Paris Dreaming

by Anita Heiss

  ‘And when you are ready, just across the street Le Café Turgot makes the best coffee in the 20th. I go there every day. Tell them I sent you.’

  I wondered what Michel might’ve thought about that.

  I spent the afternoon unpacking and making my apartment my home. I peeled the massive amounts of bubble wrap from a painting of a goanna – my totem – done by a local Gamilaroi artist and hung it directly opposite the doorway. I put Archie Roach on and listened to his mellow tones, and paused a moment to remember his partner, the late Ruby Hunter – a special life lost too soon.

  The only place I could find to hang my firey calendar was inside a kitchen cupboard door. Hidden but not out of reach. I just needed to put some food in there as well.

  By the time I had everything out of my cases, the place was full and already looked lived in. I was about to head to the supermarket when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘I am sorry to bother you, Mademoiselle Libs.’ It was Dom holding a black poodle.

  ‘Not at all, was my bad singing bothering you? The music too loud?’

  ‘Not at all. My wife, Catherine, she made me come here to say she really likes the man singing and could she perhaps one day borrow your CD?’

  ‘Oh, please take it,’ I said. ‘I have his other works to listen to on my iPod.’

  Dom smiled enthusiastically. ‘Oh, Catherine will want to cook you something now for this. And she will be very happy with me also.’

  ‘Well then, we will all be happy, won’t we?’ I smiled. ‘And I’m extra happy your English is so good.’

  ‘That is because I have only English-speaking people in this flat for twenty years. I had to learn and so did Catherine, and we get to practise with our grandchildren who learn it at school. Perhaps you will come have coffee and speak to us in English so we can practise more?’ Dom looked hopeful.

  ‘Of course, I’d love to.’ I couldn’t believe how I’d lucked out with the apartment and Dom.

  My landlord left content that he could make his wife happy and I headed to the supermarket, taking the long route so I could pick up a hand-sewn tablecloth and an art deco vase plus matching bowl from the markets. They were housewarming gifts for myself and a small attempt to Paris-ify my apartment.

  I struggled up my stairs, carrying the gifts as well as all the essentials, including five of the most popular cheeses as recommended by Caro – Brie de Meaux, Roquefort, Camembert, Cantal and Bleu d’Auvergne. I had also picked up some cheap roses and a plant to give some life to the place.

  I struggled still getting over the jet lag and planned on an early night. I had bread and cheese for dinner, washed down with a housewarming toast to myself. I ironed my clothes for work, organised my papers and NAG promotional kit to take into the musée, and sat down to send an email home to the girls before I went to bed.

  I woke up at 5 am after a solid night’s sleep, eager to start work. I decided to catch the bus rather than the train and waited nervously for the #69 from Pyrénées–Bagnolet.

  There was an air of friendliness amongst the locals at the bus stop, but no real conversation going on. I was trying to take in every action, smell, and sound. I watched the road workers fixing a pothole, postal deliveries across the road, well-coiffeured women with beautiful skin strolling down the street looking effortlessly glamorous, while shops opened their shutters and doors.

  I boarded the spacious, air-conditioned bus, said bonjour to the driver, who only nodded a reply, and punched my weekly ticket into the slot. I was on my way to the musée, to my new job. I was excited and only a little nervous. My Paris working life was about to begin.

  As the bus made its way across town, I stared out the window at couples, groups of teenagers and business people all sitting on sidewalks having their morning coffee and croissant. What a life! I exclaimed silently in my head.

  When we stopped to let people off, I saw a young girl hug and kiss her father goodbye before he ran off to work and the girl and mother walked away in another direction. I momentarily pondered whether my own life would be like that one day, but my thoughts were broken when I saw a Eurasian child speaking French. My immediate thought was how cute, maybe even exotic, but such multiculturalism was supposed to be ‘normal’ in France, so why would I be surprised?

