The Songmaster (22 page)

‘It’s an interesting collection – a retired judge, a Queen’s Counsel, a girlfriend of mine who’s a radio journalist, and an Aboriginal actor and TV star.’

‘Be sure your friend speaks to Beth about what she can record and what she can’t. The Barradja are very sensitive. They have a formal protocol system, as I’m sure you know.’

‘No, I don’t know. I’m a bit sketchy on the pros and cons of Aboriginal protocol. I thought they were a pretty laid-back bunch of people.’

Alan grinned. ‘There’s a right way to do almost everything, from where you sit, what direction you face, who takes precedence over whom, when to speak, when to listen – it’s a very complex society. I’ve had to learn a lot in order to gain their trust and I’ve had to learn to appreciate their art for its meanings of law and kinship and not just its aesthetic value. It pays to have a patient nature.’

Susan found the quietly spoken art dealer an informed and articulate companion. As they were driven through the town, she asked Alan what his plans were for the rest of the day.

‘I’m going to hire a car to go to Bungarra.’ He paused and added, ‘Would you like to come? You might find it interesting. Different anyway,’ he laughed. ‘There’s a couple who have a big old house where the artists work each day. They’re the art coordinators, Judy and Max Osborne,
and they’ll put us up. The place is full of paintings. Judy cooks, mixes paints, helps with any exhibition problems and records the curating details of each work.’

‘Sounds a busy place.’

‘It’s a bit like that.’

‘I’d love to go with you if I won’t be in the way. When did you plan to drive down?’

‘In an hour or so. I’ll check into the motel, get the car and set off. It’s about a six-hour drive, so we can be there before dark, spend tomorrow morning with them and be back at the motel after lunch.’

‘We’re all supposed to meet for dinner tomorrow night.’

‘The big gathering, eh?’ Alan gave a wry grin. ‘Do you suppose we’ll have annual get-togethers, like class reunions?’

‘Who knows, we could end up never wanting to speak to each other again,’ laughed Susan.

‘It won’t be a picnic, comfort-wise. But hopefully the cultural experience will make up for the aching backs.’

‘Will the mosquitoes be bad? What about snakes and spiders?’

‘Now you can’t worry about those kinds of things. You’re here, the decision’s been made, go for it – this is a big adventure, a unique experience. Not many Australians get this opportunity. And anyway, it gets cold at night, you can slap on some repellent and zip up your tent.’

‘Right,’ said Susan, not sounding convinced. ‘I hope we have tents, I’m not sure what the arrangements are. Beth said there was a bloke taking care of things. Do you know anything about our camping conditions?’

Alan shook his head as he went to retrieve his bag. ‘I’m used to a swag on the ground. It’s all experience, right?’

The experience began when they picked up an Aboriginal hitchhiker an hour out of Bungarra. The man threw a sports bag onto the back seat and heaved his youthful bulk into the car, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Man, it’s hot out there, no one’s come past for a couple of hours. AC, man, great.’ He leaned back savouring the gust of airconditioning, while his odour of stale beer and sweat recirculated through the rental car. Susan tried not to wrinkle her nose. She turned in her seat and asked him where he’d come from.

‘Just finished working on a mine site. I drive a cat. Going back in a couple of weeks, if the job’s still on.’

‘What sort of mine?’

‘Diamonds. It’s been a big one. Owned by some overseas mob. Always foreign blokes nosing around.’

Alan glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘What makes you say if the job’s still on?’

‘Nothing to do with me, mate. But I hear
there mightn’t be as much work about. More rocks than stones,’ he grinned.

‘You mean the diamonds are running out?’ asked Susan straight out.

‘They say it’s got ten years’ worth of diamonds still on the lease but don’t you believe ’em. I got mates in crushing and sorting. They told me it’s more like two years. Same with lots of places.’

‘That could just be a rumour put out. They’ve made a lot of money out of Jimburra,’ remarked Alan.

‘I didn’t say I worked for Jimburra,’ said the man.

‘Aren’t too many significant mines around,’ winked Alan. ‘I won’t say anything. Not my field of interest.’

‘We’re not supposed to talk about the mine at all,’ said the still-sweating hitchhiker.

