Page 107 of The Pearl Sister
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The next morning, I woke up when I heard Chrissie tiptoeing around the room. Normally, I’d doze off again, but today, some kind of weird anticipation forced me out of bed.
‘Sorry I woke you. I was just going down to get some brekky.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll come with you.’
Over a strong cup of coffee and bacon and eggs, with a side of fruit to salve my conscience, we discussed what we would do for the rest of the day. Chrissie wanted to go and see the permanent Namatjira exhibition at the Araluen Arts Centre, but I had other ideas because I’d realised what it was that had woken me up so early.
‘The thing is . . . well, I got inspired on the drive home yesterday. I was wondering if you’d mind taking me back to that spot where I took the pics of the sun setting last night? I’d like to have a go at painting it.’
Chrissie’s face lit up. ‘That’s fantastic news. Course I’ll drive ya there.’
‘Thanks, though I need to find some paper and paints.’
‘You’re in luck here,’ Chrissie said, pointing out of the window and indicating the number of galleries along the street. ‘We’ll pop into one of them and find out where they get their gear.’
After breakfast, we walked along the street and into the first gallery we came to. Inside, Chrissie asked the woman on reception where I could find paper and paints, adding that I was a student from the Royal College of Art in London.
‘D’you wanna stay here an’ paint?’ The woman pointed to a large room to the side of the gallery, where a number of Aboriginal artists were working at tables or on the floor. Light spilled in from the many windows, and there was a small kitchenette area where someone was making a round of coffee. It looked far more cosy than the shared workrooms at my old art college.
‘No, she’s planning to go Bush, aren’t you, Cee?’ Chrissie winked at me. ‘Her real name’s Celaeno,’ Chrissie added for good measure.
‘Righto.’ The receptionist gave me a smile. ‘I have some oils and canvases, or does she paint with watercolours?’ she asked, glancing over me to Chrissie as though they were discussing a four-year-old child.
‘Both,’ I said, interrupting, ‘but I’d really like to try watercolours today.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can find.’
The woman stepped out from behind the counter, and I saw a sizeable bump under her yellow kaftan. While she was away, I wandered round the gallery, looking at the traditional Aboriginal works.
The walls were bursting with different depictions of the Seven Sisters. Dots, slashes, strange-looking shapes that the artists had used to depict the girls and their ‘old man’ – Orion, who chased them through the skies. I’d always felt embarrassed about being named after a weird Greek myth and a set of stars a few million light years away, but today it made me feel special and proud. Like I was part of them; had a special connection. And here in the Alice, I felt like I was in their High Temple.
I also loved the fact that I was standing amongst a bunch of artists whom I’d bet my poncey riverside apartment in London hadn’t attended art school. Yet here they all were, painting what they felt. And doing a good trade too, judging by the number of tourists milling round the gallery and watching them at work.
‘Here ya go, Celaeno.’ The woman handed me an old tin of watercolours, a couple of used brushes, some tape, a sheaf of paper and a wooden-backed canvas. ‘You any good?’ she asked me as I fumbled for my wallet to pay.
‘She’s brilliant,’ chirped Chrissie before I’d opened my mouth to speak, just like she was my agent. ‘You should see some of her work.’
I blushed red under my sweaty skin. ‘How much for the paints and paper?’ I asked her.
‘How about a swap? You bring me a painting and, if it’s good, I’ll hang it in the gallery and share the profits. My name’s Mirrin, and I run the gallery for the bossman.’
‘Really? That’s kind of you but—’
‘Thanks a mill, Mirrin,’ interrupted Chrissie again. ‘We’ll do that, won’t we, Cee?’
‘I . . . yeah, thanks.’
In the blinding sunlight outside the gallery, I rounded on her. ‘Jesus, Chrissie, you’ve never seen anything that I’ve painted! I’ve always been rubbish at watercolours, and this was just an experiment, like a bit of fun and—’
‘Shut up, Cee. Iknowyou’re great already.’ She tapped where her heart was. ‘You just need to get yer confidence back.’
‘But that woman,’ I panted from agitation and heat, ‘she’s going to be expecting me to bring something to her and—’
‘Listen, if it’s crap, we’ll just return the paints and pay for the paper, okay? But it won’t be, Cee, I know it won’t.’
On the drive out of town, Chrissie decided to give me a lecture on how Namatjira approached his painting.
