by Anita Heiss
'What you need to understand, Dennis, is that your people are our other, but most of us aren't preoccupied with trying to understand what it's like to be you, to be white, to be the majority, or how it might feel to assume the superior role.'
'And we never ask whitefellas what it's like to be non-Indigenous, or what it's like to have the freedom to choose to be politically active or to choose to participate in the reconciliation process,' Rodney added.
'We don't ask whitefellas to tell us the entire history of white society or the customs of their ancestors, or why their people – your people, that is – can't seem to agree on major issues, the way you expect us to,' I said with gentle authority. 'And we don't ask these questions not only because they make people feel uncomfortable, but because it is important for us to determine our own role, our own place in this world that we share.'
'I understand, but there are a lot of good people working in the area of anthropology,' Dennis said.
'Yes of course there are, and we respect the work they do, but one of the reasons there are so many is because Blackfellas don't have access to western power and our voice is limited. And except where anthropologists are working to assist native title claims, there's a real risk that they're limiting our voice even further. To be honest, I've learned more from listening to elders who grew up under the Protection Act than by reading texts written by non-Indigenous academics.' It was true, and it was important to me, personally and professionally, to say so.
I was a bit concerned that Dennis had been working with mobs of old fellas who had English as a second, third or fourth language and may never have challenged his ideas or words before, possibly because they were unaware of what he was saying, or his motives for 'helping' them.
'I suppose it's all a matter of epistemology really, don't you agree?' Dennis just wouldn't give up.
'A-pissed-a-what?' said Sylvia. I was glad that she didn't know the term, it almost made her more normal. I hated the word, and how academics like Dennis used it to isolate people.
'Indigenous epistemology is just our ways of thinking and theorising, and knowledge via traditional discourses and media,' I told her, and looked back at Dennis. 'As a linguist, Dennis, you should understand that Blackfellas who have had the good fortune of education – and in our communities people like Rodney and I are completely privileged because we've had an education – we understand there's a whole language that westerners use to describe, define and locate Indigenous peoples into a particular static place.'
'What do you mean exactly?'
'For example, westerners are allowed to evolve and change, but when we do we're told we're assimilating. Westerners can become cosmopolitan but we're told we're losing our culture. When westerners intermarry their communities become multicultural, but we're told our bloodlines are being watered down. See how the language is different for the two groups? But it's not language that we use, it's language that's used for us.'
Dennis just looked blank, as if it was all too much to consume in one sitting. And perhaps it was.
'Rodney, can you please go and grab copies of the department's cultural protocols for working in Indigenous communities and give a set to Dennis?' Rodney jumped up straight away.
'Can I suggest you have a good read through these before you submit an application for funding? Rodney will be more than happy to discuss the application process with you when you've thought about how you want to proceed with the publication side of your project. And of course we'll need support letters from the local community to show they endorse the project concept and plan.'
I stood up and extended my hand. 'Thanks so much for coming in and meeting with us. It was an important conversation for us all to have, don't you think?'
'Yes, it was, thanks. I've got a lot to think about – a lot.' He seemed sincere, and I thought perhaps there was a chance I'd got through to him.
'Sylvia, can you escort Dennis to the lift? I can see Rodney waiting there with the protocols.'
And at that moment I knew that working in policy was what I wanted to be doing with my life. Marriage and kids seriously had to wait. I had a different purpose for the next few years and that was to educate those who worked with Aboriginal people as part of their daily lives.
twenty-five
The art of seduction
or seductive art?
I went to the Pissarro First Impressionist exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria because I needed a break from everything Indij for a while. I wanted some peace, too – the phone hadn't stopped ringing since the latest Clifford Possum painting sold for a record amount at a Sotheby's auction.
I left the Rialto building and went to Degraves – the archetypal Melbourne laneway cafe – then just sat drinking a soy latte. I deserved the break. It was a surprisingly mild June day. I needed my coat, though, and smiled at the blanket of blackness that surrounded me, as I sat there brightly watching people. I felt like I was the only one alive.
Over at the gallery there was a long queue, but because of my position in the department I was able to walk straight in. There were definite benefits to the job, like getting invitations to events and books and CDs to read and listen to.
The gallery space was large and open and its bright white walls were hung with more than a hundred of Pissarro's works. The air was filled with the sounds of dozens of teenage male school students, joking and calling out to one another. They were all carrying clipboards and checking out the artwork – and their female counterparts – with enthusiasm.
