful, like you did at the Smithsonian and explore a new city and culture.’
‘Or cultures, like in New York,’ Lauren added.
I was about to unveil my grand plan when Denise cut in. ‘Could you find something like the NAG in Spain? Their Indigenous population is the Basque people,’ Denise was eager to help. ‘The library has the entire school doing a project on the region this term.’
‘Of course,’ Lauren added. ‘They’re around the western end of the Pyrénées, near north-eastern Spain and south-western France. How gorgeous would that country be? They might have organisations you could work in.’
‘Sounds like a good option, Libs: Spanish men, Frenchmen, wine, food and salsa. I’m almost jealous,’ Denise was still trying to make sure my trip involved the UN of men.
‘No!’ I said, not able to contain myself any longer. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for then? Fire away, sis, something better than working in the Pyrénées must be bloody amazing.’
‘It is better than amazing, it is a MUST! Deadly exciting, cultural, challenging, even sexy,’ I looked at Denise, ‘seeing as you have made it clear that guys obviously need to be included in the mix.’ I knew I’d have to pretend to have an interest in potential romance if I was to get complete support from Denise. Lauren, on the other hand, would understand the artistic importance of my idea.
‘What is the big idea then?’ They wer
e both impatient.
‘The Musée du Quai Branly in Paris!’
‘Oh my gawd! Of course. The Musée du Crème Brûlée! Perfect, why didn’t I think of it?’ Lauren was so excited she stood up, gestured with her hands, sat down, slapped herself on the forehead in a rather dramatic fashion and said, ‘Genius, Libs, genius!’
‘What is this museum of custard that is such a genius idea?’ Denise asked.
‘It’s the latest cultural museum in Paris, the legacy left behind by past President of France, Jacques Chirac. There’s a fantastic Aboriginal collection curated by Brenda Croft and Hetti Perkins,’ I said knowingly.
‘It was gifted by the Australian government and opened in 2006.’ Lauren and I were working in tandem.
I looked upwards. ‘The ceiling in some parts of the building showcases the artwork of Gulumbu Yunupingu from north-east Arnhem Land.’
‘Kind of like an Aboriginal Michelangelo!’ Denise was impressed.
‘I think there’s an opportunity to develop a short-term project to take to them. The French, that is,’ I said enthusiastically to Lauren, desperate for her support and good wishes. ‘If I can come up with a concept and find some funding support, I think Emma would approve.’
‘I know Emma, and I reckon she’d love the whole idea.’
‘I can do this.’ I was determined.
‘What kind of exhibition do you want to do? We need to brainstorm. And then we can work out how we can massage it into something Crème Brûlée won’t be able to say no to.’ Lauren was getting even more excited than me about my potential trip abroad.
I thought hard. ‘I love program managing, but I thrive on the actual educational tours I do at the NAG. I enjoy giving lectures to uni students, the sessions I run with schoolkids, even the mums-and-bubs days are growing. I’m good at the face-to-face work. I love the interaction with the public and seeing light bulbs go on when I talk about the warriors and activists hanging in Kings Hall, then walking them through the temporary exhibitions.’
‘That’s where you’re on fire, sis,’ Lauren said sincerely.
‘And I’m just about to sign-off on the curriculum resources we’ve developed for teachers. With that in mind, I thought I could put together an educational package to go with whatever we planned to offer the musée?’
‘This is perfect.’ Lauren rubbed her hands together as if the project was hers.
‘Hey, why are you so excited? You’re not getting this gig. Manhattan Dreaming was yours, remember, so Paris Dreaming is MINE!’ I laughed at my own words but there was a noticeable tone of ownership in the claim. I was already obsessed with the project, which in my mind was always going to be better than being obsessed with a bloke.
‘Let’s just say, with the musée, you might even be one-upping me and the Smithsonian.’
‘Loz, you know I’m not trying to one-up you, sis, don’t you? I just want to do something extraordinary, I need the challenge.’
‘I know, I was kidding.’ Lauren and I had always been a great team because we weren’t competitive. It was good that we worked in different areas of the visual arts world, even though we collaborated together on projects. We’d seen good friendships lost due to vindictiveness and unnecessary rivalry, especially amongst the artists themselves. Lauren and I each gave our careers everything, but we’d both reached a point of maturity and wisdom to know that we’d never put a job before our friendship. We were both highly employable and could work anywhere with our skills.
‘Not to be the spoiler or anything,’ Denise said cautiously. ‘And even though I’m clearly jealous of both of you with your exciting international lives, but what about your boss, Emma? Do you reckon she’ll be in on this? Won’t she have to, you know, let you go?’
‘Good point, Miss Denise!’ Whenever Denise acted as a voice of reason amidst the passionate dreaming and scheming Lauren and I indulged in, we referred to her like a teacher.
‘Emma is huge on the internationalisation of the NAG. It’s something we discussed when she proposed my fellowship to the Smithsonian. We just need to build a case along those lines. You’ll need to do a pitch, Libs.’ Lauren was like me in many ways and knew how to strategise.
