Yes, so it’s day 1 of Falls Festival 2010. So far I’ve been told where the toilets will be set up eventually up and in the mean time to use a well positioned tree, I’m short enough and I’ve also completely alienated myself for the remainder of the festival from the campers to the right of me – a group of fit looking, young 20 something girls, the sort you could bounce off walls and I say that with a degree of jealously and 30 something loathing and envy – I call it ‘lonvy’. (Please note, it is yet to catch on, and before you email me pointing that out, quite clearly I’ve just acknowledged it, so best you go back to emailing Scarlett Johanssen about that dream you’ve been having of late about her, you know the one where you wake up wet and covered in shame…). I’ve managed to not make firm and fast friends here, but not for lack of trying.
Ok, so I was brushing my teeth in the dark, as you do, when I stumbled onto the girls next door trying to erect their tent, and to their credit they were trying to do it without tops on – yes, that porno my ex once dreamed up and pitched to me was about to come true. They scurried to cover themselves up as soon as they sensed my presence, but who was I to rest on ceremony?
‘Don’t cover up on my account’ I remarked, suddenly painfully aware of lack of bra beneath layers of tracksuit jumpers and gravity. ‘It’s nothing I haven’t seen before’ and yes, I said it with all the creepy the weight of a peodophile languishing casually outside a school playground. The girls moved faster to cover themselves up and as such I just kept going with it..’I've got my own pair you see, but they’re just a lot bigger than any of yours.’ Yep, what followed was a well deserved silence. ‘Um, no I didn’t mean it like that, I meant that if I could I would get around erecting tents with my top off too, not that I haven’t erected a tent in my time and I’m sure my pair have something to do with it if you get my drift (note, a blind Japanese whaler would have gotten my drift), if a
nything I’m just really jealous, cause by the looks of things you don’t need much support do you?…like you’d do a nice strappy sundress the justice it deserved right?’ Again silence, followed by me removing myself from the situation and now I’m sitting in my tent by the light of my torch waiting for them to go to bed before I position myself outside their tent for the evening and just watch them sleep.
Over the weekend a friend of mine (and I can say ‘friend’ cause we’ve known each other over 25 years, so yes, there is an affection there) tried to set me up, once again. Given she’s now decided to breed her efforts have gone from ‘just go chat to him Lou, feel out the situation, see if you like him’ to ‘his parole officer assured me he goes to his drug testing and sex addict therapy sessions like clock work every week, and who says you can’t find a consistent man these days…I mean if you ask me, we’ve just given up looking, I mean he’s never committed aggravated assault and I reckon that shows gentlemanly restraint– eh Lou?’
This new man, well she’d been on about him for over a year, but when she opened this time with ‘come on Lou, he’s like family’ even she knew she’d have to try harder.
‘He works in television’ she declared ‘or as you refer to it Lou – the ‘talkie box’.
Ah, well just lube me up, tied me down, spank the engine and let’s get started!
Unfortunately for this poor guy, let alone me, this wasn’t the first time my friend had tried to get us to both ‘feel out the situation.’
At an engagement party a few months earlier, and herself newly married, she was on a mission ‘to sort me out’ insisting that to do so ‘would right all the wrongs in the world.’
I poured myself another glass of wine out of the box and wondered out loud if my body weight, coupled with my teetering heels could support any sort of rope like device I could fashion together out of napkins and then loop over one of the rafters looming over me without my neck snapping before I lost consciousness and the pain went away. Helping herself to the last cashew nut without even offering to me first, I could tell I was trying her patience.
‘So, you see anyone, or anything that takes your fancy Lou?’
Surveying the sea of industry t-shirts, frosted man hair tips and calls of ‘let’s go to Revolver after this’ I quickly surmised the only thing I ‘liked’ were the well lit exit signs highlighting the two escape points at the bar/corporate function centre that evening.
‘Um, I quite like those things wrapped in pastry with the spinach and potato in it – what do your people call them again?’
‘Pasties’
‘Ooh, exotic…is that African?’
‘Don’t be a dick Lou.’
‘Sorry.’
I fingered at my luke warm pasty and knew that without any tomato sauce on hand; I was a fool to have thought I could enjoy it on its own merits.
‘What about him?’ she pointed to a guy wearing a vest.
‘It’s because he’s wearing a vest isn’t it?’
‘He’s your type’
‘I don’t have a type’
‘Yes you do, especially if you call guys that don’t actually turn out to like you a type.’
‘I hate you.’
‘Hey, don’t blame the soldier who drops the truth bomb, blame the….’ She stumbled.
‘Yep, blame who?’ I pointedly asked.
‘..Dunno, but you get my point.’
‘No I don’t’
‘And anyway, he might be gay.’
‘You’re trying to set me up with a gay man?’
‘Would it matter if I was, not like you haven’t tried to climb that mountain before…?’
‘I mean he wears vests Lou, come on, that’s hot, he knows how to use buttons, even you’ve got to admit Lou that takes skill.’
