This One is Ours

by Kate O'Donnell

  ‘Does too, you poetic little cliché.’ Her tone is condescending, but with a warm humour that reminds me of our mum.

  ‘Anyway, I hate him.’ I start walking off.

  ‘Don’t bother hating him, Sof.’

  I glare at her.

  ‘Or do!’ She holds her hands up in mock surrender. ‘Yes! What a dick.’

  ‘Exactly. I hate him.’

  If there were a voice-over to my life right now, it would probably say: She doesn’t hate him. She feels silly for having fallen for him. She feels betrayed on a visceral, artistic level.

  Though I wish it hadn’t been Olivier, it is still somehow special that we ran into someone I know. On the street. By chance. In Paris. This city feels like home more than it ever has before, more than I ever thought it might.

  Back at the apartment, there’s something different as soon as we open the door. Music is coming from somewhere. It’s a fast, disjointed tune – I don’t know much about jazz or whatever this is, but even I can tell it’s a song well-played.

  With her door open, we can see Delphine playing the keyboard. Her back is to us, but she’s playing with her entire body. The notes shouldn’t work together, but they do.

  ‘She’s incredible,’ says Hana, her voice low and full of wonder.

  All I can do is nod and listen. We stand there until the song is finished, then I tug Hana’s sleeve and pull her into the kitchen.

  It’s not long before Delphine comes out. I can see that she wants to ask how long we’ve been home, but I want to let her keep the song to herself. She’s shared so much with me already; I ought to let her have this.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I say. ‘Delphine, meet Hana – my sister.’

  I almost feel guilty for a moment, like I’ve replaced my sister with another. But as soon as I see them together – Hana warmly leaning in to faire les bises with a confidence I wish she’d trained in me, and Delphine relaxing into a chair and pouring out three cups of tea – I know there’s nothing to worry about.

  With Léon working at his atelier and Claudette late with a réunion (‘It means meeting,’ I explain to Hana), it’s me this time who takes the Tupperware from the fridge and puts together a meal for us all while my sister and my host sister talk. Travel, politics, food, work.

  ‘But why do you work there if they are so immoral?’ Delphine asks, and I wait for my sister to jump down her throat.

  But Hana just shakes her head. ‘The money makes me feel safe somehow. We didn’t have that when I was young. But I have an escape plan. I just hope I’ll be brave enough to put it into action.’

  Delphine doesn’t push her further.

  I want to show Hana I support her, so I say, ‘I think if we keep talking about what’s important then you’ll get out when you need to. We just have to remember not to get sucked into the Spectacle.’

  ‘Honestly, where’d this part of you appear from, little sister?’ Hana smiles. ‘Show me what you’ve been working on.’

  And so I bring out my folio and show her my Lonely Homesick Maps, my Panic Maps, and my ideas for the exhibition.

  ‘Oh là,’ says Delphine and leans across to brush some dirt from a page. ‘That’s from the garden. Sorry.’

  ‘I meant to say,’ says Hana. ‘Did Mum tell you the trees are starting to sprout again out at the Bunyip property?’

  She shows us a photo, and there’s green peeping in everywhere. My heart still aches at the space where the house once was, but if the birds and the bugs and the wombats are back then maybe everything’s going to be all right.

  The next morning, Hana and I walk across the 16th and the 5th arrondissements and cross the river at the Pont de la Tournelle. We video chat with our parents so they can see us together in front of (well, at the back of) the Notre Dame, its scaffolding supporting the restoration.

  We eventually arrive at the Panthéon. It is cavernous and church-like. I’m not sure if it is, or was at some point in time, actually a church.

  There is a column that reads: ‘To the writers who died for France.’ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is buried here. We read The Little Prince at school in year seven so I know who Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is.

  ‘I can’t help thinking we’d never see this kind of monument back home,’ whispers Hana.

