Page 109 of The Pearl Sister
I looked closer and saw she was right. There was a blurry cloud of white, like a wisp of smoke coming out of a chimney. ‘Yeah.’ I said, though I couldn’t really remember painting it.
‘And those two gnarly bits on the ghost gum’s bark – they look like eyes secretly watching the figure. Cee! You only went and did it!’ Chrissie threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly.
‘Did I? I’ve no idea how.’
‘That doesn’t matter. The point is, youdiddo it.’
‘Well, itdoesmatter if I ever want to do it again. And it’s definitely not perfect.’ As always when people told me I was good at something, my critical eye began to examine it more closely and see its faults. ‘Look, the gum tree branches are unbalanced, and the leaves are really splodgy and not quite the right green. And—’
‘Whoa!’ Chrissie drew the painting from my knee and out of my reach as if she was afraid I was about to rip it to shreds. ‘I know artists are their own worst critics, but it’s down to the audience ta decide whether it’s good or bad. And as I’m the audience and a secret art boffin, especially on paintings like this, I am telling you that you just painted something great. I gotta take a piccie of this, have you got your camera?’
‘Yeah, in the car.’
After taking a number of photographs, we packed up and headed back to town. All the way to the Alice, Chrissie talked about the painting. In fact, she didn’t just talk about it, she analysed it to death.
‘The most exciting thing of all is that ya took Namatjira’s style and made it your own. That little wisp coming outta the cave, the eyes hidden in the tree, watching it, the six clouds sailing off into the sky . . .’
‘I was thinking about when your granny told me the Dreamtime story of the Seven Sisters just before I started to paint,’ I admitted.
‘I knew it! But I didn’t want to say so until you did. Somehow, just like Namatjira, you managed to paint another layer into a gorgeous landscape. But in your own way, Cee. He used symbols, and you’ve used a story. It’s awesome! I’m rapt!’
I sat there next to her, half enjoying her praise and half wishing she’d shut up. I understood she was trying to be supportive, but my cynical voice told me that however knowledgeable she seemed to be on Namatjira, she was hardly an art expert. And beyond that, if the painting did show promise, could I ever replicate it again?
She parked the car along the main street, and we went back to the café where we’d had the good kangaroo. I ordered burgers for us as I listened to her rabbit on.
‘You’re gonna have ta learn to drive, because you need ta go out there again. And I’ve got to fly back to Broome early tomorrow morning.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘I really don’t wanna. I love the Alice. So many people told me bad stories about it, about the problems between us lot and the whites. And yeah, I’m sure some of them are true, but the art movement here is just amazing, and we haven’t even started on Papunya yet.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Another school of art that came just after Namatjira’s time. Like, most of the dot paintings you saw in the gallery earlier.’
I tried to suppress an almighty yawn, but failed miserably. I didn’t understand why I felt so exhausted.
‘Listen, why don’t you go back to the hotel and grab a kip?’ she suggested.
‘Yeah, I might,’ I said, too sleepy to object. ‘You coming with me?’
‘Nah, I thought I might take a wander to see the Namatjiras in the Araluen Arts Centre.’
‘Okay.’ I put the necessary dollars to cover the lunch on the table and stood up. ‘See you back at the ranch.’
* * *
I came to a couple of hours later and sat bolt upright.
Where’s the painting?I thought immediately as I shook myself into wakefulness. My mind searched its memory files, and I realised that we’d left it in the boot of the car when we’d gone to find lunch.
And the car was due back to the rental company at six this evening . . .
‘Shit!’ I swore as I looked at the time on the clock and saw it was nearing half past seven. What if Chrissie had forgotten about it? I pulled on my boots and ran down the stairs, which probably took me far longer than spending a few seconds patiently waiting for the lift. I reached reception and saw her through the glass doors, sitting on a sofa in the little residents’ lounge. She was reading a book on Namatjira and as I pushed open the doors and walked towards her, my panic increased. There was no sign of the painting beside her.
‘Sleeping Beauty awakes.’ She looked up and grinned at me. The grin faded as she saw my face. ‘What’s up?’
‘The painting,’ I panted. ‘Where is it? It was in the boot, remember? And the car was going back at six and it’s half past seven now and—’
‘Strewth, Cee! D’ya really think I’d haveforgottenabout it?’
‘No, but where is it?’ As I put my hands on my hips combatively, I realised just how much that painting meant to me. Brilliant or rubbish – or more likely somewhere in between – that wasn’t the point. The pointwas,it was a start.
