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Authors: Di Morrissey
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what I have. There aren’t enough dis-criminating eyes about. Some galleries buy stuff because it’s Aboriginal without any understanding of how or why they work. It’s causing a lot of dissension in some of the communities. You might have one person whose work is of museum or high-value standard but because they all paint and decorate as part of their culture, the others don’t understand why they can’t just knock off a picture and get money for a new truck, too. I tell you, Beth, there are some unscrupulous operators crawling into this business and it’s the Aboriginal artists who are getting ripped off, spoilt and misled. Not to mention the art-buying public.’
‘You better keep your coterie of artists protected then. But how you do that, short of staying with them, I can’t imagine. That way they won’t be seduced by flash dealers waving bucks.’
In his quiet, understated way, Alan was philosophical. ‘No point in bringing out bits of paper for them to sign or bad-mouthing the sleazy operators. If the artists are offered bucks and they’re being pestered by the family and the rest of their mob for a handout, they’ll knock off a couple of bad pictures and take the cash.It’s a slow process of showing my artists how to approach their art differently. But you’re right, I can’t keep tabs on them long distance. I have to go back regularly, so I’m going up to the Kimberley to meet with the artists at Bungarra next month.’
‘You staying long?’
‘Who knows? At least a couple of weeks. You know how it is. You can’t rush them. There has to be much sitting around the campfire, lots of talking, then they meet amongst themselves, lots of sitting quietly, and then more consultation.’
Beth grinned at the art dealer. ‘And you love it. You have the patience to do things their way – that’s why they trust you and you get results. So tell me more about this work.’
Alan pointed at the nearest painting. ‘You can see how he takes us through his country in each picture, appreciating every level of what it means to him.’
‘I hope people who buy these understand their rich meaning,’ said Beth. ‘It’s what the elders dislike so much, not the fact that their art is being put on tea towels and T-shirts, or copied by commercial white enterprises, but that the soul and spirit of their culture isn’t understood.’
‘They’ve been resigned to that fact for years. It was never meant to be presented to outsiders. Kimberley art is such a diverse and unpredictable style. I’m sure you know painting in the Kimberley is relatively new, like from the 1970s.’
Beth picked up the catalogue and checked the prices. ‘I’d never have thought years ago that Aboriginal art would fetch these prices.’
‘So many artists have been ripped off since the seventies. I take my commission, I pay for materials and keep them supplied with everything they need. And often that means new glasses and boots when they come down here to stay with me. I invest their money and show them their bank books and stuff, but mostly they’re not interested. I send them money when they need a large sum.’
‘It still smacks of white paternalism,’ sighed Beth. ‘But, hey, I know what you’re going to say,’ she lifted a hand, ‘give them money and it’ll go on everyone else in a flash.’
‘Yeah, it’s good I’m down here. They live on their pension and government payouts that go to the community, but if they need extra money they come to me.’
Beth knew other dealers didn’t look after their artists like Alan. He was unique in the field and regarded by other dealers as a bit strange. Most dealers were cutthroat dollar hunters and figured Alan must be independently wealthy by the way he stuck to his principles at the cost of a sale. As world interest in Aboriginal art was growing, it was attracting avaricious fly-by-nighters.
Beth turned back to the canvases on the walls. ‘You’ve obviously invested a lot in
‘You better keep your coterie of artists protected then. But how you do that, short of staying with them, I can’t imagine. That way they won’t be seduced by flash dealers waving bucks.’
In his quiet, understated way, Alan was philosophical. ‘No point in bringing out bits of paper for them to sign or bad-mouthing the sleazy operators. If the artists are offered bucks and they’re being pestered by the family and the rest of their mob for a handout, they’ll knock off a couple of bad pictures and take the cash.It’s a slow process of showing my artists how to approach their art differently. But you’re right, I can’t keep tabs on them long distance. I have to go back regularly, so I’m going up to the Kimberley to meet with the artists at Bungarra next month.’
‘You staying long?’
‘Who knows? At least a couple of weeks. You know how it is. You can’t rush them. There has to be much sitting around the campfire, lots of talking, then they meet amongst themselves, lots of sitting quietly, and then more consultation.’
Beth grinned at the art dealer. ‘And you love it. You have the patience to do things their way – that’s why they trust you and you get results. So tell me more about this work.’
Alan pointed at the nearest painting. ‘You can see how he takes us through his country in each picture, appreciating every level of what it means to him.’
‘I hope people who buy these understand their rich meaning,’ said Beth. ‘It’s what the elders dislike so much, not the fact that their art is being put on tea towels and T-shirts, or copied by commercial white enterprises, but that the soul and spirit of their culture isn’t understood.’
‘They’ve been resigned to that fact for years. It was never meant to be presented to outsiders. Kimberley art is such a diverse and unpredictable style. I’m sure you know painting in the Kimberley is relatively new, like from the 1970s.’
Beth picked up the catalogue and checked the prices. ‘I’d never have thought years ago that Aboriginal art would fetch these prices.’
‘So many artists have been ripped off since the seventies. I take my commission, I pay for materials and keep them supplied with everything they need. And often that means new glasses and boots when they come down here to stay with me. I invest their money and show them their bank books and stuff, but mostly they’re not interested. I send them money when they need a large sum.’
‘It still smacks of white paternalism,’ sighed Beth. ‘But, hey, I know what you’re going to say,’ she lifted a hand, ‘give them money and it’ll go on everyone else in a flash.’
‘Yeah, it’s good I’m down here. They live on their pension and government payouts that go to the community, but if they need extra money they come to me.’
Beth knew other dealers didn’t look after their artists like Alan. He was unique in the field and regarded by other dealers as a bit strange. Most dealers were cutthroat dollar hunters and figured Alan must be independently wealthy by the way he stuck to his principles at the cost of a sale. As world interest in Aboriginal art was growing, it was attracting avaricious fly-by-nighters.
Beth turned back to the canvases on the walls. ‘You’ve obviously invested a lot in
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