It was always a hybrid form, using Western materials to give durable and saleable form to Indigenous patterns. What exactly these patterns meant could not be divulged to the uninitiated, but at least we were assured that they came directly from the heart and spirit of individuals who were attuned to their ancient culture.
This work became enormously successful in an art market with an insatiable thirst for authenticity, especially when contemporary Western art was consumed by irony, doubt and relativism. Few bothered to dwell on the incongruity of turning a spiritual heritage into art product or the market’s vampire-like exploitation of it. But there was too much money to be made, and museums could congratulate themselves that they were now treating Aboriginal cultural artefacts as art.
Of course, there has been talk of unethical practices for a long time, from the stories of carpetbaggers to reports – as I was told by a prominent dealer years ago – that many pictures signed by Emily Kngwarreye were in fact painted by other family members. But the assistance of family, especially in such a social environment and in such formulaic work, is hardly surprising. There is a long history of Western artists, too, working in studios and delegating certain tasks to assistants they have trained, although historians and the market naturally attach greater value to work that comes from the master’s own hand.
If, however, some Aboriginal art is being produced in workshops overseen by white assistants, co-designed with an eye to marketability and even partly painted by these assistants, it is a different matter that must call into question aspects of the industry. Collectors and institutions certainly will be disturbed to learn these pieces may be somewhat less pristine than they had believed. No doubt some will want their money back.
The evidence collected by The Australian raises serious questions about the artwork coming out of the APY Lands. Particularly shocking is footage of a picture being painted by Rosie Palmer, the manager of the Tjala Arts centre, and another young white woman, and not merely painting the central symbolic motifs but talking about improving the composition – adding motifs or leaving empty space – as though it were a wallpaper design.
Apparently one claim made by the APY Arts Centre Collective in defence of the video is that they were painting a background. This is manifestly false.
It would be legitimate for an assistant to stretch a canvas, for example, then prime it or give it an undercoat in white acrylic before the artist began to work on the composition of the painting. But this is not what is happening in the film clip: the two women are clearly planning and painting the design itself – big bold circles in red that the uninformed viewer would otherwise have taken naively for the spontaneous expressive brushwork of an old woman from the desert.
Perhaps most disturbing, the footage suggests the two white women consider it perfectly normal to paint on Aboriginal pictures; there appears to be no sense that this is an unusual situation or even problematic. There is nothing tentative or hesitant about the way they first talk about and then actually set about painting the picture, while the artist under whose name it will be sold, Yaritji Young, seems not to be part of the white women’s considerations. The implication is that this is routine behaviour and could be happening every day of the week.
The evidence is all the more damaging because of the elaborate series of evasions to which the APYACC management resorted before they were aware the film clip existed. To interfere with the painting – through the deliberate production of pastiches of a commercially successful style – is bad enough; to deny it when caught in the act, and seemingly lie when you think that evidence will not be provided to expose you, is even more egregious.
There are several other film clips of interviews with Aboriginal artists who complain about the interference of white staff with Aboriginal paintings, while others have testified orally and were happy to be quoted. But, once again, it is even more damning to see that some of these people subsequently wrote to retract their complaints or testimony, apparently after conversations with the APYACC or their representatives.
All of this is even more concerning because the APYACC and its director have made such a point of ethics. They have criticised other dealers for unethical standards and have repeatedly stated their commitment to the authenticity of the work they sell. There is barely a white person visible on their website and certainly on their Instagram page there is no white person anywhere to be seen in the many photographs showing Aboriginal painters standing next to the large pictures attributed to them.
These revelations also come at an exceptionally bad time for the National Gallery of Australia, which is already having a dismal year between financial crises, building defects and a weak exhibition program that is almost entirely reliant on Aboriginal shows. One of these, as it happens, is a survey of Kngwarreye’s work at the end of the year; but starting in June is Ngura Pulka, a show from the APYACC itself.
The NGA announces on its website: “Ngura Pulka – Epic Country is one of the largest and most significant First Nations community-driven art projects to have ever been developed. All parts of Ngura Pulka are being entirely conceived, created, directed and determined by Anangu people.” That boast may sound a little hollow in view of these revelations.
Why has all this happened? The fundamental reason, of course, is money, big money for what is taken to be cultural authenticity.
According to an ABC News report in July last year, the Aboriginal art and craft industry in 2019-20 was worth $250m, although only one in three works sold was by an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander person. Most of these fakes were at the lower end of the market, among souvenirs and objects sold to tourists. I’m not suggesting this is the case in the APY Lands, but even in the highest price ranges there is clearly pressure to turn out enough product to satisfy demand, and where there is a great deal of money to be made there will be unscrupulous behaviour.
That’s why these allegations against the APYACC and in particular this concerning video need to be investigated further.
The NGA website informs us, as though to explain the surprising productivity of the APYACC, that one in five members of the tiny local community is a practising artist. This is an extraordinary claim that should have aroused suspicion in itself, even before these new revelations raised questions as to whether they were being helped along by white assistants who know what the market expects dreamings to look like.
Another fundamental reason any of this has been possible is that Aboriginal art exists in a special zone exempt from critical standards and where everything is held to be wonderful. There is little meaningful assessment of the product that has come out of this industry, just as there is little meaningful cultural context for it, in the sense that it does not address its own people. It is painted for export and goes straight to dealers and collectors.
Contrary to the assertion by Ben Quilty — quoted in Bearup’s original article — these enormous decorative paintings are far from the most important art made in Australia, let alone the world. They are not even the finest Aboriginal art being made today. They represent the late phase of an inflated art market, masked by the fog of guilt and sentimentality.
Christopher Allen is The Australian’s art critic.
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