Paris Dreaming Read online

  ‘You can teach ESL for room and board in some countries,’ Denise offered.

  ‘That’s a thought, and it would be challenging.’ I liked the idea.

  ‘You could do one of those volunteer abroad programs too,’ Lauren suggested.

  ‘Another good option, thanks. And if I can do something in the arts that’d be optimal. I’ll get online and start researching tomorrow.’

  We finally arrived at the heart of the festivities where families, teenagers and even retired folk were out to enjoy the best cultural activities Canberra had to offer.

  There was a buzz of summer excitement and communal happiness in the air at the carnival, and although I wasn’t a fan of fireworks – they’re bad for the environment and a waste of money – it was nice to see the Canberra sky light up with colour. I wondered what the carnival in Rio where half-naked men did the samba would be like, or the carnevale in Venice with all those burly gondoliers.

  I started to feel like a fraud thinking about men and yet telling the girls I wasn’t interested. But of course I was interested in men, I just wasn’t keen on the effort, the inevitable heartache or the expectation that I would probably have to breed and then become one of those women who complained about losing my career and my figure. As far as I was concerned, a man equalled complications, and I wanted a satisfying, simplified life.

  That night, with the smells of spices and incense in my nostrils and the sounds of fireworks ringing in my ears, I thought about how I’d returned from New York with a form of postnatal depression, without the natal.

  Some of it had to do with coming home to a comparatively lifeless Canberra and some of it related to the barman never coming good with his promises of staying in touch. But I was so busy with the evolving gallery that the thought of another trip abroad hadn’t even crossed my mind. But now, as every minute passed, I became more consumed with thoughts of taking flight to somewhere new, lively, challenging.

  I thought about it more and considered how the women I hung with were all world travellers. Aside from Lauren, Caro had been to numerous conferences in the US and Canada and to the UN in Geneva, and Denise was planning her trip to Bali with Dave.

  I’d done my trip to New York, but it wasn’t long enough. I didn’t have enough time to immerse myself in the city. Rather, I played tourist. I wanted more now. I wanted time to explore a new country and its landscapes, and most importantly its cultural activities like museums, galleries, libraries and their coffee.

  I went to bed imagining being a volunteer in Western Europe or South America. I’d done a beginners course in Spanish at the Canberra Institute of Technology but never used it. What was I waiting for? I had accumulated leave that I needed to take anyway. I hoped that Emma would let me schedule in a decent break, especially with Nancia, the new education program assistant, about to start.

  After a solid sleep, I met Caro the next morning at the Urban Food Store for breakfast. I cycled over to Acton with the aim of burning off the pizza from the night before, fully aware I was going to fill myself up on other carbs anyway.

  I ordered the brioche French toast with mascarpone and rose-and-cinnamon poached apple and pear. My mouth was watering just reading the menu.

  ‘Wow, that’s something spesh,’ Caro said, looking at the pile of calories that arrived at the table.

  ‘You know what they say, order the first thing that takes your eye.’

  I filled Caro in on my revelations of the day before and she was immediately excited about my plans to travel, suggesting some volunteering opportunities in South America.

  ‘I have contacts in Brazil and Peru if you like, and I could get other contacts in Chile or Venezuela, I’m sure. We had an international conference at the ANU last year and many of us have kept in contact. I’m sure some of my colleagues would love to help if they can.’

  I was taking notes to add to my as-yet-unwritten lists as Caro spoke. I put another forkful of toast in my mouth.

  ‘Sounds good, thanks. I was also tossing around the idea of going to Western Europe or Africa.’

  ‘Well, it does look like you’ve got the French cuisine down pat.’ Caro raised her eyebrows in surprise at my nearly empty plate.

  ‘Yeah, I know, I had crêpes at the festival yesterday for lunch. I think it might be a sign.’

  ‘I’d say it was a sign that you’d better be riding that bike to work every day this week if you’re going to keep eating like that.’ Caro grinned and sipped her coffee.

