The art collector said, “Look, there’s Barry Humphries. You should get a photo.” I followed his eyes and saw the man best known as Dame Edna Everage. He was discretely browsing paintings at the fine art auction preview, catalogue in hand.
I remembered his other character – the obscene Sir Les Patterson, Australian Cultural Attaché to the Far East – lampooning the arts (pronounced yartz) and my home country with ferocious accuracy. The guy who designed my first website called his company Yart PTY LTD in honour of Humphries.
Despite my height, I felt very small. But I walked over and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Humphries.” Introduced myself. Asked if he might take a photo with me in front of my painting.
He said, “I suppose you’re here to see your prices.”
I paused, then replied, “No. I’m here to promote my art because it helps my prices.”
Holding my gaze for a couple of seconds, he nodded.
He kept a neutral expression as we walked toward my painting, Career Babe: High Court Judge, depicting a stylised woman dressed in legal robes with her panties exposed.
We stood underneath the painting together and the collectors who ended up buying it snapped a few pictures. I felt shy and awkward next to Humphries’ megawatt aura and ease in front of the camera. He stood so our bodies were close but not touching and his hand only brushed me once, a brief reassuring tap on my upper back. I thanked him. He nodded again and returned to browsing the paintings.
I hung out talking with the collectors. Took the hour and a half bus then train ride back to the boarding house. Thought about how a couple who liked my art enough to buy and live with it also seized an opportunity to help me promote it. Yet it didn’t feel like promotion. It felt like four people – the two collectors, Humphries and I – uniting briefly in a moment of understanding.
…
My new studio was a tiny sunroom overlooking the garden of a suburban Sydney house. The windows faced Northeast for daylight. It had a lockable door, security shutter and separate entrance.
Among the art supplies I brought with me were well used canvas drop sheets. I lay them on wooden floorboards, taped newspaper over light switches and a broken air conditioning unit. Borrowed a ladder. Wrapped cloth around the wire handle of a large paint tin to protect my hands as I walked thirty minutes back from the store. Painted everything white. Bought a six-foot foldable table from the discount store. Carried that back too, pausing to rest when my arms started to go numb. Ordered wire shelving on wheels so I could store my modest supply of materials vertically to maximise space.
I received another small commission and used the money to buy a few pads of paper and tubes of gouache paint. I intended to further develop the series of works on paper as a suite of studies that could be commissioned as larger paintings. I continued documenting my progress on social media, changing my bio’ line to back from the dead.
Not long after, I received an email from a couple, addressed to Ms. Dooney, that said, “We are so happy you’re back from the dead. Do you accept commissions?”
I wrote back to say yes and included my mobile number. A man called and we talked briefly.
During the conversation he said, in a strong Aussie accent, “You seem like you’re all iceberg, no tip.”
It’s a flattering paraphrase of an infamous insult by former Australian Prime Minister, the Honourable Paul Keating, who said – about the deputy leader of the opposing political party in 2007 – “Well, the thing about poor old Costello, he’s all tip and no iceberg, you know.”
If someone had asked a psychological profiler how to win me over, that quip would have been the answer. We agreed to meet for coffee at the man’s Sydney office to discuss the possible commission in person.
Before the conversation ended I asked, “So… should we talk about the elephant in the room?”
I meant my troubled past, the hospital years, whatever damage I had sustained to my reputation – which was rebellious to begin with.
He laughed and said, speaking slowly and clearly, “There is no room. The elephant smashed it.”
I laughed as well. It was true. Then after we hung up I cried with relief because he knew and it didn’t matter.