And so like a dog who wants a bone, or to bone something (I should’ve Googled this analogy but I couldn’t be arsed) she continued, unrelentingly to try and get me interested in the guy who wore vests and had a flare for buttons and so imagine months later, standing together at mutual friends sons christening, when she was able to reveal he worked in television – I mean, I’m still amazed she didn’t come on the spot, but in hindsight it was lucky for all in attendance she didn’t, I’d run out of handy wipes only hours earlier.
I stared at her now pregnant belly and realised to blame the parasitic appendage growing inside her for this vendetta she seemed determined to fulfil was probably irrational and to be honest I’m pretty sure an unborn foetus would be rather reluctant to throw in it’s two cents about my personal life given it had yet to fully form fingernails or genitals for that matter – it clearly had no right to an opinion.
‘It’s great he works in television, really good for him.’
‘Is it because you don’t own a television Lou, is that why you’re not even giving him a chance?’
‘No, that has nothing to do with it.’
‘You’re so narrow minded Lou. I bet if he worked in books you’d be all over him.’
‘Yeah, you know me and guys who know their way around a dictionary.’
‘Don’t be crass Lou, we’re in church.’
‘Yeah, you’re right, shouldn’t we be more focused on the baptism right now then say getting me sorted?’
The priest glared at me as I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. To be honest I don’t do church, let alone religion and each and every time one of my friends insist on getting married or indulging in some church based activity I feel a growing resentment festering inside me which will probably give me cancer and then I’ll question my faith and return to the fold – damn those Catholics and their insidious forward planning.
‘Now, everyone feel free to come forward and anoint this child with your touch and welcome him into the house of the Lord and show him that you can guide him through his spiritual life.’ The priest motioned towards us. My friend stood up to go and give this kid a kick start/ head kick in life and waited for me to stand.
‘I’m not doing it, I’ll be damned if I’m going to be any child’s go-to-guy.’ I stated.
‘Wow, first its guys in TV and now a baby, you’re unbelievable – is there anyone you will do Lou?’
‘Sure there is, just not a baby or people that work in television, yep colour me selective.’
‘I’ve got hand sanitiser on me if that’s the problem.’
‘Well why didn’t you mention earlier you had that social lubricator on hand?’
‘Don’t be like that Lou, I’ve got the message – I’m going to stop interfering, you quite clearly don’t want to be helped.’
‘Oh come on, don’t be like that, get me lathered up and let’s go touch us some babies.’ I remarked sarcastically, in hindsight, a little too loudly…
Now, not to go into too much detail but did you know how rare it is to suffer second degree burns from Holy Water? It’s probably rarer still that the priest sprayed the Holy Water on me himself in an attempt to out some supposed ‘spirits’ and to keep me away from one of God’s children.
After the service he apologised as I scratched at the blisters now glistening across my cleavage and police took witness statements and my friend explained to him and the irate parents of the newly christened child that perhaps she was partly to blame for my ill-timed and even I can admit, highly inappropriate outburst but come on, she went on, I’d rebuked the chance to form a meaningful relationship with a guy that worked in television, yes television and liked more of a challenge then the average zipper could offer!
The priest looked at me and then spoke, clearly, making sure his message was heard ‘How old are you Louise?’
‘Um, I don’t really know what that has to do with anything.’
‘She’s 30’ my friend offered up.
‘Well then, I think this is a lot of fuss about nothing, and I’m sure God would agree with me but being 30 and all you’re probably already barren aren’t you Lou and you know what they say – if you can’t fertilise the lawn you might as well just pull it up and fill it with concrete and whack a hills hoist in the middle of it.’
…well at least someone was on my side J
There was a time, long before arts council grants, Centrelink retraining schemes and selling my belongings on Ebay that I made a living doing something decidedly different, I was a life model. When I explained to my father what I was doing to pay the bills he no longer had too, his reaction was surprising ‘well Louise I’ve always thought you a bit of a role model myself, tell me – are there children involved?’ My mother chuckled to herself as she decanted the final box of wine she’d been saving into my limited edition Sesame Street flask she’d found in a recent spring clean so she’d have something to drink on the way to her line dancing classes and relished in explaining to my father that a life model was someone who took their clothes off for strangers, it just involved a little more turps and a little less masturbation say as you’d find in strip clubs. Once that was cleared up my father’s reaction was a lot more consistent with his character “el aumento de t mi hija a ser prostitute, no con una educación de la escuela privada, nadie ahora le casará. le destinan para morir solamente.” (which loosely translated means ‘no daughter of mine is a prostitute, not when I paid for private school education. No one will ever marry you and you will die alone”).
It wasn’t like I’d sort this lifestyle out, I could barely take my own clothes off in the dark in front of my blacked out mirror, clutching a string of rosemary beads and lamenting the mark my under wire bra made in my chest cavity without cringing, but it was something about this unknown bohemian artistic world that held an undeniable allure for me, a middle class girl from Brighton with a penchant for ill-blended Australis foundation and then there was the simple truth that surely like any good 18 year old Catholic school girl, I’d be a fool to give up the chance to catch syphilis off a 50 year old disheveled hobby painter who’s wife didn’t understand him, nor did the prostitutes he frequented on St Kilda Rd.