  I’d been thinking the same thing. First of all, which writers would be willing to die for Australia? And second of all, I doubt the country would care so much about their sacrifice. Our heroes are sportspeople, soldiers, Aussie battlers. Artists are never battlers (except, of course, they are). Seeing an honour bestowed upon the people who worked to bring beauty to their country makes a little lump form in my throat. I don’t think I’m particularly patriotic, but I want to believe I will have something to offer in my lifetime that will bring beauty to my country, my community. What will my country look like by the time I’m ready to beautify it? I’m still learning!

  I suddenly realise that it is May, and I will be going home at the end of May. And I realise how, when I leave the Arts Plastiques, the class will go on to learn more techniques and styles and theories, and I won’t because I’ll be at home in Australia.

  I am starting to dread it. What if I can never come back to Paris?

  What am I going to submit for the exhibition?

  How can we reverse climate change?

  What will my future look like?

  But I can’t think about it.

  I have to think about it.

  In the middle of the Panthéon is Foucault’s pendulum. It’s a gold ball on the end of a long, long string or wire or something, and it demonstrates the earth’s rotation.

  It is hypnotic. We stand there – for I’m not even sure how long – and watch the world turn.

  The next morning, Hana leaves.

  ‘Headfirst,’ she says, hugging me.

  ‘Headfirst,’ I reply.

  At Arts Plastiques, my heart burns a little when I see Olivier, but not as much as it did before. I feel kind of sad for myself, but it’s not even sadness so much as pity for him. It is just so disappointing! My heart burns with … not anger … but frustration and determination. Maybe the burning is my voice trying to come out.

  I channel my frustration into working with new and different mediums.

  Véronique recommended I look up American artist Keith Haring. In the 1980s he would go around the subway stations and draw speedy artworks on empty advertising spaces. He had to work fast, so he wouldn’t get caught. ‘He wouldn’t lift his piece of chalk from the surface while he was drawing,’ explained Véronique. ‘Just one fluid line. I think practising this would be good for you.’

  And so I have a go at chalk drawings on the ground. Maybe this is how I’ll have my say! I start by re-creating some of my card sketches in the cour (courtyard) of Léon and Claudette’s apartment, and the kids from the building come and dance around them. I let the kids use my chalk to do their own pictures.

  I don’t think I am close to being able to chalk in public, but maybe I am being too hard on myself. There’s something to love about it as a medium. It’s really vibrant if you choose the right colours.

  Not only does it look fantastic, but it washes away. Perfect for someone like me who’s trying to find her voice and figure out what she wants to say. If you mess it up, it won’t last long. And if you change your mind about what it is you want to say, because you’ve learned something new or educated yourself better, that picture you made is long gone.

  Chalk is the opposite of the internet.

  Of course, someone may photograph your chalk drawing, post it online, and it could be seen by thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of people, but that kind of stomps on my point.

  Out on the streets there’s protest afoot. ‘We’re going to make signs,’ says Delphine. ‘Want to come and help again?’

 
‘Yes!’ I reply. ‘But do you want to help me with something on the way?’ I try to keep a gleeful giggle out of my voice.

  She rolls her eyes at me, but when I’m finished explaining she says, ‘I’m in.’

  We fill two plastic bags with pink paint. ‘You just need to hold it like this,’ I say, showing her how I’ve let my bag hang discreetly at my side.

  Once we’re outside we poke a hole in the bottom of each bag and let a line flow out as we jog towards the park, where her friends are meeting to finalise plans.

  ‘What’s the point of this again?’ Delphine asks.

  ‘Well,’ I start, ‘Debord says that the Spectacle is immune to subversion, right? I was looking at examples of culture jamming: like those Uncle Sam posters that actually say anti-American things. Or all the Obama posters. It’s satire, but it’s visual. It uses a well-known brand and takes aim at its intentions. Flips them on their head.’

  ‘Like an “Enjoy Capitalism” sign instead of “Enjoy Coca Cola”.’

