Authors: Anita Heiss
Paris Dreaming (4 page)
I ordered a café cr¨me 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 about 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'.
I'd always been a firm believer of supporting Aboriginal people so we could have a greater opportunity to put forth our own perspectives on ourselves, as we frequently had to dispel myths and inaccuracies of who we are. Myths are often created by looking at us through the observers' gaze. But it was day one. I wouldn't get on my soapbox straightaway, but with my exchange with Adrien in my thoughts, I knew I would be on it sooner or later.
I made my way to the Australian exhibit and read the introduction: 'The age-old cultural practices existing in this vast territory were handed down by semi-nomadic Aboriginal peoples.' The words carried me back home to country.
I thought of Moree and my Gamilaroi ancestors, and imagined what life might have been like for them before colonisation, before life allowed us to visit other lands like France to then read about ourselves and our heritage. In some ways, it felt odd to be sitting a hemisphere away, reading about my people back home. I remembered when I was only a few years old, before Dad died and we'd sit on the porch with my grandad who'd tell us stories about the first time his grandfather saw a whitefella and thought it was a ghost. I remember laughing but being a bit scared at the time.
I moved into the Bark Room, which exhibited about fifty examples of bark paintings collected in Arnhem Land in the 1960s by Karel Kupka. The area also had shields and spear-throwers as well as funeral poles from Bathurst Island and contemporary acrylic paintings.
I was anxious to see the space where my own exhibition would hang and went to the West Mezzanine, the temporary exhibition space. The current exhibition just about to close was titled
165 years of Iranian photography
, and had images from the mid-nineteenth century up until the most contemporary works by major Iranian photographers.
I looked around the space and started planning where my own pieces would be hung: where the dhouri (the traditional ceremonial headdress of the western Torres Strait) would fit, where Emily McDaniel's soundscape would best work, and where the mannequin with Michael McDaniel's possum-skin cloak would have the greatest impact.
'This exhibition has been very popular.' Adrien was by my side. 'With all the discussion about banning the burqa, more people have come in to see it. Extra marketing at no extra cost. We should think about banning other things ' maybe the Americans ' to get more interest in our collections.' Adrien laughed but I wasn't convinced he was joking.
'Yes, but that's not really the kind of marketing that's good for the country, is it?' I phrased it as a question simply because I didn't want to have a second disagreement in one day on my first day at work.
'Professionally, the publicity and marketing for us is a good thing. We want people to come to our museum. Personally, I think we, the French are right. The burqa presents a security nightmare, and there are more and more women wearing them.' He leant over and whispered in my ear. 'The Muslims are going to take over Europe.'
I was gobsmacked but contained my physical reaction. 'Do you really think it's possible for three per cent of the population in France and one per cent of the population in Germany to take over the whole of Europe? It doesn't seem probable to me.' I was thinking Pauline Hanson, xenophobia and racism. This man was ticking all the wrong boxes
and
pressing all my bad buttons at the same time.
'So you think the burqa is okay? A woman of such fine fashion as you?' He said, running his sleazy old eyes over my body from painted toenails to the trimmed tips of my hair.
I looked at what I was wearing quickly then answered. 'I share the same views as President Obama: you can't tell people what to wear, especially if it's going to stigmatise Islam.'
'You support President Obama but you're not even American, and you don't have a president because you are not a republic.'
That stung me but I didn't bite.
'Well, I support my President Sarkozy who says, 'the Republic must live with an open face'.'
The universe jumped in and saved me as Adrien's phone rang and I was unbelievably grateful.
'Pardon,' he said. 'I must take this call, but as requested I will email you the press release tomorrow.' He walked off.
I was exhausted by the mental strain of understanding the level of intolerance in the 'Republic' and felt challenged by trying to remain composed in my new workplace when talking about an issue that had incensed me back home. Our opposition leader Tony Abbott had said Australians find the burqa confronting, and he probably wasn't lying. I still lived in an intolerant, fear-driven society, but at least the discussion on the burqa didn't last more than a few days in the media, and hopefully would never have to be legislated against in our parliament.
It was 4 pm and I needed some air. More importantly, I needed some light. I headed to the gift shop and admired the work of Bernard Naube with his works made out of recycled goods like Coke cans. I picked up a book called
Boomerang Collection
by Sergio d'Ignazio which was positioned next to mass-produced Kenyan beads.
There were a few 'Aboriginal-inspired' items like wallaby-decorated boomerangs called 'bamboorangs'. I was at first sceptical, but when I googled the company later I saw that they were affiliated with the Keringke Aboriginal Arts Centre eighty kilometres from Alice Springs on the Aboriginal community of Ltyentye Apurte, also know as Santa Teresa.
I spent the rest of the day filling out paperwork and going through the works that were waiting to be hung in the temporary space. I got the train home at 6 pm and was exhausted and brain dead, but I found the glamorous people along the way lifted my spirits. I felt crappy having not touched up my makeup all day, too busy with details and learning.
I sank onto my pull-out bed with a baguette and cheese and glass of wine ' my now regular dinner ' and emailed the girls.
