Before the sculpture started leaking, before the Last Physical Arts Festival sank beneath waters cold as nails and dark as yesterday, before the glorious economic value of the minister’s swimming lessons came through, Lina Harvey came into the CreativeAus grants office and asked them to make it happen. She wore a vintage Gorman jumpsuit with a nude lip. She held Margot’s gaze warmly, firmly, until Margot found herself sharing dark jokes about her parents’ divorce. Lina made money seem both essential and everywhere. She slid out of the office like she was riding on majestic Heelys and Margot had hope for the future again.
Margot got the grants officer job the old-fashioned way—through internal restructure. She had been working in the accounts department, and though she had to make a show of complaining to her co-workers about it all, she was secretly thrilled. A creative job. A community-facing job. Someone with the power to let others create. She still worked in the beautiful old King William building, but was now one floor up with the wider CreativeAus team—free from the dark, windowless accounting level. Her New Role Starter Pack was waiting for her on her new desk: soft, quality cardboard in government navy.
Her new ID card and lanyard. Her new business card—just one, to display on her desk. The rest were digital blocks loaded in her new smartwatch, waiting to be doled out at networking events. There was also her industry-regulation brunette bangs—they’d matched her shade perfectly—and a gift of some funky abstract earrings made by Local Artist.
Margot felt a thrill as she clipped in her new fringe and draped the lanyard around her neck. She knew this job wouldn’t be easy. But she saw herself as a pedestal, a flight of stairs. Lifting artists from obscurity up into the air, releasing them, and hoping they landed safely somewhere flush with more money and opportunity than ever before. And when they reached the summit of wherever they were going, they’d turn to her and say the magic words.
Margot was anxious before the meeting. She’d heard stories about Ms Harvey. That she was difficult. Oh, the worst branding of all, as a white woman. To be difficult. Let her be cruel, let her be strange, let her be boring. But to be hard to handle? To be—dare it be spoken—annoying?
But when Lina walked in, the air changed. Margot felt the imperceptible shift, like the last few days of winter when one eager tree blooms too soon. Not quite the smell of spring in the air, but a subtle something on the way.
The Physical Arts Festival is the last of its kind, Lina said frankly as the receptionist brought them coffees. She had no tone of mourning—just stating an utter fact. Well, an almost-fact; Margot was sure there were other festivals around the world that still showcased physical art. But the way Lina said this with such authority, maybe Margot had misread that. Maybe they’d all collapsed in favour of the digital, the online-only, the stream-at-home and pay-per-view. Margot herself still subscribed to the Melbourne Online Comedy Festival—for $34 a month, she got to stream some of her favourite comedians taking over her webpages when April rolled around. Last year, Coles did a hilarious partnership—as Margot shopped online, Hannah Gadsby dryly appeared in the banner reminding her of the futility of microwave lasagnes in a post-post-post-Nanette world.
The last physical arts festival of its kind. And Margot’s state would be the one to host it, again.
Think about it, said Lina. The economic value. The flights, the hotels, the restaurants, the rideshares. This beautiful city full once more of visitors, transients, culture.
Margot felt hot under her rayon blouse just thinking about it.
And you could make it happen, Lina smiled, disarmingly. Then she looked around, as though checking for eavesdroppers, cameras, paparazzi. She leaned towards Margot.
I can tell you this, Lina said softly, because I know you’ll understand.
Margot leaned in too. Lina smelled like an expensive outdoor firepit: cedar smoke and blood-tinged iron.
The sculpture I have for the main showcase is nothing anyone in this country has seen before. It will be incredible. It’s so beautiful. It’s so special. I want you to see it.
Margot tried to imagine it but it had been so long since she’d seen a real sculpture. Her mind filled with weight, heft, dimension. Tactile materials, a change in air as something took up space in proximity to her. She felt flushed.
Lina leaned back.
But it isn’t guaranteed.
Oh. Why—
And she said the magic words. Because we can’t do it without you.