  I thought back to Paris’ racially motivated riots of 2005 and 2007 and segued quickly to our own in Cronulla and the ugly face of intolerance. I was hoping that this city presented a more acceptable society for me to live in, albeit briefly.

  I got off the bus at the Louvre and had plenty of time to eat before the walk to the musée, so I went into Cojean, one of the few places where food looked healthy and tasty without the deliciously buttery, creamy or fattening extras that French cuisine was famous for.

  I had a fresh fruit juice, yoghurt and bircher muesli, and checked out the fashionable looking space, set in an old building. White laminated tables and benches, grey and chocolate-brown leather and chrome stools, massive silver ball lights. I felt like I was having breakfast in a nightclub. The salads and baguettes looked so good, I was already imagining what I’d order next time. I’d found a new interest in food since landing in the city and every mouthful of my muesli made me think of Lauren and how she’d love the French palate.

  I strolled along the Seine, crossed over the Pont Royal, turned right on the other side, and walked along quai Branly. I followed the directions I’d been given by Canelle to the staff entrance at the back of the building. I climbed up the stairs to the reception desk and while I waited for Canelle to collect me, watched couriers come and go, two people manning one phone on the front desk, visitors waiting to be served, but no-one stressing out except me because no-one seemed to be able to find Canelle.

  I calmed down when I saw Judy Watson’s two halves with bailer shell (2002) reflected above me. I couldn’t believe I would be greeted each morning by the rich Prussian blue of her canvas made into an enormous installation. She had won the Moét et Chandon Prize and numerous others for a reason. Watson was the perfect example of why I wanted to bring more Indigenous artists to the world stage. There was so much talent in our community and it was easily measured when you saw such stunning works. I took a deep breath, lost in a moment of awe as I considered the journey of just one woman from Waanyi country becoming part of the interior of this extraordinary institution.

  ‘Hello,’ a soft voice only just broke my thoughts. A gorgeous black woman stood before me, smiling. She had black hair slicked to her head, full lips with glittery lip gloss, dark brown eyes and fingers covered with bling. She was shorter than me and was wearing black pants and top with flat red shoes.

  ‘Bonjour, Elizabeth,’ she said warmly. ‘Je suis Canelle. It is so wonderful to have you here. Everyone is very excited.’ She kissed both my cheeks.

  ‘Bonjour, je suis Libby Cutmore,’ I said in response, emphasising the ‘Libby’, concerned that perhaps she had confused me with someone else.

  ‘Of course you are, but Libby comes from Elizabeth, oui?’

  ‘Oui,’ I said, although no-one had ever called me Elizabeth. Not since kindergarten and only when I was in trouble.

  ‘Elizabeth is so much more elegant, don’t you think?’ She raised her eyebrows, seeking my agreement, and her red scarf was so perfectly tied around her neck, I couldn’t argue.

  ‘Oui.’ I’d just agreed to change my name, what the hell was I doing? I was thrown off balance but gathered my senses quickly. ‘I am very excited to be here also.’

  ‘I love your shoes,’ Canelle said, looking at the black Kenneth Cole sandals I’d picked up when I’d been in New York visiting Lauren. But my feet were already killing me.

  ‘Merci beaucoup.’ I wished Lauren could’ve heard the compliment about my fashion style. She would’ve been impressed.

  Canelle smiled. ‘I need a coffee first, and you?’

  ‘Oui.’ Hell, I’d need to say more than ‘oui’ or she’d think I would need to be called boring Libby and no
t elegant Elizabeth.

  I followed Canelle to a coffee machine downstairs below the staff entrance, which turned out to be a hub of activity with people catching up on their caffeine hits. Senior staff, curators, administrative staff and labourers were all chatter and laughter.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ she said, taking me to the smoking area – which I was surprised to find also had artwork near it. I laughted to myself at how the French could make any place look cultured and artistic, even the smoking room. My distaste for smoke remained though.