I viewed the paintings slowly. Somehow this was different to any other exhibition I'd ever been to. I was held in a trance by two paintings in particular: Woman and a Child at a Well and Woman Hanging Laundry. They made me stop and think about what my life could become if I married James and had the family he so desperately wanted. Not that I'd be fetching water from a well, or hanging sheets on the line – I'd put them straight in the dryer – but it did make me consider my potential alternative lifestyle.
I read that Pissarro had met the love of his life at the age of thirty, married and spent the rest of his life with her. I wondered if I might also find that kind of love. Was James my own Pissarro? Could I break the curse my mother had cast on me?
I tried to focus and walked on. I looked at paintings from the late 1880s, done in a style the artist called 'romantic impressionism' and was shocked when I felt a hot rush from the knees up as one of the high school boys stood too close behind me.
Suddenly I missed James horribly – and physically. Making love can be taken for granted when you've got sex in your life. It seems to become so much more important when it's no longer just a part of your daily routine.
I'd never reacted to a gallery space like this before. When Alice and I had backpacked in our early twenties we'd walked the floors of the world's most acclaimed and glamorous art galleries – the Tate, the Louvre, and the Uffizi – but here I was in the NGV on St Kilda Road of all places, feeling almost uncontrollably aroused. I was surrounded by old paintings and young school boys and as horny as hell: something was wrong. I wondered if anyone else could tell.
Looking around, I realised that the teenage girls in the room were sending the young men's hormones soaring, infecting the room with unadulterated adolescent lust. It reminded me of when I went parking when I was young, with exploring teenage hands and bodies in front and back seats of borrowed parents' cars. I was just an innocent bystander here, attempting to wade through it.
I left the exhibition and went to have a cold drink. There were no spare tables in the busier than usual cafe, so I shared one with a young guy reading an art book.
'Hi, I'm Thomas.' He extended his soft hand with lean fingers towards me.
'Peta.' We shook gently.
'You've just been to see Pissarro?'
'Yes, I found it an extraordinary . . . well, an emotional experience, actually. I'm a little surprised by my reaction to the work.' I still had some tingling in my loins.
'I know. A lot of other people seem to feel the same way. I believe it's the work and the space and the history of the artist that have made this exhibition so popular.'
'Do you work here?'
'No, I'm an artist and curator for a small gallery at St Kilda.'
'I live in St Kilda, I should come and check it out sometime.' I sounded like an eager schoolgirl. 'That is, because I work in the arts. Is there a particular kind of art you specialise in?'
'Installation art.'
'Really?' I'd never understood installation art, and Sylvia hadn't briefed me on it yet. 'What exactly is installation art? I'd be interested in hearing a curator's perspective on it. You see, I was in an Aboriginal gallery in Sydney once when someone delivered a load of boxes and just left them in the middle of the room. People started hovering around, hands on chins, trying to determine what the artist meant. It wasn't an artist, it was a bloody courier, and ever since then I've been frightened to stand still in one spot at a gallery in case I get roped off as an exhibition.'
Thomas laughed.
'I know what you're saying – sometimes it's just hard to understand the concept. Installation art is about how an object is positioned, so that it becomes more than, well, just a pile of boxes, say. It's about what the installation is saying, its statement and its story. And installation artists use all kinds of media – sound, video, computers and so on. Does that make sense?'
'I guess so, but what about the artist who won the UK prize for the light switch that flicked on and off?' I remembered reading an article about it in the newspaper a few years ago.
'You mean Martin Creed, who won the Turner Prize in 2001.'
'That's right. It was just a bare room with a light that switched on and off. Apart from it being really bad for the environment, how would you, as a curator, define that as art? I'm curious, because some might say that a two year old could turn a light switch on and off.'
'Ah, but a two year old didn't.' He didn't answer my question at all.
'Right,' I said, none the wiser. 'Yes, I definitely think installation art has a lot of explaining to do.' Thomas raised his eyebrows.
'What do you do, Peta?'
'I work for DOMSARIA. My area of expertise is Indigenous policy.' I handed him my card.
'That's cool. You should come to the gallery sometime; I'll give you a personal tour.' And he smiled a wicked, Pissarro-induced lustful smile. He was all of about twenty-two.
♥
The following week I took Sylvia with me to Thomas's gallery, wanting to build on the connection while it was still fresh. I knew Sylvia would be able to determine immediately if there were any real opportunities for events or projects we could collaborate on – and she could also act as a chaperone. The space was compact, but uncluttered. Thomas was there to greet us and looked as sexy as he had at the NGV. He was dressed in a suit this time, no tie, but fancier than your average starving artist.
