Paperwork with Feathers Stuck On

As told by Wirra

Long time now, in the country of glass offices and soft hands, there was a big painted shelter called Screen Australia. Inside that shelter sat many clever talkers. They spoke of stories, frameworks, pillars, pathways, stakeholders, and outcomes. They said the stories were deep, diverse, vibrant, viable. They said the stories must be lifted up, enabled, enriched, empowered, elevated. Every year they gathered round a big paper bark book and wrote many fine words about why the camp needed more sitting, more talking, more money, more grants, more incubators, more initiatives.

Now Wirra sat outside by the fire, poking the coals with a stick.

Wirra listened a long time. Then he said, “Eh? If the story got legs, why it need government crutch? If the song got spirit, why it need committee to carry him over the finish line? Kangaroo don’t ask Canberra before he jump. Magpie don’t fill in application form before he sing.”

And the old people laughed into their tea.

Because Wirra had seen this kind before. Not hunters. Not even gatherers. Drifters. Project people. One season they come carrying a script. Next season they come carrying a deck. After that they come carrying a strategy. Then a lab, a forum, a showcase, a pathway, a co-production day, a talent exchange, an incubator, a market insight. Always moving, never arriving. Always beginning, never being judged by the hard law of whether the people wanted the thing at all.

So Wirra told the children a story.

“There was once a skinny dingo with no nose for hunting. Every dry season he came into camp saying, ‘This time I got a deadly idea. This one gonna feed everybody.’ And the camp would give him meat, water, a new spear, and a shady place to lie down while he worked on his vision. Then he’d wander off, come back with empty paws, and say, ‘Nah, that was only development. Now I need a bit more support for production.’ Then later, ‘Need some more for promotion.’ Then later again, ‘Audience engagement.’”

The children laughed and said, “Did the dingo ever catch anything?”

Wirra said, “No, but he become very strong in acquittal reporting.”

Then the old aunties laughed so hard they near fell over.

Because this was the thing biting at Wirra’s mind. Out in the real bush, bad ideas get punished straight away. A weak spear misses. A bad hunter goes hungry. A foolish man boasting by the fire soon learns shame. Reality is a hard teacher. But in this new government dreaming, the bad idea does not die. It gets workshopped. It gets mentored. It gets platform-agnostic support. It gets a new round under a refreshed strategic framework. It fails upward, then drifts sideways into the next project, wearing a lanyard and speaking of resilience.

Wirra scratched the dirt and said, “These fellas talk big about artists being central. But the audience sits out there like a thirsty man while the artist sits in the shade saying his thirst is an important process. If the people don’t come, maybe the story was no good. Maybe the people were never wrong. Maybe the law of the market is just the old law in new clothes: what carries truth, beauty, laughter, fear, wonder, that thing travels. What is dead on arrival, no amount of taxpayer smoke can sing back to life.”

Then a young fella asked, “But Wirra, what if the story is good and just needs help at the start?”

Wirra nodded. “Maybe sometimes. A little firestick to light the grass, fair enough. But when every second story needs a truckload of diesel, maybe it’s not a fire at all. Maybe it’s wet wood. Maybe it was green timber from the start.”

Then he looked toward the big shelter and spat into the dust.

“They say government support is critical. Critical for what? For art? Or for artists who never learned the old law of consequence? They say only some applications get approved, like that proves harsh judgment. But who judges the judges? Who punishes the bad picker of bad stories? Who says to the fellows with the polished shoes and strategic pillars, ‘You mob backed rubbish for ten years. Off you go now. No more sit down money for you either’?”

The fire cracked.

Wirra leaned in close.

“Real art is not a bureaucrat’s pet. Real art bites, sings, haunts, dances, seduces, wounds, and stays in the mind. It earns love the hard way. On its merits. In the hearts of people. Not by climbing from grant to grant like a goanna up a whitefella fence, mistaking height for greatness.”

And the children went quiet then, because they knew he was speaking true.

So that night they learned the lesson of the drifting artists.

If your idea is good, make it walk.

If your story is strong, let it hunt.

If your song is real, it will find ears.

And if it forever needs government sit-down money just to leave the camp, maybe it was never a great dreaming at all.

Maybe it was only paperwork with feathers stuck on.