After Lina left, Margot closed her office door, drew the blinds, and touched herself until she came, shuddering against her own fingers to images of Lina’s hands aligning a majestic gray plinth. When the funding contract was sent, Margot received a text message—would you like to see it?
Even with the CreativeAus money, there was still not enough. Story of Lina’s life. She had been running this festival for 8 years, running major arts events for 25. There was never enough money, resources, people, or time. It was what you could build out of such utter scarcity that made you brilliant, she mused to herself, highway lights flicking over her face. She had arranged for her assistant to book the car to the docks and then to the gallery at 11 p.m., and, bless their sweet heart, they had not questioned it at all.
There was not enough money to transport The Piece, not without raising eyebrows and alerting the industry it was being shifted, not without involving more people than absolutely necessary. But Lina was a problem solver, and she had other routes, other paths.
By the time her car arrived at the gallery, the crate had already been deposited in the back room, surrounded by curtains the assistants had hung earlier that day.
The crate carried with it the stench of the ship and the docks—manure, hay, and dusky, oaky rennet. Almost like a delicious chardonnay. Lina approached and pressed her cheek to the fibrous walls. They felt warm, like something hot-blooded was inside.
When Margot arrived at the gallery, it was after midnight. Lina waited for her in the shadows. She led her to the back gallery, where thick dark curtains now enclosed most of the space. Margot waited for Lina to draw them back but she didn’t, just looked at Margot expectantly.
Is it behind there? Margot asked.
It is. But you stay here, Lina said with a small smile.
Margot stared at the black curtains, hiding the CreativeAus grant money, hiding the greatest sculpture in the Western world, hiding such solid majesty. Her eyes seemed to fall through the fabric, into a dark deep pit of felt, into the possibilities of stone, plaster, cement, paint, wood, glue, blood, sweat, tears…
Oh my god, Margot whispered. It was brilliant.
The night of the program launch. Lina insisted on paper programs, very old fashioned—it was only right, for a Physical Arts Festival. The crowd was buzzing with excitement as they awaited the unveiling. Margot felt nerves in her stomach, fizzing like the small-batch prosecco that was being poured—a generous sponsor who was ever reliable for these sort of events. She felt a tiny crawling of doubt up her spine; what if she was wrong? What if the Arts Minister was not impressed? What if the city she loved turned on her when they discovered flaws in the program; perhaps the two most popular events clashed, perhaps they’d chosen a venue with disastrous air flow, perhaps they’d unwittingly counter-programmed during a remembrance day she’d forgotten.
The press releases, carefully crafted, had gone out that morning with the standard big bold EMBARGO. But as soon as Lina completed her speech, and the programs were set free, the press could spread the line-up across the internet. And then the reactions would come.
Every year, there was some controversy that orbited the festival, something that spawned thinkpieces and op-eds and bold Canva infographics to be shared on social media. Whether in reaction to a controversial installation, a tasteless comment from an artist, or, when all else failed, the usual marching out of Lina’s family skeletons. Despite it being reported to death, there was always a new wave that discovered she was related to the Harvey that held majority shares in the live export industry. But Lina was deeply ashamed, Margot knew, and had done all she could to firmly stake her claim as a stalwart of the avant-garde Arts scene, and leave her father’s empire behind. Right?
When Lina walked out on stage, she was draped only in deep blue velvet curtains. A tasseled gold rope dangled around her waist. Her eyes were hidden by a velvet mask. When she spoke into the microphone, goosebumps rushed up Margot’s arms. She couldn’t remember the words, but they erased her doubt. They brought the crowd to a fervour. Glasses of prosecco were lifted. Festival interns emerged from the shadows with tiny velvet curtains hung across their faces, to hand the programs to a clamouring crowd. The press releases flooded ArtsHub, SculptureHub, EventsHub, CreationHub, every online Hub. Instagram engagement skyrocketed. Plane tickets were booked. The state’s cryptocurrency soared. Lina declared the future of physical art saved—to rapturous applause. Margot felt a quiet, important glow amongst the bodies. They did not know, but she was an essential note in this symphony. She pressed one of the programs against her face, felt the soft interwoven grains of real paper, breathed the scent of ink. In the back gallery, water seeped from under the curtains.