'Hi Peta, I'm glad you had time to drop by.' He was more formal now.
'It's part of my professional development, remember? This is Sylvia, my colleague. You look swish.'
'Yes, well, I actually own the gallery so there's some expectation I dress like a grown-up. I'd prefer to be in jeans, trust me.' He owned the gallery. Seeing the look of surprise on my face, he explained, 'Family inheritance – my parents died a few years back and my older sister looked after the gallery until I finished my fine arts degree.'
'Sorry to hear about your parents, Tom, and I'm glad you get to keep up the family tradition.'
'It's Thomas actually, not big on Tom. Another family tradition I have to keep on top of.'
'Right, sorry.'
He led us into one of the exhibition rooms, full of beautiful glazed bowls and vases made by a local pottery artist. Sylvia raced through, checking out the venue itself rather than the artwork, but I took my time, regarding each piece individually.
Thomas came and stood beside me as I was looking at one of the vases. It was gorgeous: two foot tall, metallic blue and purple, with a pierced neck and matte glaze finish. I knew James would've bought it for me if he were there. 'This one's beautiful,' I said, pointing.
'It makes a powerful statement, too,' said Thomas.
'Sorry, Thomas, visual arts aren't my strength, as you know,' I said. 'Can you explain to me what the artist is saying?'
'Oh Peta, no I can't really, or rather shouldn't. It's one of those things you need to decide for yourself as a viewer – what the artist is trying to say, how the work speaks to you. You need to listen to the artist's voice.'
His response left me none the wiser. James would always take the time to explain things to me, especially when it was related to his work. He'd never have given me some ambiguous, wanky bullshit like Thomas just had. It made me doubt if he knew what it meant himself.
'So what's the link between pottery and voice?' I asked.
'Art gives voice and voice gives freedom, Peta – that's why it's so important, particularly for those in our society who don't enjoy freedom in other aspects of their lives.' That much at least was true. I wondered how much Thomas knew about Aboriginal artwork, and how it gave Blackfellas a voice in a country where we essentially remained voiceless.
When the tour was over and Sylvia was writing her details onto the mailing list form, Thomas said, 'Would you like to have dinner sometime soon, Peta, to discuss some of these issues in more detail?'
'Sounds good, let me check my diary and get back to you.' I didn't want to be going on a date with Thomas. Even if I weren't being faithful to James, he was too young for me anyway. But I could learn a lot about art from him.
On the way back to the office Sylvia didn't stop raving about Thomas.
'Well, he works in the arts, has money and sounds like he's got good politics too, which is important – for us, anyway. He's also got a bookshop in the gallery where I can sell my poetry. I could organise a reading there at some point, in the future, you know, when my book's out.' Sylvia was all over the thought of Thomas as a contact, and as usual was straight to the point. 'And I'm sure he'd give me a deal, just for the opportunity to see you again.' She winked at me.
'What are you raving about now?'
'What? You didn't notice how into you he was? He didn't take his eyes off you. He sounded like he was talking to us both, but he only ever looked at you when he spoke. I just hung around in case you needed me to comment on the funding programs we have.'
'Don't be so bloody ridiculous. Apart from the fact that I'm with James, Thomas is way too young for me.'
'Whatever you reckon, boss.' Sylvia smiled out the cab window.
'And don't call me boss.' I smiled out my own window, remembering Thomas's piercing eyes.
♥
'You should check out this gallery when you're on your beat. The owner is really cool, and smart, and sexy too, I'd have to say – as an outsider just making an observation.' I handed Josie a card from Thomas's gallery as we sat in the Prince of Wales later that afternoon. I'd become used to having a drink of some description every day after work. Giving up the ciggies and sex was enough – I had to maintain some vices.
'Does he have a sister?' Josie laughed looking at the card. 'I mean, it's the first thing you straight fellas ask, isn't it? Has he got a brother?' She was absolutely right. It was the most commonly used phrase in the single girl's world. But in Sydney it was extended to Does he have a brother, cousin, friend, uncle or unhappily married father? The single straight-girl community really was quite pathetic. It was enough to make someone heterophobic.
'Actually he does have a sister but I don't know him in a personal capacity so I'm not going to suss it out, before you even dare ask me to.'
'By the spark in your eye right now I'd say you want to know him in a personal capacity.'