  ‘This is a great place to catch up and get all the news or share news, it’s still all work here,’ Canelle advised on exhaling. ‘That’s what we call the musicology tower,’ she pointed behind me, ‘it goes up every floor and has instruments from all over the world.’ I turned to see the massive glass edifice rising from one floor through to the next.

  After her cigarette, we continued our tour of the building and Canelle briefed me on the basics of the organisation. We went up a lift, along corridors lined with what looked like average, yet new, offices. We made our way back via the staff entrance again to the museum entrance, where patrons were going through security and into the main exhibitions. All the while, Canelle kept talking. She was from Guadeloupe and so at least we had something in common in terms of being people ‘of colour’ in a colonising country.

  ‘There’s around two hundred and seventy staff here, including trainers, cleaners, caterers, security and electricians. I’m in charge of the Oceania collection and I work alongside Philippe Peltier, the curator who worked with Hetti and Brenda on the original commission, as you would know.’ We turned a corner. ‘I secured the job because my English was good. You have to be bilingual to work here.’

  I took a deep breath, knowing my French still wasn’t that great. We walked past the bookshop and when I turned from the window display, I looked ahead to see Jean Nouvel’s architecture from a different angle.

  Canelle continued, ‘We have shows at the musée in the springtime and the summertime. We recently had a Hawaiian dance show, and a South African choreographer with musical instruments made of bamboo. It’s a wonderful space for a whole range of international work. That’s why I love it here.’

  We went back inside the musée and she directed me forward.

  ‘This is the school groups and workshops reception. You’ll be speaking mainly to French students, mostly from around Paris. You can do it in English, of course, but you must talk slowly.’

  ‘I thought perhaps there would be a large international audience?’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound disappointed.

  ‘Actually, about eighty per cent of our visitors are French, and mainly from Paris. Which is opposite to the Louvre, where only forty per cent are French.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ I was surprised.

  ‘Well, we have items in our collection that are international, that the local French population haven’t seen. And we are relatively new.’

  I nodded with understanding. ‘I get it. The Louvre is what the rest of the world wants to see, and the rest of the world is what the French want to see. Sounds like a good balance really.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Canelle took me to meet the head of human resources to get my paperwork sorted, and as we walked I tried to remember every turn, lift and stairwell and the names of various staff we met along the way. There were five floors and three office buildings in the musée. It made the NAG look like a cubby house. I was trying to recall which lift went to what floor as we met the curators of each section. All the while, I waited patiently to see the artwork-adorned ceilings.

  In yet another lift Canelle introduced me to the marketing manager, Adrien: short, balding, lean, round face, bushy eyebrows, piercing grey eyes and cigarette-stained teeth.

  ‘Bonjour, Elizabeth, we are very pleased to have you here,’ he said, looking me up and down, ‘and so young to be working on such an important project.’

  I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic and questioning my credentials or actually flirting with me.

  ‘I am well-qualified to do the job, Adrien, and I am very excited about being here. I’m looking forward to the opening of Authentication.’

  He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Of course, we are looking forward to the exhibition as well.’ I looked at his hand on my shoulder and he removed it. ‘And we need to talk about the marketing and publicity. I have some journalists lined up to speak to you. We have a release ready to go out.’

  ‘Excellent! May I see it first, please?’

  Adrien used the same hand from my shoulder to almost shoo me away with a flick of his wrist.

  ‘What for? It is a media release, we do them all the time.’

  With a hint of confusion and some frustration in my voice I said, ‘It’s just that back home we always have the relevant curator read the copy before it is released, it’s a process we follow. We generally have a quote by the curator as well. Would you like me to write something?’

  ‘Elizabeth, it is my job to know the language to use with French media.’ Adrien was clearly pissed off.

  ‘I’m sure Elizabeth understands your role, Adrien,’ Canelle came to my aid.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Adrien, I don’t question your knowledge of the media at all, but I don’t think you could possibly know what I would say. If you could please send me the draft I will insert my own quote.’

