Read Online The Songmaster by Di Morrissey - Free Book Online Page A

hugged her jacket close as the wind cutting along Flinders Lane sliced into her. Spending most of her time in the Kimberley and the north had weakened her resistance to cold weather. And the Melbourne papers were going on about an Indian summer. She turned into the West Australian Aboriginal Art Gallery owned by Alan Carmichael.
    He was talking to an expensively dressed couple and he excused himself to greet her warmly. ‘Been some time, Beth. How are you?’
    ‘Hanging in there. Say, your mob has been productive.’ She looked at the stack of canvases propped against a wall. Then eyed the brilliant contemporary work on exhibition in the ground-floor gallery space. ‘Whose work is this? Powerful stuff.’
    ‘Yes. This is new work from Digger Manjarrie. He’s coming on nicely. His work grows in strength as he gets older. He’s having a break from painting at the moment. Then he’s going to experiment with new stories and colours. I just give him the materials and let himget on with it.’ Alan checked the pair contemplating the canvases on the wall and Beth put a finger to her nose. ‘I’ll browse.’
    He turned to the designer-clad Toorak couple seeking the latest status symbol – Aboriginal art.
    Beth moved away, but listened to Alan try to explain the spiritual sense and artistic meaning of the art to people who were only interested in dollars and what cachet it bought.
    Beth had great respect for Alan, who she felt was sensitive to Aboriginal culture and who was prepared to spend a lot of time out in the Kimberley with the artists. He was a rarity in the art world – a knowledgeable dealer who respected the work of these painters and gently encouraged and made subtle suggestions of areas to explore without giving them directions. Beth knew some of the painters were doing a lot of ‘rubbish paintings’ as a result of so-called art experts going up to their communities and throwing money at them and telling them what to paint.
    Alan gestured at the paintings on the walls around them. One large canvas glowed with the layers of brilliant blendings of brush strokes and intricately placed paint daubs and twirls that exploded in the vibrant awakening of a woman’s spirit and celebration of her country’s Dreaming. He tried to explain this one to the Toorak couple.
    ‘I suppose Western art would equate thesepaintings with Impressionism. This contemporary work is different to traditional iconography.’
    ‘And is the artist a native artist, a bush artist?’ asked the woman, peering through her Paloma Picasso glasses.
    ‘Yes, Daisy Moorroo was raised in tribal law and she inherited three Dreamings, Fire, River and Wild Hibiscus.’ Alan moved closer to the huge painting. ‘Like abstract Western art, you have to get your eye in. It’s like those magic-eye pictures, you look into them and suddenly see what the real picture inside is. Sometimes you have to be told the story and then you can appreciate the deep spiritual meaning that is in these paintings, rather than the superficial appearance.’
    The husband looked at his watch. ‘So what’s the investment value? Short term?’
    Alan’s polite expression hardened. ‘Probably not good. Long term you might make a profit. If you’re looking for an investment rather than the aesthetic, I suggest you head back out into Collins Street and look at the Hockney exhibition. Or there’s a Lindsay auction coming up at the Sofitel Hotel.’
    The couple glanced at each other. These names sounded more familiar. ‘Perhaps we’ll think about it,’ began the husband.
    Alan turned them around and opened the glass door. ‘You do that. My art is more, speculative, shall we say. Thank you for coming in.’
    Beth laughed aloud as the ex-customers gotinto a large BMW outside the gallery. ‘Well, you managed to do yourself out of a large sum of money very swiftly.’
    ‘I’d rather not sell to people like that. I get enough people and museums that appreciate the quality of