The Gaps by Leanne Hall (classic literature list .TXT) 📕

The vulva artist smiles tightly, no teeth. He looks disapproving—a disapproving, creepy uncle who is only a few years older than me and might touch me on the butt. ‘Well. I guess art is not for everyone.’

‘I guess it’s not.’

The conversation falters. We both look away and I realise anew how cacophonous, how teeming, the room is. It’s the very opposite of the dignified and calm NGV.

‘Congratulations on your vaginas,’ I say and walk away.

I spend a few minutes trying to tunnel my way over to Natalia, who seems to have completely forgotten that she was the one who invited me to this thing, but give up after taking several elbows to my ribs.

Instead I do something radical. I look at the art.

I shut out everything around me. If I did ever decide to study art—as if I would ever do a course so guaranteed to leave me poor—this would be the kind of company I would be in.

In one corner is a pile of dirty rags, a stack of sticks and an old TV playing a video of a guy smearing mud on his face. It doesn’t do much for me.

The next artist is devoted to painting highways and concrete flyovers.

There’s a set of guns and other weapons made using a 3D printer.

I’ve almost circled the gallery when I find something that interests me, in one of the smaller rooms leading off the main one.

It’s a collection of photos—studio portraits of the South Sudanese artist and her family and friends, posed on sets in a formal style. The subjects wear a combination of traditional dress, retro work uniforms, modern streetwear, beaded necklaces, head wraps, sunglasses and white trainers. Bright print fabric covers every surface, punctuated by bunches of flowers in vases.

I find myself lingering on one photo, of two girls who are posed so closely they must be sisters or best friends. They look close but individual; they look like they have each other’s back. I look closer—I think the artist has started with a monochrome photo and coloured it digitally, to create the very effect I’ve been chasing.

The room is full of the artist’s vision and personality. Pattern and colour everywhere. Confidence. The labels on the wall list the artist’s first name, Adut, the titles of the works, and nothing more.

My heart thumps in my chest, my fingers tingle. My eyes open to possibility. It’s the same feeling I got in the pine forest during cross-country, so I recognise it now. I take photos on my phone so I can carry the feeling home with me.

I can’t even imagine creating such a series that hangs together so well.

When I return to the main room it’s an abomination, a brawl of posing people. The inspiration and tingles drip away.

I try to move and somehow find myself near the door to the outside world. I am carried down the breakneck stairs and out onto the street.

The outside air hits my relieved lungs. It’s good to be away from hot, sweaty bodies.

I sit on the front ledge of the pizza shop next door, finally get my backpack off my shoulders, and watch cars and bikes and trams slide by. Why would Natalia act so desperate to see me all holidays and then not look out for me at all?

My annoyance grows.

Vulva artist was a tool.

Smoke from a nearby group hits me in the face so I move even further up the ledge, closer to where a girl sits with a can of lemonade.

She glances at me. ‘Intense in there, right?’

I nod.

‘Way too intense,’ she repeats.

We fall quiet. Metres away from us, in front of a backdrop of passing cars, a soap opera plays out.

A skinny girl in platform boots starts berating this guy, poking him in the chest. A friend of the upset girl grabs her around the waist and tries to haul her away, but she’s only half her size.

The girl sitting next to me gives me such an exaggerated and comical look that I laugh. She holds out a packet of gum and I take a piece. The taste of cheap beer lingers in my mouth.

‘I’ve got to warn you, this flavour’s not for everyone. It’s cinnamon.’ She holds out her hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Adut.’

‘Chloe.’ Then realisation hits me. ‘Wait. Is that you up there? Are those your photos?’

She confirms it.

‘I don’t believe it. I love your photos. They’re the only thing I really liked.’ With some effort I force my mouth shut, before I truly embarrass myself.

‘Shhh, the other artists might hear you.’

Adut looks pleased. When I look closer, I do recognise her from the photos, but her hair is shaved in an undercut now, with two tight bleached braids on top.

‘It’s hell standing around listening to people talk about your art,’ she says. ‘That’s why I’m out here.’

‘I’d be so nervous,’ I say. ‘I noticed you didn’t put up an artist statement like the others did.’

She smiles. ‘I have to describe my work so much at art school. I get tired of it. I want my work to speak for itself.’

‘What do you say though, when people ask you what your art is about?’

Adut thinks for only a moment. ‘I say it’s about decolonisation and identity and migration and recognising the traditional owners of this land.’

‘That’s amazing,’ I say foolishly, but how does a person get to the point where they can say so succinctly and without apology what they are doing? ‘Do you go to VCA?’

‘That place? Full of private school wankers. I’m at RMIT, doing my masters. There’s a better range of students, different sorts of people, and the lecturers are good. Working artists, you know?’

I don’t know, but I nod.

‘How about you, Chloe?’

I blush. ‘I like making art. I’m working on something photographic at the moment.’

I show her some pics saved on my phone and Adut asks questions and I explain it as best I can, even though I don’t have ideas as sophisticated or as important