  After breakfast, Caro went to Dickson for a swim, preferring to do two kilometres of laps rather than run with me. She had weak knees for running, but the best toned arms on any woman I’d seen, Michelle Obama included.

  I rode back to Braddon, changed out of my sports gear and into a summer dress, climbed into my silver Astra and cruised over to Paperchain in Manuka to check out some travel guides for ideas and inspiration: Let’s Go Western Europe and Lonely Planet’s Western Europe.

  I flicked through 501 Must-Take Journeys, which included everything from the African Sahara desert to the famous Route 66 in America. Chuck Berry started singing in my head. I picked up, and put down immediately, a book titled Places in Italy Every Woman Should Go. I was glad Lauren and Denise weren’t there – they would’ve made me buy it for sure.

  I became aware of the music being piped through the shop: Edith Piaf singing ‘Hymne à l’Amour’. The sound of her voice, rather than her melody to love, lured me to search out books on France. I picked up 101 Beautiful Towns in France and admired the photographs and stunning countryside.

  I looked at Julia Child’s story, My Life in France, recalling her annoying voice as portrayed by Meryl Streep in the film Julie and Julia. And then I saw it, a book simply titled Paris, on the art and architecture of the city. It had gorgeous photos of the city’s most acclaimed buildings including the Musée du Quai Branly.

  Then it hit me, just as if a hardcover book had actually fallen on my head. I had to go to the musée to see the Australian Indigenous Art Commission. I had to visit the space, learn about the other collections and maybe even do some work for the musée. I had found my destination, at last.

  I felt relief and an odd sense of achievement at reaching my conclusion in less than twenty-four hours. But it was typically me, processing ideas quickly and being decisive. No time for ‘gonna do’ or ‘gonna be’.

  I put the book down, knowing I had to get to the NAG where there would be material in the staff resource library. I sped from Manuka to Parkes with determination, grateful that the gallery was open seven days a week.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Terry on security asked. ‘Can’t stay away, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, I know, it’s a problem when your job becomes your entire life.’

  I grabbed my bag off the conveyor belt – a new addition to the NAG as security had been upped in the past year – and walked at pace to the resource room. There was an extensive non-borrowing library for the public but I wanted to sit and read in peace.

  In the staff library, the resources were divided up by regions across Australia and then the world. The European collection wasn’t huge and generally contained a lot of catalogues from galleries that had run Indigenous exhibitions, both solo and group.

  I put my hand almost immediately on a slim hardcover volume titled Australian Indigenous Art Commission – Commande Publique d’Art Aborigène au Musée du Quai Branly. One of Michael Riley’s signature works graced the cover.

  A now iconic image in Indigenous arts, it was a boomerang floating in the blue sky, from his ‘cloud’ series. It was the same image used on the cover of The Macquarie PEN Anthology of Aboriginal Literature and had become one of the more well-known works of the late artist who died early in life. Emma was trying to acquire some of Riley’s work for our permanent collection and I knew Lauren was aiming for a Riley exhibition in the next few years. I wasn’t surprised that it was part of the musée commission.

  I’d heard a lot about the Musée du Qua
i Branly. The location on the romantic Seine was enough to woo any budding arts fan or tourist to visit. But it was the Australian commission that was the pièce de résistance as far as we were all concerned. I ran my hands over the pages of the book, closing my eyes, wanting to feel the texture of the façade of the building and work of Lena Nyadbi that adorned it.

  I imagined what it would be like to be a Blackfella in the heart of Europe in one of the most artistic cities in the world, seeing the work of a respected Aboriginal artist as part of the architecture of one of Europe’s most important modern buildings. A shiver shot up my spine. I knew that was where I had to go.

  Other staff came and went over the hours it took me to absorb the book cover to cover, but I didn’t shift from my seat. My mind was ticking over as I took in every detail of the eight artists who were commissioned to have their work as part of the architecture and installations in the musée.