  ‘Exactly!’ I say, and in my excitement I accidentally squeeze the bag and a big gloop of paint plops out. ‘Whoops. There are a lot of logo examples. But after a minute, these “subversive” things also lose their meaning. I just thought this might be a little less intentional, a little more permanent.’

  ‘I like it,’ says Delphine. ‘The Spectacle kind of acts like the immune system for late capitalism. We need to attack the system.’

  I interpret that as we have to keep fighting! We have to work together. We have to create together. Tear it up together. Sous les pavés, la plage! Under the paving stones, the beach …

  The line of paint marks the path from here to there, from me to we.

  And what does it mean?

  Absolutely nothing.

  But it might get people thinking.

  That refrain, now present in the back of my mind whenever I let it out from behind the dreamy good things: remember, the world is ending/remember, the world is ending.

  Painting a meaningless line of pink paint along the footpath silenced the voice a little bit.

  Making signs and getting ready for the protest helps more.

  It’s getting closer to summertime so we set up our sign-making station in the Luxembourg Gardens. I’m wearing a sleeveless dress – I’d put a skivvy on underneath it this morning, but the sun shone its beautiful face so I had to duck into some public loos to take it off.

  We paint slogans – I paint the same one a couple of times and I can’t help thinking of the possibilities of printmaking. Like the Atelier Populaire!

  I plan to ask Véronique if the atelier has a screen-printing frame. I think I can make this happen.

  When I wake up on the morning of the manif I have an exceptional amount of messages on my phone. All from one person.

  Crow is absolutely buoyant.

  The march went so well, she writes. Even better than last time. She’s sent photo after photo and even video, and I watch the clips of passionate shouting under a clear Melbourne sky, and see the placards that read:

  EXPLAIN TO FUTURE GENERATIONS ‘IT WAS GOOD 4 THE ECONOMY!’

  HOW MANY HUMANS DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE THE GLOBE? (written within a drawing of a light globe)

  CLIMATE EMERGENCY IN OUR SUNBURNT COUNTRY

  And the one that smacks me right in the heart: WHY STUDY FOR A FUTURE THAT WON’T EXIST?

  As I look, I begin crying in an unstoppable way that feels almost independent of my own body – no! Independent of my brain. It is just something my body has to do.

  Crow’s last message pings through: Come on, Sof. Now it’s your turn.

  In Paris in 1968, students and young people went on strike.

  They were striking because of an outdated university system and a government they believed to be old-fashioned and behind the times. The strikes and the protests escalated. Within weeks this energy had gathered support from industry, and it wasn’t long before strikes and protests stopped the entire country.

  ‘My grandmother said people thought the war was back,’ says Delphine. ‘They were scared to go out to buy groceries. But the students were fighting for change.’

  There’s a French expression – Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  THIS.

  When I first learned about May ’68 it was the art that got me in. I was seduced by printmaking. Now I think I’m starting to understand the message, the drive – the urge to strike, to march, to speak.

  Now we’re in the present and this is my story, about the time I went to France. It was when the world was ending. The world had ended before, like the time when I was six and I called my prep teacher ‘Mum’. Or when my nan died. Or when in year eight people were looking at me funny and I thought they were all laughing at me while I walked across the quad and I told myself not to be silly, but then Crow pointed out I had period blood on the back of my dress. Or when our house burned down.

  This time it really feels like the world is ending on a grand scale. And look, I know that’s happened before too. They even called World War I the ‘war to end all wars’, but really they were just warming up. Versions of this particular war have been going on the entire time I’ve been alive.

  But now here we are. The sea levels are rising, the ice caps melting. Bushfire. Flood. Refugees escaping persecution, escaping famine, misery. We’re smack-bang in the middle of something that feels suspiciously like the end of the world. It’s a lot. And now my eyes can’t unsee it. There’s no beauty that can make me forget.

  So here I go.

  Headfirst.