  The lift door opened just in time to prevent a major argument and he exited. I felt hot with embarrassment and anger that already I had a white man wanting to write my words. I understood that organisations everywhere worked differently, but this was just plain wrong. I was worried what Canelle might think.

  ‘Do not take it personally, he is like that with everyone,’ she said, before I had a chance to ask. ‘He is very good with the media, but sometimes thinks he is the one that runs this place. He is only on contract here while our head of marketing is on leave. I think he likes flexing his male muscle while his very strong female boss is away. I will make sure you get the draft release.’

  My blood stopped simmering towards a boil when we reached Michael Riley’s ‘cloud’ series along the ramp wall on the ground floor. It was what I had waited and wanted to see more than anything since reading about it back at the NAG. It took my breath away to see his iconic images – particularly the boomerang and the feather – so large and so dominant in this amazing institution. The site was beautiful and I knew that no matter whether viewers got the intended messages of the artist or they translated their own message, everyone would walk away having felt an emotional reaction to the work. At that moment, I had never been more proud of being a Blackfella working in the arts.

  The tour continued into the Claude Lévi-Strauss Theatre, the cinema and the range of venues for cultural education activities. We finished at the café and I was already overwhelmed with what I had seen and heard.

  ‘I must go to another meeting. You should have a coffee now and then read this.’ Canelle handed me a press kit titled Arts and Civilisation of Africa, Asia, Oceania and the Americas. ‘Spend the rest of the day going through the collections slowly, getting to know the layout. There is much to see.’

  Canelle walked off and I sat at an outside table with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. I couldn’t believe this would be my life for the next five months. I vowed to sit there every day for coffee and then looked at the prices on the menu. It was equivalent to $9 for a cappuccino, $8 for a Diet Coke, and the same price for a rosé! I may as well have a wine for that. I decided that breakfast once a week at Le Café Branly would be my indulgence, my working gift to myself.

  I ordered a café crème and the corbeille de viennoiseries – an assortment of three mini-pastries. I felt particularly French and very, very lucky – much like a Very Important Indigenous Person or VIIP as Emma would say. I took my camera out of my bag and snapped my coffee, cakes and the tower to email to Lauren. I knew she would be green with envy, especially when I told her ab
out the coffee and chocolate special they had there. I’d try that next time.

  As Canelle recommended, I spent the rest of the day weaving in and out of the exhibitions, acquainting myself with the space and the collections. I knew it would take me weeks, probably months to look at the displays fully.

  I liked the peacefulness of the MQB. The NAG had more energy and was more brightly lit throughout, but the musée was enjoyable in a different way. It was almost sombre. It was dimly lit, which I thought was a slight contradiction given the whole point was to ‘showcase’ and ‘see’ things. But the lighting, layout and design worked for the various collections.

  Visitors to the musée took in all the exhibitions by following one long, winding ramp as opposed to stairs. The space was contemporary, although it held materials, artefacts, objects and artwork that belonged to lands and times far more traditional and ancient.

  I was immediately struck by many of the unique design features of the museum. It had small video screens inlaid in the leather-covered walls, complementing the engravings and images. Exhibition text was also in Braille. There were tiny alcoves with benches to sit on, so I did. I imagined I was the typical audience. I listened to the audio, and then drifted back home, wondering how everyone was, before mentally slapping myself for wasting time daydreaming – I could save that for when I was back in Canberra. But the darkness of the space made me want to lie down, close my eyes and nap. I couldn’t believe I was still jet-lagged.

  I went to the multimedia mezzanine, where there were more video screens and benches. I immediately started thinking of ways we could incorporate something similar into the NAG. In the mezzanine there was an emphasis on anthropology in the traditional sense and I felt slightly unnerved, especially when I read on one of the plaques that ‘Anthropology builds the other – gives a different perspective.’ Another quote said that anthropology was ‘seeing others with others’ eyes’.