committee membership lists, advisory board structures, policies, draft policies, potential draft policies, terms of reference, annual reports, strategy plans, treaties with foreign potentates, fixtures for the staff association cricket club, a list of recent grant recipients. Heaving a heavy sigh, I took unenthusiastic possession.
‘Anything here on the Centre for Modern Art? I’m going to some sort of exhibition there tonight and I really don’t know much about the place.’ Precisely zip, in fact.
Veale dealt me the relevant document. ‘Lloyd Eastlake’s not wasting any time taking you under his wing, I see.’
I thought Veale must have been reading my mail until I opened the CMA annual report and scanned its list of office-bearers. Eastlake was the chairman. ‘I haven’t met him yet,’ I said. ‘But I’ve been told he’s very well regarded.’
‘Very,’ said Veale. His arid neutrality betrayed a hint of sniffiness. ‘Lloyd Eastlake chairs so many committees it’s a wonder he finds time to make a living. The CMA. The Music Festival. The Film Development Corporation. The Visual Arts Advisory Panel. The ALP policy committee, of course…’
All political appointments, in other words. This Eastlake, whoever he was, was clearly making the most of his opportunities. On the league ladder of policy committees, Cultural Affairs was about as low as you could go. A clout-free zone. A sheltered workshop for no-hoper Upper House backbenchers. Old farts from the Musicians’ Union who once played the saxophone in three-piece wedding combos and now spent their declining years haunting thrash rock clubs trying to sign up roadies. Eastlake, alert to the perquisites of his chairmanship, had clearly set about making himself Labor’s man in the garden of culture.
‘A retired union official?’ I asked. ‘With a taste for trad jazz and the French New Wave?’
‘Financial services, actually,’ said Veale. ‘Started as a carpenter. Joined his father-in-law’s building firm back in the fifties, turned it into a major player in the housing industry, then sold up to concentrate on investment consulting.’ An ex-chippie made good. No wonder he got up Veale’s aristocratic nose.
A large colour-field painting hung on the wall behind the minister’s desk. It was hard-edged, all surface, a bled-out pink with a broad stripe of yellow running right through the middle. Not unlike many in the party. Veale saw me looking over his shoulder and turned to follow my gaze. ‘Taste in pictures is such a personal matter,’ he said, as though he’d never seen the thing before in his life. ‘Does our master have a liking for something in particular?’
Human blood, I nearly said. ‘Perhaps something to match his mental processes,’ I suggested.
‘Nothing too abstract then, I take it,’ said Veale, cocking a jovial eyebrow. I had a feeling that he and I were going to get along like a house on fire.
Veale left me alone with my homework. I took it over to the big desk and started in. As well as the National Gallery, the State Theatre and the Concert Hall, all of which I could see out the window, Arts was the overseer-in- chief of everything from the State Library to a regional museum so small the brontosaurus skeleton had to stick its neck out the window. All up, the annual budget topped forty million. Not in the major league by any means, but enough to have some fun with. And enough to generate some pretty vocal squabbling, if Ken Sproule was to be believed.
The list of recent grant recipients revealed some familiar names. The Turkish Welfare League had scored a thousand dollars to run traditional music classes for Turkish Youth. In my experience, your average Turkish youth preferred heavy metal to Anatolian folk songs. Doubtless the dough would go to pay a part-time social worker. At the other extreme, the Centre for Modern Art had copped three hundred grand for a ‘one-off extraordinary acquisition’. I wondered what you could acquire for that sort of cash.
I closed the folder. Plenty of time for that sort of thing later. Reminding myself of more pressing realities, I rang Agnelli and caught him on the way to Government House for the swearing-in of the new Cabinet. I told him about the Karlin brunch invitation, making it sound like a minor formality, and asked for his okay to decline. Right on cue, at the magic words ‘Max Karlin’, he was dead keen.
‘It’s important that we maintain continuity of appointments during this transition,’ he said.
‘You’re the boss,’ I told him.
By then, it was just on five o’clock. I was feeling a little parched in the back of the throat, but it was ninety minutes before I was due to meet this Lloyd Eastlake bloke. I was flicking absently through the Centre for Modern Art annual report when Phillip Veale’s well-barbered mane appeared around the door. ‘Drinkie winkies?’ he mouthed.