  Delphine and I dress for a day outside because we’re not leaving the streets for anything. I’ve got my sturdiest boots on, and jeans, and a t-shirt I’ve painted myself with the words: LA LUTTE CONTINUE. The fight goes on. I have a big, thick woolly jumper in my bag in case I get cold. I feel strong in my outfit, and am happily surprised I find a feeling of beauty in this strength.

  Delphine is humming with anger and determination. I’ve packed snacks into our pockets so she can keep it up.

  A container of peanuts.

  Some chocolate.

  A bottle of water.

  In 1968, factory workers ended up striking in solidarity with students, and they shut down half the country. Now, we are a crowd of thousands, gathering at the Place Saint-Michel. That site of youthful rebellion. We are young. And not so young. We are angry, sad, desperate. We have three demands:

  That governments declare a climate emergency.

  That real action is taken on climate change and emissions.

  That the people will be not only heard, but listened to by those in power.

  I scroll through Instagram as we wait around, and Amandine has posted a photo of Olivier in the rally. His banner reads: MAKE ART NOT EMISSIONS. I’m embarrassed that he’s toting around such a weak concept. But I scroll onwards and then he is gone from my mind.

  There are brilliant, biting and true signs.

  NIQUE PAS TA MER. Don’t fuck your oceans.

  QUAND C’EST FONDU, C’EST FOUTU. When it’s melted, it’s over.

  LA PLANÈTE: TU LA VEUX BLEUE OU BIEN CUITE? Do you want your planet rare or well-done?

  RÉFORME MON CUL. Reform my arse.

  ‘That’s one from 1968,’ says Delphine as we start moving off as a group. It’s magic to see the same slogans appear again. Time is cyclical. It’s time to learn from our mistakes.

  They tore up the cobblestone streets right here at the Place Saint-Michel, in 1968. The students built them up into barricades and torched cars, turning the Boulevard Saint-Michel into a battle zone. Now the streets we march along are smooth asphalt.

  Lately I understand that need to upturn cars.

  As we leave the square and walk past the Notre Dame and its scaffo
lding and sadness, someone links arms with me on one side – I look up surprised, and it’s Delphine’s long-haired friend, Manon.

  ‘Salut, Sofie,’ she says. She’s wearing war paint under her eyes.

  Manon’s warm, assured camaraderie, and the way she smiles and shouts along with the crowd and the way she nods encouragingly, makes me feel brave, like I can take on the government and the elite with one solid stomp of my boot. I look to my other side, where people mill around, and I reach out.

  I reach out and I take the arm of a girl who looks a little bit alone.

  ‘Is this okay?’ I shout and she smiles and we walk forward joined together.

  I lift my face to the sky and I scream, and it’s as though it comes from deep inside me. I don’t know if anyone can hear me with all the shouting and movement on this street. I shout and I yell, and it feels like I’m wrestling hope from the fear and the desperation. Onward we march.

  I hear, in a back little corner of my ear (don’t get too comfortable, remember the world is ending), the sound of running feet. It starts quietly, but then it gets louder. Then there’s voices too and people start running past. The tone of the shouting has changed. It’s deeper, uglier.

  A flame flies by my head, smashing with a glow and a ferociousness I hadn’t expected, and there is so much shouting all of a sudden.

  Masks and kerchiefs over faces.

  Big, heavy work boots and black pants. Yellow vests.

  The crowds surge and push.

  What was once a joyful mass becomes chaos, and no-one is sure where to go.

  All I can think is: Don’t get arrested, don’t get deported, don’t get smashed in the head by that policeman’s nightstick, don’t get shot don’t get shot don’t get shot …

  There is a guy staggering around and I run over. ‘Vous êtes blessé?’ I shout. Are you hurt?

  It’s a warzone. I see Delphine out of the corner of my eye, making her way over.

  The guy screams. It is a terrifying sound. Where am I where am I where am I? Everything is so loud. Another surge. I pull the guy by his jumper back towards the wall of a building, away from the road and the people.