  I felt a special surge of pride and inspiration as I read a quote in the book by artist Gulumbu Yunupingu whose work Garak, the universe was a massive ceiling installation that allowed the millions of visitors to the musée to enter the artist’s own universe over time. Yunupingu said of her contribution, ‘This is my gift to you, to the French people, and to the people of world, this is my heart.’

  And what a gift it was. I was overwhelmed by the extraordinary insight and skill of the artist, and I needed desperately to be one of those visitors to see the night sky as she did, at least through her installation.

  I started to think of my role as a professional working in the arts, and how I wanted to be part of a process of bringing the extraordinary works of a few to the masses, to be part of a gallery that helped tell the stories of Indigenous Australia to an international audience.

  I wanted to be part of a movement that took us to a new understanding of who we are as a people, the First Peoples. I wanted, like Yunupingu, to be able to gift something to the world also. The only way I could do it was to showcase some more of those who did, and teach their work as well. The decision had been made, at least in my head.

  I went back to Braddon and spent the afternoon online reading about the musée and looking at hundreds of images of the building and the collections within in it. I didn’t waste time looking at Denise’s suggested ‘research’ on the world’s best lovers, and I didn’t care at all anymore about a decent kiss. I was totally focused on the task at hand – developing a proposal to get some more Aboriginal artwork and myself to Paris.

  I needed my Sunday afternoon nap though. I was tired, my eyes were heavy and I knew that going without it was something my body wasn’t used to. But my adrenalin was pumping and although I tried lying down for a few minutes with the ceiling fan on low, earplugs in and eye mask on, I couldn’t get to sleep.

  My mind was working overtime, knowing that I’d set myself the biggest professional goal to date. I liked to set myself challenges to test my own growth: it’s what kept me motivated. But I always had a fallback plan so I was sure to land on my feet in a way that left me dignified and still challenged.

  I thought it was worth making lists on different countries and opportunities to travel, just in case my idea to go to the musée as something more than a tourist was simply too ambitious – for me and Emma. After all, who was I to tell the director of the National Aboriginal Gallery that we should do a temporary exhibition in a space that already had one of the most significant commissions of Aboriginal artwork in the world? Was I mad?

  My Sunday afternoon nap was calling me again, and I just wanted to lie down, rest my eyes and think, but I knew myself too well. I knew that it would be Paris that would appear in my thoughts. So I cracked a caffeine drink and continued to search for potential volunteer arts programs in Paris, but no opportunities presented themselves.

  I needed to talk to someone, I needed my tiddas. Although I never got lonely, it was moments like these that made the downfall of living alone glaringly obvious: I had no-one at hand to bounce ideas off. It took getting on Facewaste or calling someone on the phone and the momentum was often lost by the time I got a reply. Bonnie and Clyde just didn’t respond appropriately, choosing to scratch around in the kitty litter rather than listen to me rant.

  But I knew my tiddas were always there. They never sent calls to voicemail if they knew it was me on the line. They always returned text messages as soon as they received them. That’s what my friends were like. Always there, always responsive, always supportive, just being the friend that I was to them. Mum had always told me, ‘You have to be a friend to have friends.’

  I texted Lauren and Denise to see if they could meet for a quick coffee at about 5 pm. My trip had taken on a sense of urgency that I couldn’t explain to myself, let alone them, but there was no stopping me now.

  I was a strong believer in positive affirmations. I would take any luck that might come my way and I had faith in the universe, throwing my wishes up to her regularly before taking a deep breath and just waiting for what came back. Mostly the universe was kind to me, but she could be a bitch if she wanted and I knew not to take anything for granted. That’s why faith had to be accompanied by tangible practicalities and strategies and, in my case, a lot of lists!

  I sat in Silo in Kingston with the musée in my mind and pages of notes spread across the table. I thought about my friends on the way to meet me and how I never knew what was the acceptable amount of time you could expect your girlfriends to gift you once they met men. Was it unfair to ask to see them at all on the weekend? Was it especially unreasonable to call them out of relationship bliss on a Sunday afternoon to talk about your own one-woman trip?