Lauren emailed back:
Denise emailed:
It was Thursday, the day after my night with Ames and it felt like a honeymoon for me, but I wasn't going to say anything to the girls just yet. The last thing I needed was a long-distance interrogation from them. I didn't even know what was going on myself without having to translate the experience to someone else. It was just a one-night stand, not something I'd normally brag about anyway. It was more important to report back on work than anything else.
Although I was enjoying the glow from the success of the opening and my night of pleasure, I had little time to stop and think about Ames and the fun we'd had.
Emily was back at the musée preparing workshops which I was helping out with, and emails and phone calls were coming in from all directions: artists, collectors, universities, the media ' which of course meant I had to deal with Adrien who was at least becoming less controlling. I think the success of the exhibition had really put him in his box about my abilities, and although our communication was never warm, it wasn't always a conflict now either.
'Are you ready to party again tonight, Elizabeth?' Canelle said down the line. It was only because of the second wind I had found via a 4 pm café cr¨me that allowed Canelle to psych me up into a frenzy talking about Nomad's. It was one of her favourite places to dine because it always had some kind of exhibition or window display going on.
'There are often events here: book launches, award nights and so on, Elizabeth. I think you will like it.'
I was mostly excited because that night we were going to the launch of a novel by a Torres Strait Islander woman. Terri Janke's book
Butterfly Song
had been translated into French and was being launched by the Australian ambassador, so many Australians working in Paris were invited, as were many musée staff because of the relationship being nurtured between the two bodies.
Canelle and I left work together and invited Emily along, but she already had plans with her father. I was glad she was comfortable and enjoying her trip.
'Douze rue du Marché Saint-Honoré,' Canelle gave the driver the address as we climbed into a cab. Even instructions to cabbies had a flair about them. And the destination sounded so much more glamorous than Northbourne Avenue.
'I'm starving,' I said, as my stomach grumbled softly.
'Me too, and there'll be very good food there, Elizabeth. I eat at Nomad's a lot because of the menu. I like food, Elizabeth.' Canelle put her hands on her thighs, laughing. 'Nomad's is not a treat for someone who likes to eat. It is almost essential.'
There was that definitive statement. Canelle and I were very similar, but I wondered if there was anything she ever ummed and ahhed over.
'You go just for the food?'
'I like the atmosphere there, and the design. It is not a fake place, how you say '¦'
'Put on,' I said. 'And Blackfellas would say gammon.'
'Gammon,' she said, which came out as 'shammon'. I almost liked the French pronunciation better than my own.
Canelle was right about Nomad's and I joined the appreciation society before we even walked in, stopping to take photos of the window display. One window had surfboards and surfing photographs shot along the coast of Australia. The next window had musical instruments: didgeridoos and clap sticks, all propped up against the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flags.
'Wow,' I said, impressed with the Aboriginal presence there.
'It is very cool,
oui
?' Canelle asked.
'
Oui
, too deadly, we'd say.'
Canelle waved her hands as if on a game show presenting a prize. 'Every month they have a different theme in the windows, this month it is Australian, of course. And that is why the launch is here.'
'I love it.'
Inside, the atmosphere was electric even though the lighting was dim. There were solid wood tables which kept their original tree shapes and were merely sanded and varnished without the need to craft them into exact squares. There were Friesian cowhide-covered chairs and a huge labrador making its way through the crowd.
'This is Fanny and Beno®t.' Canelle introduced me to the owners of the restaurant who were keen to meet me.
'We were at the musée opening, it was superb,' Beno®t said, Fanny nodding in agreement. 'We would love to have some Aboriginal artwork here as well one day, and tonight we are glad for Terri's book launch.'
We all looked in the direction of the author, who was in a teal-blue strapless dress that resembled the waters around the Torres Strait Islands. She was flanked by fans already requesting autographs although the official launch hadn't even happened. I wanted to meet and congratulate her and see what connections we could make, but I'd wait until she was finished working.
Canelle, Fanny and Beno®t were talking too fast in French for me to keep up, so I made small talk, introducing myself to every staff member at Nomad's, aiming to maintain my look as the 'newly arrived local'. The staff were as multicultural as the city, with Croatian, Brazilian and Jamaican waiters serving prawns, ostrich and rabbit terrine.
'What's this?' I asked Canelle quietly when the restaurateurs walked off, not wanting to look like the country bumpkin I had always accused Lauren of being.
'
Foie gras
with chutney. Try it, it's delicious!' She kissed her fingers like a chef might.
The speeches started and the ambassador talked about how many Aboriginal authors had been translated into French: Doris Pilkington, Alexis Wright, Philip McLaren and others. I thought to myself that the French probably liked the fact they could publish stories about what bastards the Brits had been to Blackfellas in Australia, without considering how colonisation had impacted on the Tahitians in Polynesia or the Mohawks in Quebec.
Afterwards, when the signing queue died down, I introduced myself to Terri, who was grateful to have another Blackfella there.
'There's also a fella from home here too, somewhere, in a black suit, red tie,' she said, scanning the room. 'He's the first secretary, and helped coordinate getting me here. I've been so busy we haven't had time to talk properly.'