I could tell immediately that I’d have to pull my socks up in the duds department if I ever hoped to cut the mustard in this culture caper. Aside from Phillip Veale’s two-tone shirt, I counted three bow ties, a pair of red braces and a Pierre Cardin blazer. And that was just what the women were wearing.
All up, about fifteen people were milling about the conference room, enjoying what Veale described as the ministry’s customary end-of-week after-work convivial for staff and visiting clients. In no time at all, a glass of government-issue fizzy white had been thrust into my hand and the director had waltzed me about the room and presented me to sundry deputy directors and executive officers. The natives seemed affable enough and bid me welcome with the wary amiability of practised bureaucrats.
Three drinks later, I was cornered by a large woman wearing a kaftan and what appeared to be Nigeria’s annual output of trade beads. ‘Does the new minister have strong interest in anything in particular?’ she asked. Her name was Peggy Wainright and she’d been introduced as the executive responsible for the visual arts.
‘The visual arts,’ I said. ‘Naturally. And puppetry, of course.’
My lame wit fell on deaf ears. The woman grabbed my elbow and began to drag me through the throng. ‘In that case,’ she said. ‘You simply must meet Salina Fleet. She’s the visual arts editor of Veneer .’
‘ Veneer?’
‘The leading journal of contemporary cultural criticism.’ In other words, an art magazine. Peggy was shocked I hadn’t heard of it. ‘Very influential.’ In other words, an art magazine with very few readers.
One of the occupational hazards of working at Ethnic Affairs was the tendency it encouraged to categorise people on the basis of their names. In the case of, say, Agnelli or Mavramoustakides this was not difficult. Fleet was pure Anglo. Fleet as in First, as in Street. The Salina bit was definitely an exotic ring-in. I allowed myself to be propelled forward, already a little curious. ‘Here’s Salina now.’
Salina Fleet was a gamine blonde with apricot lipstick and dangly white plastic earrings, her slightly tousled hair growing out of a razor cut. Her limbs were bare and lightly tanned and she was wearing a mu-mu with a fringe of pompoms and a palm-tree motif. Slung over her shoulder was a terry-towel beach-bag with hula-hoop handles. A surfie chick from a Frankie Avalon movie. She was about thirty, old enough to know better, so her intention was clearly ironic.
‘Salina’s on the Visual Arts Advisory Panel which makes recommendations on grants to artists and galleries,’ said Peggy, by way of introduction. ‘This is Murray Whelan. He’s on the new minister’s personal staff.’
Salina Fleet turned from pouring herself a drink, cocked her budgerigar head and gave me a long, intelligent and frankly appraising look. ‘Really?’ she said. She reached into her beach-bag and drew out a pack of Kool. ‘How interesting.’ You had to admire her attention to period detail. I didn’t know they still made Kool.
‘The new minister has a strong interest in the visual arts,’ added Peggy. ‘And puppetry.’
‘Really?’ said Salina. A flicker of mischief played between her eyes and the corners of her apricot lips. ‘How interesting.’ She took a cigarette out of the pack.
‘You’re not going to smoke in here?’ said Peggy Wainright with alarm.
‘Mind if I have one of those?’ I said. I hated menthol cigarettes.
Salina did some jokey huffy wiggly stuff with her shoulders. ‘I suppose we’d better be good boys and girls, then.’ She nodded towards a sliding glass door that opened onto a narrow balcony overlooking the trellised white tower of the Arts Centre. ‘Coming?’ She was certainly a live wire.
We took our drinks outside, just us smokers. It was like stepping into an oven. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’ Salina broke out the camphorated stogies and we both lit up. ‘Peggy’s a dear but she’s never off duty.’
‘Frankly I’m relieved,’ I said. ‘For a minute there I thought I’d have to pretend to know something about art.’
‘Pretence is essential in the art world.’ Salina exhaled a peppermint-scented cloud. Her fingernail polish was apricot, too. Perfect.
‘Any other tips for a novice?’ I was trying to pretend that my cigarette didn’t taste like fly spray.
‘The most important thing is always to keep a straight face. As long as you do that, anything is possible.’