  Such ad hoc meetings were how it used to be for us before the men arrived. Coffees when we felt like it or needed it, that’s what we all used to do. We’d hang out on weekends, we were a posse. In the last two years I hadn’t changed at all, my relationship status hadn’t changed enough to impact our friendships, nor indeed had the way I viewed our friendships. The reality was that both Lauren and Denise had changed. That’s what happens when you’re in ‘love’, apparently.

  But even with the pseudo-relationships I’d had, I’d always put my friends first, to the point of causing arguments with boyfriends who felt ‘neglected’, ‘unloved’, ‘unimportant’. In hindsight, perhaps they were. I used to say c’est la vie when men would complain about my ‘tidda time’ with the girls. It was the only French I used regularly, which didn’t bode well for me now wanting to go to Paris despite having no language skills whatsoever.

  Before Caro joined our group, I had always been the serious one of the three – the strong one, the one who everyone came to for advice. I liked my role in my circle of friends and at work. It never bothered me that I was considered the ‘bad cop’.

  I was comfortable with being brutally honest if need be, and knew some of my co-workers probably thought I was blunt in meetings when, in fact, I was just passionate about my work. I didn’t tolerate tardiness or sloppiness. Life was for living, not fluffing around, and I believed friends were always going to be around longer than any man. It made me feel like I had everything sorted.

  Not that I thought I was better off or more in control than anyone else. My life was not without flaws, but I tried to sort through them quickly, and as painlessly as possible, and believed in just getting on with it. I guess I could’ve been considered to be cold in that way. Cold maybe, practical most definitely. Logical rather than emotional. And that’s why we girls all balanced out well. But watching Lauren and Denise with Wyatt and Dave now made me rethink my mates-before-dates philosophy.

  Lauren and Denise arrived within seconds of each other, sitting on either side of me at the table set for four.

  ‘What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?’ Lauren asked, sounding slightly annoyed.

  I felt a pang of guilt for dragging her out, but over the years I had been the least needy of the group, and I had been through a lot with Lauren and her emotional dramas with Adam.


  ‘Tomorrow we’ll both be buried in work, you’ll be getting ready for Tassie on Tuesday and I’ve got a full program of lectures and tours.’

  I always had my schedule – and sometimes even Lauren’s – branded in my brain.

  ‘Thanks for the reminder about Tassie on Tuesday, another trip I need to pack for. Lucky Wyatt’s coming with me, or else there’s no way I would’ve left him lying under the tree in the backyard by himself. It’s the one thing I really love doing on Sunday.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I felt selfish for taking her away from her perfect man and their tree. ‘It’s just that I am totally consumed now with the thought of going overseas. I can’t think of anything else. I don’t know why, but I feel like it needs to happen asap.’

  I turned my lists around to face them.

  ‘And I needed you both today.’ I looked at my friends, knowing that I really did need them.

  ‘This is so you,’ Lauren said, having experienced my passionate ways before. ‘Get an idea and don’t rest, or let anyone else rest, until it’s implemented. Show me.’ She grabbed some pages off the table.

  ‘Wow, you move fast all right, did you sleep at all last night?’ Denise was leaning over the table to take a look, always impressed with my list-making ability.

  ‘Hardly, my brain was working overtime. It was like when I had that idea for Saturday afternoon masterclasses at the gallery that took off.’

  ‘I remember. You couldn’t sit still until we did the pitch to Emma and then you didn’t stop until it was up and running.’ Lauren spoke without taking her eyes off the page.

  ‘And six months later, they’re a raging success, thank you very much! Classes fully booked each week.’ I was proud of the achievement.

  ‘That’s true,’ Lauren said to Denise, in case she needed convincing.

  ‘Well, this,’ I pointed to the pages, ‘is just like that project.’