‘I understand. But you were interested in the subject?’
‘Oh God, yes, I mean, art is the only thing I’m any good at.’
‘You are an artist?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I got a place at the Royal College in London, which was cool, but then . . .’ Shame at my failure poured through me. This man had gone to so much trouble to find me and wanted to hear what a success I was making of my life, but on paper I’d achieved absolutely nothing in the past twenty-seven years. ‘It didn’t work out either. I left after three months and came here. Sorry,’ I added as an afterthought.
‘There’s no need to apologise to me, or to yourself,’ my grandfather said, only out of kindness, I was sure. ‘I will let you into a secret: I won a place at the Melbourne School of Art. It was organised for me by a man called Rex Battarbee, who was the person responsible for teaching Namatjira. I lasted less than four days, then ran away and came back to my home in Hermannsburg.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. And it was a nerve-racking moment, having to face my grandmother Camira when I eventually arrived home after a month’s journey back here. She’d been so proud when I’d got the place. I thought she might beat me, but she was just happy to see me safe and well. The only punishment she gave me was to lock me in the shed with a barrel of water, until I’d scrubbed myself from head to foot with carbolic soap!’
‘And you still went on to be a famous artist?’
‘I went on to be an artist, yes, but I did it my own way, just as you are doing. Are you painting again now?’
‘I’ve really been struggling, to be honest. I lost all my confidence after I left college in November.’
‘Of course you did, but it will come back, and it will happen in a moment when something – a landscape or an idea – strikes you. And that feeling in your gut will make your hand itch to paint it and—’
‘I know that feeling!’ I butted in excitedly. ‘That’s exactly what happens to me!’
Out of everything my grandfather had said to me so far, this was the moment when I really, truly believed we must be blood. ‘And,’ I added, ‘that feeling happened to me a couple of days ago when I was driving back with my friend Chrissie from Hermannsburg and saw the sun setting behind the MacDonnell Ranges. The next day, I borrowed some watercolours, and I sat under a gum tree and I . . . painted! And she said, my friend Chrissie, I mean’ – my words were tripping over each other now – ‘she said it was great, and then she took it to a gallery in Alice Springs without me knowing, and it’s being framed, and they’re going to put it up for sale for six hundred dollars!’
‘Wonderful!’ My grandfather slapped his knees. ‘If I were still a drinker, I would make a toast to you. I look forward very much to seeing the painting.’
‘Oh, I don’t really think it’s anything special and I only had an old tin of children’s watercolours to work with . . .’
‘But at least it was a start,’ he finished for me, his eyes shining with what looked like genuine happiness. ‘I’m sure it’s far better than you think.’
‘I saw your Wheel of Fire in a book. It was amazing.’
‘Thank you. Interestingly, it is not my favourite, but then often the artist’s preference for one particular work does not match the critical or public view.’
‘I painted a mural of the Seven Sisters out of dots when I was younger,’ I told him. ‘I didn’t even know why I was doing it.’
‘The Ancestors were guiding you back to your country,’ Francis replied.
‘I’ve always struggled to find my style . . .’
‘As any painter of note does.’
‘This morning, when I saw the way that you and that Clifford Possum guy had mixed two styles together to create something new, I wondered about trying something like that too.’
He didn’t ask me what, just fixed his extraordinary eyes upon me. ‘Then you must try it. And soon. Don’t let the moment of inspiration pass.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And never ever compare yourself to other artists. Whether they are better, or worse, it only leads to despair . . .’
I waited, for I knew he had more to say.
‘I fell into that trap when Cliff’s paintings began to gain national recognition. He was a genius and I miss him to this day – we were great friends. But jealousy ate into me as I watched him rise to fame and receive the adulation that I knew I would never get. There is only one seminal artist from the first generation of a new school of painting. Once it was him, it could never be me.’
‘Did you lose confidence?’ I asked.
‘Worse than that. Not only did I stop painting, but I started drinking. I left my poor wife and went walkabout for over three months. I cannot tell you the jealousy I felt, or how my art seemed pointless at that moment. It took me all that time out there alone to understand that success and fame for any true artist is a mirage. The true joy is in the creative process itself. You will always be a slave to it, and, yes, it will dominate your life, control you like a lover. But unlike a lover, it will never leave you,’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s inside you forever.’
‘When you accepted that, were you able to paint again?’ I asked.
‘I came home, drunk and broken, and my wife put me to bed and cared for me until I was physically better. The mental recovery had already begun while I was out Bush, but it took a long time for me to gather the courage to sit in front of a canvas and hold a brush again. I will never forget how my hand shook as I first picked one up again. And then finally, the freedom of knowing that I was not painting for anyone except myself, that I would probably never achieve my original goal of world domination, gave me a sense of peace and freedom I cannot describe. Since then – over the past thirty years or so – my paintings have got better and, in fact, now command huge prices, simply because I only paint when my fingers itch. Well, there we are.’
We sat in silence for a while, but it was comfortable. I was learning already that – like his painting – my grandfather would only speak when he had something to say. I also felt I’d had a massive info-dump over the past couple of days, and, a bit like a kid holding a box of sweets, I wanted to store it all in my mind-cupboard and unwrap the facts sweet by sweet. I was sure there were a lot of hungry days alone to come . . .
‘Look!’
I jumped about six inches in the air at the sound of his voice, my immediate reaction one of panic in case he was pointing out a snake or a spider.
‘Up there.’ He pointed and I followed his finger to the familiar milky cluster hanging low in the sky and as close to me as I’d ever seen it. ‘There you are.’ He walked towards me and draped his arm around my shoulder. ‘There’s your mother, Pleione, and your father, Atlas. Look, even your little sister is showing herself to us tonight.’
‘Oh my God! She’s there! I can see her!’