The Volunteer Hub went first, naturally. First in, last out. Water swirled round their feet as they raced around—smashing cheap sushi into their mouths when they had two minutes to eat, fielding phone calls. Having to wear curtains over their eyes made the job harder, but also better—they knew they were a part of something great. Sorcha mentioned to her coordinator she was sure the water was coming from the Turner-Nestle gallery, where The Sculpture was being held. There was great gossip about it amongst the vollies, especially with no one being allowed to see it. Ino had snuck a peek and been fired immediately; Sorcha heard he’d moved back to Melbourne to escape Ms Harvey’s wrath. The punters, too, discussed it at length. Some said it wasn’t a true sculpture but merely a rock. Some said that was the point. Some said it had no form, others that it changed shape every day. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel that it was different behind those curtains. Some dedicated non-viewers went multiple days in a row, to feel if the presence had shifted, if something quantum could be detected. It was and was not there. The only thing all the volunteers could agree on was that it was where the water came from.
The coordinator told Sorcha not to comment on things she didn’t understand. Sorcha wondered in that moment how much she wanted to work in this world. But then her smartwatch buzzed and she had to run a tray of Maggie Beer pâté and a box of pinot to the Artists’ Lounge, so she couldn’t complete the thought. Her Redback boots—chosen both for comfort and to demonstrate she was a serious worker—were soaked. The water was up to her knees.
Margot waded past the gallery. The queue was still so long—right through the gallery gardens, into the street, past the old museum. Day six of the festival and yet Margot still marvelled at the crowds, feeling warmed inside at the sheer numbers. She splashed to the studio next door, past the ticketing desk, showing her festival pass that Lina had ceremoniously draped over her a week earlier. VIP, of course you are, don’t be stupid. If you are not a VIP, who is?
Lina swanned out. Her usual colourful jumpsuit had been replaced by chic waders—a glistening, slimy green like the inside of a frog cheek. She air-kissed Margot’s cheeks and made to move on, but Margot stopped her with an awkward tug on her hand.
Yes, darling? Lina turned back, the tiniest frown creasing her forehead. What on earth was Margot doing? Margot herself didn’t know.
The water… Margot began. Those in the queue were up to their necks. Some had to tread water. Children bobbed on parents’ shoulders. Margot wondered if this was all part of it. This was the sculpture. This must be. She was supposed to know that. She financed it. Of course she knew that.
Nothing. Margot released Lina who smiled and swam away with a perfect breaststroke.
A gigantic groaning noise was heard across the city when the gallery began to sink. Like the sound of something unmooring, giving up after years of trembling and holding. There was an almighty crash of the old museum collapsing. An almost musical burble as the bollards tumbled from the bridge, one by one by one. Sudden fear filled Margot. Would it end now? With days to go? With the program not yet fulfilled? She had not even taken one last look at the leading exhibit—or at least truly seen what it looked like surrounded by an audience.
She looked for the queue of eager crowds—please let them still be there—yes, they clung to each other in the now-swirling ocean but they were maintaining their line. Australians are excellent at queues, if nothing else. Margot struggled towards the gallery—she’d never been a strong swimmer. The ticketing booth sailed past her. Somewhere on the other side of the city, Sorcha tore off her lanyard and dove off the roof of the Volunteer Hub before it sank completely, paddling madly for home. Margot didn’t know this. She swam into the gallery just as it began to go down. The water was darkening, cold. Margot was dragged deep, and still she swam. Up on the surface, Lina raised her elegant hand to a waiting helicopter pilot. In the back room, the blue velvet curtains drifted like seaweed, ethereal. Bubbles bled from Margot’s lips. Through the magical fabric fronds, her eyes widened as she glimpsed it—something solid and real, and so beautiful, and worth every cent.