‘So who do you know in Bungarra?’ asked Susan to help him change the subject. He seemed nervous at what he’d already divulged.

‘My mum, uncle and aunties. They’ve been there a few years. Rest of my mob are back in Derby.’

They turned into the roadhouse that marked the turn-off to the artists’ colony. This catered to the locals, passers-by and tourists. Petrol, food, videos, souvenirs, a pool table and a few pot plants. Their passenger thanked them for the lift. ‘I’ll walk over to my place from here.’ He didn’t expect the couple, he thought to be
tourists, would also be heading into his community. Alan refuelled the car, bought two cold cans of soft drink and they drove back onto the highway and into Bungarra.

Rows of seemingly die-cut houses, their similarity broken by variations of broken cars, kids’ toys, bikes and abandoned furniture. Occasional homes had straggling gardens. It had the air of a community that was meant to be temporary twenty years ago.

A teenage girl nursing a baby at her bursting breast walked slowly towards them. ‘Susan, ask her are Judy and Max around,’ said Alan.

Susan rolled down her window as they pulled alongside. The young mother gave a beatific smile and pointed behind her. ‘They’re at home. On the edge of the hill.’

Alan pulled the car up outside a rambling house built on poles with a spacious area beneath. A barbecue was crackling in the front yard and a woman in a Hawaiian muu-muu and a crocheted wool beanie was waving her arms at a bald solid man in shorts and T-shirt in charge of sizzling chops, sausages and steaks. In the yard, women sat at wooden tables spread with paint pots, while underneath the house several men were gathered in small groups. As they walked in, Susan could see several other men squatting on the sparse grass beneath trees at the back of the house.

Effusive introductions were made as Alan guided Susan from group to group. Judy linked her arm through Susan’s as Alan squatted by a silent old man who was concentrating on carefully re-creating row upon row of the bulbous rocks of the Bungle Bungles. ‘Jack isn’t being rude,’ she explained. ‘You can talk to him later. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s painting. Not like some of us. We love an excuse for a chat.’ She laughed. ‘You staying I hope. We’re cooking dinner soon. We like to eat before dark. So you an old friend of Alan’s or what?’ Her frank gaze was full of curiosity.

‘We just met at the airport, a coincidence as we’re both going to Marrenyikka with Beth Van Horton. Do you know her?’

Judy shook her head. ‘Yeah, not well though. So you going to see Ardjani’s mob. What for? What do you do?’

The questions were direct hits and Susan heard the wariness in her voice. She answered just as candidly. ‘There’s no agenda. It’s just a holiday with a difference. I met Beth and she asked if I wanted to join a group the Barradja were inviting here to experience their culture. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘What’s Ardjani doing? Going into the tourist business?’ She relaxed and guided Susan to the group of women working in the front garden. They gossiped and laughed as they worked on the canvas before each of them. ‘Ladies, this is Susan. This is Rosie, Queenie,
Ignatia, Jeannie.’ They beamed at Susan and moved up so she could perch on the edge of the bench. They were older women, plump in shapeless dresses, hair that was wispy and greying, wide smiles with missing teeth. The warmth in their faces and eyes and the good-natured voices were welcoming.

‘Sit, sit here, girl. You come say hello to the old ladies,’ said Queenie and the others cackled at her.

Rosie waved her hand at Susan. ‘Hey, you Alan boy’s girlfriend?’

‘No, goodness no. I just met him today.’

‘Then you be his girlfriend for today, eh? Hey, Alan, you be a fast worker, eh?’ shouted Queenie and Alan gave a grin.

‘You girls stop gossiping and keep working,’ admonished Judy. ‘Hey, Max, make a pot of tea,’ she called.

Susan watched the worn hands of the women artists deftly applying brush strokes and dots to their paintings as they continued to chatter. The men tended to work individually, sitting apart and concentrating. Occasionally one would call to the others to make a comment. One of the men finished a picture and he rose stiffly, stood back and looked at it, and then went over to Alan. Susan watched Alan study the finished work and she saw that the painter was surreptitiously studying him. Alan turned to the man and nodded. ‘It’s good, Charlie. You want to tell me this one?’