I started looking also. I hadn't seen a Blackfella yet at the launch, even though I had already spoken with some embassy staff, including Judith, the cultural attaché. I was disappointed in myself for having been there so long and not met him. This was not the protocol I would normally follow. I searched out the red tie almost frantically but couldn't see it. Canelle was on her way over as the room was emptying.
'I have to go, sis,' Terri said, touching my arm, 'the publisher is taking me to dinner somewhere with some booksellers. Gawd, this is all new to me. But it's fun.'
'Live it up, sis,' I said. 'We need more people with more books like yours. Thanks for signing my copy, when do you leave?' I ran my hand over the blue cover, grateful for a piece of home.
'Tomorrow, I'm doing a tour through France. And my French is
merde
.'
I nearly spat my drink out and we both laughed, knowing everyone learns the rude slang words first.
'Have a great trip,' I hugged her, knowing she might be the only sista from home I'd see for some time. She hugged me back hard as if she felt the same way. Neither of us said anything else.
Terri was whisked away by her publicist so Canelle and I called it a night at 11 pm and headed outside, looking for a cab.
'The whole night was delicious,' I said. 'Everything and everyone. I loved it.'
'I knew you enjoyed yourself, I saw you taking photos like a tourist,' Canelle said.
'For my friends and family back home only.'
At the taxi stand, we bumped into a group of people from the launch who were saying goodnight to each other. Canelle knew a lot of them and was speaking French and giving kissing farewells. I felt warm and comfortably relaxed from the Australian wine that was served.
I looked to my left and saw a red tie. It was on a Blackfella. The first secretary. He was one of the tallest men I'd seen in Paris. He had a round face framed by masses of brown curls and titanium-rimmed glasses. His eyes were too close together, making him look shifty, I thought. He had a big smile but thin lips. Broad shoulders, small waist and the same golden-brown complexion as me. He wore a black suit and white shirt and expensive-looking black shoes with his red tie. I couldn't believe I was now becoming more conscious of men's fashion as well.
He spotted me at the same time.
'
Bonsoir, mademoiselle
,' he said, extending his hand before I had a chance to say anything.
I took his hand and said, 'Hi.'
'You're Libby Cutmore.'
I nodded and smiled.
'And you're absolutely beautiful.'
'Yes, I am,' is all I could say, embarrassed.
I immediately thought of the Red Béret outside the Musée d'Orsay and how sleazy he was with his lines. Now it appeared that Blackfellas from home were using them too. I didn't want to be rude, because he was the first secretary, so I maintained an appropriate level of diplomacy.
'Yes, I am!' I said again. 'I mean, I'm Libby Cutmore, not yes, I'm beautiful. You know what I mean.'
'But you are beautiful, and I am Jake Ross.' He handed me his card.
I gave him my card in return. 'I'm here for five months working at the musée doing educational lectures and tours.'
'Yes, I know, and you're Gamilaroi, from Moree,' he said, smiling so wide I thought his thin lips would split and his round face would crack. 'I am sorry I missed the opening of your exhibition, I had to deliver a speech in Cannes and couldn't get back in time. I heard it was a huge success though. AusTrade have called me about enquiries they've had regarding some of the artists involved. We should have a meeting.'
'Of course,' I said politely, but I was sure he was just using the business talk as an excuse. You don't start a work discussion by telling someone they're beautiful. Not in my world. Even though I did look rather special with my orange scarf, black pinstripe tunic and black pumps.
'
Bonsoir
, Jake,' another suited man was at Jake's side. Jake turned and shook his hand and Canelle appeared at my side to usher me into a taxi without an opportunity to say goodbye.
Minutes later, my mobile rang, but I didn't answer it in time. There was a short voicemail message that I played out loud for Canelle to translate in case it was in French.
'Libby, it's Jake Ross.' Although we had just met it took me a few seconds to register who it was. 'I'm sorry we didn't say goodbye properly. I am with some staff and we are going back to a bar near the embassy. I would like you to join us for a nightcap. Perhaps you could call me back.'
'
Oohlala
, Elizabeth, I think he is interested in you. And he was very, very handsome. And very important.' Canelle was more impressed with the call than I was.
I pressed 'return call' on my phone and got his voicemail. I imagined his phone was tied up because he was calling the next in a long line of women to have a drink with. After the beep, I left a short message: 'Hello Jake, it's Libby Cutmore. Thanks for the offer of drinks, but I am almost home now. I will call your office to arrange a meeting to discuss the AusTrade interest you mentioned. Nice meeting you. Goodnight.' I hung up the phone only to hear Canelle laughing like a teenage girl.
'What?' I asked, confused.
'Why did you say that? You should've gone to meet him.'
'It's late, Canelle. I'm not travelling across any city for any man this late at night, not even if he is the first secretary and looks good in a red tie.'
I sounded arrogant, but it was what I'd become thanks to my previous disasters and disappointments, and with Ames on my mind I didn't need to think about anyone else either. Now that I was starting to feel better about myself and felt attractive being around Frenchmen, well, someone could chase me for once.
