Silpa: the Art of Love

Chapter 4
Risks and Results

The tutorial is Art Practice and ends at twelve, which I’m thankful for,
as it means avoiding having to spend the hottest part of the day in the
workshop. The afternoon sun beats down on the workshop’s galvanised
roof, radiating the heat and turning the place into an oven. The
temperature is always more intense out in Sydney’s western suburbs than
along the coastal suburbs that have the benefit of an onshore breeze
anyway, making the choice of uninsulated folded metal sheeting in this
environment inconceivable. After lunch, it’s two hours of theory in one of
the classrooms that, although not air-conditioned, is much cooler than the
boiling work area.

The morning is fairly easy going. I demonstrate how to stitch fabric
together using a needle and thread, a task traditionally belonging in the
female sphere of the seamstress – and marginalised as such in the
workforce, family, and art world – and how it might be used in the work
of the students. Particularly Frank, a real sweetheart and one of my
favourite students even if not particularly talented, and Karen, who has
grown up in Kingswood, both get into it, stitching away to their heart’s
content. I feel like I’m a link in a chain passing women’s wisdom down to
a new generation. Karen and I get caught up in a discussion about how
she can incorporate cloth into the practical presentation of her theory of
the city-suburb dichotomy, where the patriarchal city dominates the
feminised surroundings with phallic buildings penetrating the sky. Not a
new parallel, but new to her.

The theory class, although physically more comfortable, is more of a
mental drain, as my meeting with the selection committee in which I’ll
learn my fate draws closer, making me more distracted. After starting the
class by pointing the students in the right direction, discussing Chicago’s
use of traditionally female-identified materials, such as linen and quilts,
they discuss the smocking and embroidery used in some of her works, the
challenge it represents between high and low art and attendant gendered
connotations.

The students takeover, debating the different points of their past week’s
readings. I only occasionally interpose when they’ve strayed too far from
the subject. Five minutes before the clock on the wall strikes three, I
remind them their end of semester major projects are due next week and
relieve the class.

As I march through the corridors to the academic’s offices, I feel both a
sense of relief that my wait will soon be over and anxiousness at the
time’s arrival. The faculty receptionist who doubles as Mal’s secretary is
seated outside his office and sends me straight in. Mal’s office, as dean,
is the largest of the faculty’s staff. My own office is a shoebox, with
enough space to squeeze me in behind a small desk, for a set of shelves
chock-full of books and files, and for a student or two to sit the other
side of the table from me. Mal is seated on his far more expensive and luxuriant chair than my own and the other two members of the selection
committee, Rebecca Flint and Kevin Chambers, flank either side of him.

As I approach from across the room I glance from face to face trying to
gauge their mood. They’re all grinning at me. Of course I know these
people at least reasonably well having been associated with them to
varying degrees for the past three years, but behind their smiles anything
could lie buried. Having come to know Mal too well, I’m only too aware of
his capacity to conceal his true thoughts behind his expression and words.

What I ever saw in him I’ll never know. It wasn’t until after I’d began
working as a tutor, about a year or so ago, that our mistake occurred,
and now I realise he’d been cleverly manipulating me the entire time since
I’d started studying at UWS three years ago. He was always so nice,
always so helpful, playing the role of the older mentor whose guiding hand
had been in reality reaching under my skirt the whole time. I should have
known his purpose, playing me like a politician for his own gain. I simply
couldn’t believe it when I found out he’d been bonking one of the master’s
students as well, an international student from Korea age twenty-two.

He just couldn’t keep his dick in his pants and, as with me, used his
position for his own sexual gratification. In any case, he’s not entirely to
blame. I have to accept responsibility for allowing myself to get into such
an absurdly stupid situation, which I did when, after recognising what a
dick he is, broke it off. I should have known better. What’s worse, as with
the Korean girl, the affair became common knowledge, the material of
back corridor gossip and character assassination.

Formalities aside, we proceed to the purpose of the meeting. Mal puts on
his reading glasses, picks up the folder containing my proposal, and flips
through it.

“Very impressive proposal, Anna,” begins Rebecca, a senior lecturer I’ve
always gotten along well with and for whom I have professional respect.

“It’s certainly a great opportunity for you to kill two birds with the one
stone, as it would also serve as the cornerstone of your thesis,” remarks
Mal, dropping the folder back onto the desk.

“Yes,” I agree, adding nothing further. I’d stated the fact as plainly in the
proposal.

“But that is not what these exchanges are about,” continues Mal.
“Do you think you can achieve so many goals in less than three weeks?
Do you think it’s long enough to find these Thai women you’re talking
about and mobilise them to come up with an idea from scratch and get
them to help make the work itself? These people you want to work with
aren’t professional artists you know, and you would have no time to train
them.”

“Yes I know: that’s the point. I already have a conceptual framework and
I’m merely welcoming the input both in the concept and realisation of any
non-artists willing to offer it. After all, the work addresses these women’s
lives, and I’m sure they’d have something to say about it that would be
unique.”

“It’s a risk,” comments Kevin, Head of the Sculpture Department.

“Isn’t that what art is about, taking risks?”

“Yes, but not with scarce faculty funds.”

Scarce faculty funds bullshit, I think to myself. The total cost of the
number of exchanges he’s gone on would pay for the insulation of the
workshop we so desperately need and a whole lot more, not that the
thought would ever occur to him, or he’d sacrifice one for the other:
definitely no risk of that. And he’d never taken any risks with his art, like
most professional academics that put on the fa?ade of still being a
professional artist; his work is stilted and unoriginal at best. He’d never
been selected for an exchange on the basis of the quality of his art,
rather on his ability to network with other academics, fostering ties with
overseas institutions that ultimately led to an increase of foreign students
paying full-fees into the coffers of the faculty: which is really what these
exchanges are about.

“I know I can do it,” I reply, then turn to Mal and look him directly in the
eye. “I’m dedicated to women’s issues and art.”

His eyes narrow at the mention of the term ‘women’s issues.’ I can guess
what’s going through his mind. He’s almost certainly worried I’ll file a
complaint with the university’s Sexual Harassment Officer to ruin his
career for revenge or I’ll run to the Equal Opportunity Officer and lodge a
discrimination grievance, as the other applicants are all men. He’s just
another anxious dick.

He clears his throat to break the uncomfortable silence, sending a surge
of tar phlegm up his throat, making a disgusting noise, making me slightly
wince involuntarily. He’s probably got sudden cravings for a nicotine fix.
“We’ve seen the other three today already and have asked them not to
discuss their outcome with anyone until after all the interviews are
completed,” Mal says in a formal tone. “As you know, the purpose of
these meetings is solely to inform each of you personally of our decision,
so we might as well put you out of your misery as opposed to going over
old ground.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you, Malcolm.”

“It would certainly be a first for the faculty to approve a proposal without
having some idea what the end work will look like with drawings or models.
Well,” he says looking left and right. “Who would like to be the one to tell
her?”

Rebecca nods and says with a broad sincere smile she can’t hold back,
“You were successful.”

I force myself to retain my composure, it would look unprofessional if I
jump out of my skin or look too pleased with myself. I realise Mal and
Kevin had most likely only given it to me because of Rebecca’s support –
the only one who would’ve actually judged my proposal on its merits –
compounding any complaint they’re worried I might make against them if
they didn’t award it to me.

Instead, I thank them and get out of the office and into the VW as quickly
as possible, saving the celebration for the trip back home, screaming and
howling the entire length of the toll way, impatient to tell Debra and Joan
as soon as they walk in the door.