Alan and Charlie sat on the ground with the wet canvas and in great and lengthy detail, the artist pointed to every line, curve and mark, explaining its meaning and significance. Alan made notes as he spoke. Max appeared from the house with a video camera and filmed the painting and its artist.

‘Do you do that with every painting?’ asked Susan, as Judy spread mugs, a jug of milk, tea bags, a jar of coffee and a big bowl of honey on a table near the fire.

‘My oath we do. We’ll get more of the story tomorrow after it’s been mounted. A copy of the tape will go down to Alan with the painting. Max will also take a photo and put that and notes onto the computer file upstairs.’

Susan looked up at the rickety building that seemed the least likely place to house an art collection and a computer system. Judy saw her expression and chuckled. ‘Work done here can end up in top galleries overseas. We have to have its history curated and documented. Too many rip-offs happening. This mob is among the best in the country,’ she said proudly.

‘And Alan represents them?’

‘That’s right. He’s the most honest art dealer in Australia with the greatest understanding of it all. I don’t like them academic blokes and fancy art gallery people. Snobs for one thing and they want the credit instead of these fellas.’ She slapped old Charlie’s hand as he reached for the honey. ‘You drink him straight. You’ve had
too much sweet stuff, your diabetes going to start playing up, then where we be, eh?’

Charlie shrugged and grinned at Susan as he bit into a plain biscuit. ‘Watch this old bird, she a tough one.’

‘And you better be glad I am,’ retorted Judy as she began pouring tea into mugs.

A utility truck and a Ford Fairlane pulled up at the gate, disgorging family and friends. Small children galloped to the old women and the young mothers and men joined the group around the fire. Soon the younger women were busy in the upstairs kitchen bringing salad, potatoes and plates of meat down. Alan chatted to the women as they packed up their half-finished work to make space for the evening meal.

It was twilight and Max turned on the outside lights, and chairs were moved to the front yard where Judy was throwing onions and meat onto the barbecue plate. Alan quietly led Susan around the informal art studio. ‘Some of these pieces are very good. Rosie and Charlie are doing wonderful work. As is old Jack.’

‘It all seems so casual; hard to believe these might hang in posh galleries and collections. Do ordinary people buy them?’

‘Judy keeps some on hand. Some people who collect art know to come here, but I get first look. You can get a good painting for a couple of thousand. They like working in a group, it’s cool under the house, Max and Judy
look after their supplies, give them lunch and dinner and the environment kicks them along. They’re also quite competitive which is good.’

‘Do they ever copy each others’ ideas?’

‘Don’t need to, every man and woman has their story, their country and their Dreaming. They might do variations on those, but each is very separate from the other.’

‘It’s so different from our style of painting. There’s no perspective, it’s kind of literal, this is what this is and this is that,’ said Susan, who had never seen art like this before. She knew the X-ray style and dot paintings but these were so stylistic and simple, yet they looked sophisticated and modern.

‘Since the people here were introduced to Western painting they’ve developed their own way of storytelling. They don’t try to paint in a Western way as old Albert Namatjira did, they have their way of interpreting what they want to say. It’s like learning a foreign language. You look at the pictures and they seem so naive, so one-dimensional, so childlike almost. Until you have the key, until the artist explains it to you, and then the picture starts to make sense.’

‘It’s wonderful. I’d love to own one,’ sighed Susan.

‘Often people pay a lot of money for art and have no idea what they’ve bought,’ said Alan quietly. ‘They just buy a name or what they believe to be fashionable to have in their homes.
Even tourists buying cheaply turned-out mass-produced Aboriginal artefacts have no idea of the basic cultural sense behind them.’

‘I suppose you can appreciate something so much more when the artist explains it,’ said Susan.

‘I think so,’ said Alan.

There was a commotion as another car pulled up and while Judy and Max handed out plates with steak and sausages to the men, Alan smiled and touched Susan’s arm. ‘This is a rare treat. The old man is here. Lucky Dodds, one of Australia’s greatest living painters. He’s a character, you’re fortunate to meet him. He’s getting on and doesn’t get out as much as he used to.’