Avoiding Mr Right (15 page)

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.'

'Oops, look at the time! Shelley will have dinner on the
table.' I shouldn't have mentioned Thomas to Josie and I
knew it.

Her phone went as I stood up to leave. It was Alice.

'Say hello for me and tell her I'll Skype her after dinner,'
I ordered Josie, as if she was one of my staff. When I left she
was gossiping about Aunty Ivy.

I Skyped Alice later that night and told her about the
Pissarro exhibition.

'You seriously need to see Pissarro, it's amazing. It will
change your life.'

'Sounds fantastic. I'd love to get to Melbourne for it, but
we're saving for the wedding, you know how it is.'

'Well, no, I don't, but okay – I'll see you soon anyway
for your hens' thing.'

'Anything else you want to tell me?'

'About what?'

'About Thomas? He's cool, smart and sexy, I hear.
Which is saying something, when it comes from a lesbian.'

'Josie can't help herself, can she? It's because I won't
hook her up with his sister. He's just an interesting curator
of a gallery down the road. He's asked me out for dinner.'

'You're not going are you?

'Of course I am, for work.'

'What do you think James might say about that? Or
should I say, how would he
feel
about it?'

'What are you going on about? Thomas is a great contact.
I'll take you and James to his gallery when you visit and
you'll see. So have you decided about the Melbourne Cup
yet? Bring Gary, I know he won't let you come by yourself.
I also know he likes a bet.'

'Melbourne Cup, maybe. I'll ask if it's okay – I mean I'll
check what he wants to do. I can come without him. We're
not joined at the hip, you know.'