Of course I’d be lying if I didn’t on admit on some level that I was excited by the idea of meeting older more experienced men who knew that a way to a women’s heart was not by treating her like an un-lubricated sock puppet, men who would flower me with gifts like limited edition penguin books that had been well thumbed because they’d kept them since they were boys and the pages not only smelt of life experience but of lovers past and present and let’s be straight- at 18 I could do with all the practice/ training I could muster – (let’s just say the idea of bleaching the hair above my upper lip didn’t really come to me in a light bulb moment until about 21 and as such I’d been following a strict diet of beggars can’t be choosers).
I posed for all sorts of people and soon realized that a surprising number of people will pay good money for a young women to sit naked in their lounge room/studio/backseat of their cousins Daihatsu and paint them, and also that most were devoid of any sort of talent and as such most paintings of me often looked liked that of a right handed kid boasting to his mates that he’d given it a go with his left. In fact out of the 5 or 6 regular artists I worked for, only about 3 were actual ‘I vote for the Greens’ proper artists and the rest just wanted someone to talk to and paint naked (and yes, that’s as awkward as it sounds). By 20, I realized that I like most people never ever want to see a swollen prostate again and how it hurts to pee ‘here I’ll show you’ nor did I want to know how you might take out our local government if a revolution was forced upon the City of Port Melbourne.
Many of these conversations and people blended into each other, well that was until I met Francine*. She was the wife of a very, very well known film maker, his 4th wife if IMDB had anything to say about it and I had come highly recommended to her by the boy who made her coffee at the local café who’d I posed for once (he’d gotten a gift voucher off his aunt for the local Tafe college) and he couldn’t help but rave about my jaw line (obviously this caused much confusion with many potential clients given the insinuations one can make about a girl with a good jaw), bur Francine was different – there would be no look of bitter disappointment of her face when I refused to go down on her.
We talked out books, feminist literature and what she hoped to achieve out of her latest series of paintings. She wanted to explore violence and women and for the first time in my career as a life model I honestly thought that somehow my naked physique, on canvas could have the potential to change the world, that one day it would hang in the Louvre and a whole new generation would stand in front of my image, as if on a pilgrimage and delight in trying to figure out if I was smiling and frowning, yes I might even have gone as far as to have imagined that at some point my visitors would out number that of the Mona Lisa and I would still be alive to enjoy this adulation, but in some horrid twist of fate I’d never get to enjoy the fame properly because the aforementioned syphilis would’ve rotted half my brain away and I’d have been institutionalized for the better half of 25 years.
It was decided that I would pose for a series of pictures about a woman trying to escapes the ‘constraints of society’ (please be aware, these were well before the days that hyperbole became common place). As a progressive woman I was fine with this, more than fine, fuck, I was adamant that this was my fate, well that was until I saw the chains and the blindfold and that whip laid out on the table in front of me. ‘I thought you were going for a more subjective definition of violence’ I offered up, as a reminder of sorts to Francine ‘I thought we decided against a more literal interpretation, you know because of all those damn pesky health and safety rules’.
She rolled her eyes at me and laughed ‘come on Lou, you’ve got to break a few eggs to a make an omelet’. Whereas I did agree with her on the whole issue of eggs being needed to make an egg based dish philosophy, I did struggle to see how that had anything to do with my being bound and gagged to a chair for the better part of a day, 4 hours drive away from the city and with a mobile phone whose battery had just died.
Now let’s be clear, I’m not opposed to a little bit of ‘how’s your father’ but it usually involves ‘safety words’ and to be blunt not with people who are paying me by the hour. ‘Maybe if you don’t tie me up properly…’ I muttered. ‘And what would be the point of that Lou, to deny the world truth?’
‘What if we made a deal not to tell the world? You know just keep it as our little secret?’
‘Don’t you want to help the women of the world Lou?’
‘Yes, I’m all up for that, I’m just not sure how entirely I’d be doing that, legs spread, chained to a dashboard.’
‘You can’t argue that we’re not on the same page Lou, visually you chained to a dashboard would be a very striking image’
‘Yes, and so are snuff films but the general consensus is that no one in a civilized society needs to see either of those things’.
Francine took another line of coke and eyed me up and down and I felt a pang of guilt, after all I was all that currently stood in her way of being able to create her opus dei, well at least until she got back to town and hired another girl to lure out to the country with the promise of revolution.
‘I’m sorry’ I told her ‘I can’t be tied up for art, it just makes me feel exploited and to be honest it goes against my whole feminist philosophy and I thought after everything you said it would go against your philosophy too.’
Francine paused for a moment.
‘Listen Lou, I’ve never been particularly that interested in changing the world, I’m just an old women wanting to get her leg over and what with your chronic acne and poor posture I thought you’d be a sure thing, but hey that’ll teach me to judge a book by it’s cover.’
She fingered the strap-on she that had somehow magically appeared from her hand bag and lamenting her defeat dropped it back into it’s home of darkness before taking another line of coke and a swig of wine and I couldn’t help but think to myself that it was going to a long, naked walk home.