Repeat After Me

Chapter 66

When I arrived at the laneway on Saturday, I found that other street artists had been there. Someone had pasted up a skeleton in a wheelchair on a brick wall. A lady was painted scanning groceries behind a sneeze screen, with the words 'The new frontline' painted above her head. An insensitive curio from last century was pasted on a metre box – a kitsch ashtray with an Aboriginal boy's face printed on it. A used cigarette butt was crushed into the boy's nose. On the wall above it were the words 'Whitefellas. Don't butt in my face'. Plastic doll arms reached out from a grille in the gutter, nearby was a label saying 'Children in detention'.

I had mysterious collaborators all contributing to Overlooked Lane.

I took my phone out of my backpack and checked Instagram, wondering why I hadn't thought to do this earlier. I typed in #OverlookedLane and dozens of posts came up. Even in a lockdown, people had discovered the lane, and photographed works and posted them on Instagram.

I climbed onto a dumpster, laying my materials out on the lid. This rendered wall didn't have a single mark. I was almost levitating as I painted, my work was my helium, lifting my spirits. Finally I was free to take my time with my work. I had something to say. I had my parents' approval. I painted a giant action man figure; his head blocky, his chest wide, his bare torso rippled. He had the physique of a body builder. He was wearing army pants. I painted red spots on his face. To the side I wrote ACTION MAN, with an arrow between the A and C, inserting the letters DDI.

'Addiction Man,' I heard a stranger's voice say below me. I froze, my bravado pulped. I looked down. A man was standing there. 'That's clever,' he said. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to creep up on you. I live up there,' he said, nodding towards a nearby door. 'Thanks for making this laneway more interesting. It was pretty bleak before.'

I climbed down from the dumpster. 'My pleasure,' I said, wiping my hands on my jeans.

He pointed to the Overlooked Lane sign. 'Did you start all this? Did you put that sign up?'

'Yeah, it was me.'

'And that homeless girl, did you paint her?' he asked.

'I did.'

'I thought it was your style. I like how she's right there in the middle of the lane. She's so vulnerable. It's really confronting looking down at her flat on the ground like that, like you could walk right over her.'

The guy looked like he was in his early thirties. He was wearing tailored pants and a white shirt with a navy corduroy jacket. His hair was cut neat and proper, but he was going bald prematurely. He was wearing a disposable blue face mask. 'I think you've really started something here. It's incredible.'

'Thanks,' I said, uncomfortable with the eager way he was looking at me.

'What's your name?'

'Ivy.'

'What's your last name?'

'Why?'

'You call yourself Repeat After Me?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because I like it.'

'Barbara Kruger did a Repeat After Me work,' he said.

I didn't say anything.

'The New York conceptual artist,' he said. He crossed his arms and put one foot down in the gutter. His eyes smiled like charm could excuse curiosity. 'You still in school?'

'Look, I have to get this finished. I have to get home,' I said.

'Are you happy that other artists are starting to put their own work here too?'