‘I know, I’ve already been thinking about it. Emma is smart and savvy so we’ll have to be strategic and work out what will not only be appealing to the musée but what will benefit the NAG most. Emma’s big on our own growth,’ I said, putting a pen behind my ear. ‘And so am I!’
‘This is good, Libs, I think you’re right on the money here.’
I put my hand in the middle of the table and led the cry: ‘Yes, I can.’
Lauren put her hand on top of mine and Denise put hers on Lauren’s. My personal decision had been endorsed by my dearest friends. I was leaving for Paris to work at the Musée du Crème Brûlée. I just needed to let Emma know I was going, and the French know I was coming.
For the next week, I was flat out at work doing my usual lectures and tours for uni students, school groups and tourists visiting the gallery. Each talk aided my thinking and gave me ideas for what I had codenamed my ‘Pitch 4 Paris’ or P4P for short.
I always took on board feedback provided at the end of a tour and the forms visitors filled out voluntarily and placed in the feedback box. I took special notice of the constructive comments from teachers and students to help improve the education program, but mostly the comments were of gratitude about what visitors enjoyed most in their time at the NAG. I pulled out some quotes from international visitors to add to my P4P.
My working day had grown to include up to ninety minutes of ‘answering’ time each day, devoted solely to emails and phone calls to researchers, students and members of the public. Some were doing assignments on Australian history and politics which included Aboriginal Australians. Others were doing profiles on artists or wanting to know where to buy art direct from communities.
It was amazing how my ‘public interest’ workload had increased since Kevin Rudd delivered the national Apology to the Stolen Generations on February 13, 2008. That symbolic gesture in the Australian parliament somehow opened the pathway for increased communication between Black and white Australians. It was as if Rudd had endorsed a greater interest in Aboriginal art and culture, or so it seemed from my desk anyway.
As I compiled all the positive feedback, I took a moment to reflect on the enormous job I was doing at the gallery and, in fact, how well I was doing it. Caro often said that overachievers didn’t stop to recognise what they do because they’re busy just ‘doing’ it. She’d been seeing a life coach for some years to help reach her own professional goals – she was being headhunted by universities internationally, the latest offer coming from the Faculty of Law at the University of Barcelona.
The only thing keeping her in Canberra was an on-again off-again relationship with another lawyer. The life coach hadn’t helped her with that issue, but all the other advice Caro had been given eventually trickled down to me. I started making monthly notes on what challenges I had faced and what I’d achieved. It was a worthwhile task and the records were going to be useful when doing my P4P to Emma.
On top of my usual duties, I also had to go through a draft report on a commissioned review of the NAG which included a future marketing strategy. With my experience in programming, Emma knew I’d see any flaws or gaps in the report and I was the last set of eyes to look at it before she would sign-off and the implementation process would begin.
A draft catalogue also sat on my desk for proofing. I’d done a copyediting course as part of my professional development early on in the job, which now meant that everyone came to me with proofing work. Being competent and reliable could often translate simply into creating more work for myself. But now, all the times I had said yes to proofing were going to pay off, because I knew about every aspect of the gallery and what was going on where and with whom.
As I continued to draft up my P4P at home most nights, I worked in a draft schedule and budget and dis
sected all the possible benefits to the gallery, to me personally and professionally, and to the Indigenous arts community at large. I was inspiring myself just by writing up the proposal and I knew that the idea had legs, and strong legs at that.
I wondered how I didn’t think of it earlier but, like Lauren’s fellowship to New York, the idea arrived when the timing was right – when I decided I wanted to go abroad. Perhaps the marketing strategy would’ve unravelled the project idea anyway, even if the multicultural festival in Civic hadn’t inspired me.
I had the ability and experience on paper and in practice, but I needed to have faith in the universe; I’d just have to throw it up to her in my usual fashion and wait to see what she threw back. But if I could attach some practical research to that faith, then I knew it would give a good shove in the right direction.
I was flying solo for the week, Lauren having left for Tassie as planned on Tuesday. She was going to be there until Friday, meeting with local shell necklace makers about an exhibition we wanted to host at the NAG. She also had meetings with Arts Tasmania about some long-term partnerships. There was no time to talk about the P4P while Lauren was away because her days were scheduled tightly and I knew her nights would be spent with Wyatt as she showed him some of the Apple Isle.
Apart from the marketing strategy and the P4P – which was taking up all my spare time – I was focusing on my own program budget and biographies of guest speakers for floor talks for the upcoming twelve months.
Emma had also asked me to help with a Ministerial response to the lack of funding to the gallery in the last federal budget. She highlighted the income we generated and measured it against the funding given to opera in comparison. It was great we knew someone in the Greens political party who was trying to behave like an arts minister, because the one we had was useless and needed to answer some questions.
I liked working with Emma on Ministerials and was impressed with the level of professionalism and dignity she always displayed when she was stating the painfully obvious to ministers and government bean counters. Lauren wanted Emma’s job one day, but I just wanted to be like Emma. The way she managed staff and made her visions for the gallery into realities meant I had a great role model and mentor.