White People in Indigenous Affairs: A Conservator’s Perspective

I am a privileged, white Australian on the precipice of a new career as a conservator. My training is in the classical western tradition of conservation, which favours the material integrity of an object above any intangible value that may be applied to it. This paradigmatic attitude posits that the manner in which an object is ‘read’ or understood will change over time. Changing the material nature of an object by adding or removing material, it is thought, may skew or obfuscate important primary information, thus confusing its reading. It follows that the most honest approach to conservation is to change an object as little as possible during its treatment: to remove only non-original material and to introduce only minimal new material. The physical integrity of the object will, it is hoped, allow for the objective study of material culture in the future. Objectivity is key.

This article was written as part of my shift away from such a paradigm. It is becoming clear that, as a conservator, I am not an objective observer of culture but an active participant. I am learning that taking on this responsibility in an honest way involves a multifaceted approach that moves far beyond the materiality of the object. In particular, I have been fortunate to be involved in a number of projects based in Indigenous communities where my formal training has been both challenged and enriched. In this article, I will describe one of these projects and outline a number of critical moments therein. I will then comment on the implications of my experiences as a white professional working with Indigenous people in a broader sociopolitical setting.

Last year, I was part of a small group of master’s students who received funding from the Copland Foundation to carry out in-situ conservation on two paintings belonging to the Pintupi Homelands Health Service (PHHS) clinic. This clinic is situated in the remote community of Kintore (Pintupi: Walungurru), approximately 800km west of Alice Springs, Northern Territory. One of these paintings had been taken without permission from the community in the mid 1990s and returned only when it was discovered as an item for auction as part of the estate of a wealthy American in 2012. The project was initiated by a request from the clinic and the Kintore community that the artworks be re-united and restored for display inside the clinic.

Travelling to Kintore was expensive and involved a nine-hour cross-country bus ride through rough desert. We were not permitted to bring materials such as ethanol (a commonly used solvent in conservation treatment) into a community that is dry (alcohol-free). The requisition of materials during treatment was challenging due to the remoteness of the town, and the available workspace was limited to the small boardroom of the clinic – one which doubled as an office for their staff members. The treatment process was an exercise in flexibility and compromise.

In order to aesthetically restore these two works, we decided to limit over-painting and to use in-painting to reduce the visual impact of paint loss and graffiti. The process of gaining permission for this treatment was an illuminating experience. With the help of clinic staff and prior to our arrival, we had convened a group of Indigenous community members with family connections to the artists to assist us in our decision-making regarding the treatment of the works. For the first three days of our stay, however, no-one was available to talk to us about the treatment. On the fourth day, an elder, Mary, came and sat with us in the boardroom and gave us permission to perform the minimal in-painting that we proposed. She did so with a wave of her hand and without really looking at us. I sensed mistrust and, perhaps, indifference from her.

Over the next couple of weeks, as we worked, we received visits from curious community members. As we cleaned the paintings, more than one person asked whether we were painting new colour over sections of the works, as they were now brighter than anyone could remember. These questions were not accusatory, as they would have been coming from a strict western conservator. It appeared that, to the Kintore community, the methods used to restore the paintings were not nearly as interesting or important as the restored pieces and the stories that they told.

I felt that this composite of Indigenous and western values was both problematic and exciting. We were working, for the most part, from within a strict western conservation framework. This framework included ethical protocols for working with Indigenous material, including consultation and informed consent. However, our focus in gaining consent for our work lay in the realm of specific treatment options, where simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers sufficed. The options we offered were all of a western ilk and based on our own knowledge and capacities. As a result, I worked with some moral discomfort, but with little insight into how we might have proceeded differently.

As it became clear that the Kintore community and our team had mutual goals in sight – when the paintings came into focus – the works became a concrete site around which our divergent frames of reference could circle. They were a starting point for a longer and much more difficult conversation, one that asks what role my privileged, western understanding of ‘good’ conservation really plays in the nurturing of Indigenous culture?

I was compelled to trace the history of people like me planning and implementing programs, workshops and ‘interventions’ in places like Kintore. I wanted to give context to my experience and, perhaps, begin to unpick that funny grey area between intentions and outcomes that renders being a white person in Indigenous spaces so complex and loaded.

The profound mistrust and cynicism that characterises Indigenous people’s interactions with white Australia is borne of over two centuries of calculated dispossession and ongoing cultural conquest by colonial powers in Australia.

It is little wonder, then, that Aboriginal and Torres Straight Islander people mistrust the intentions of white people. It is little wonder that Indigenous people refer to some privileged Australians working within Indigenous affairs as ‘white cockies’ – ‘They fly in, squawk a lot, shit on you and then fly out again’ (Collins 2015).

 

In entering the conservation profession within an Australian context, this difficult relationship will necessarily colour my interactions with Indigenous people and their material and intangible culture. The youthful idealist (and, perhaps, the western logician) in me desires guidelines against which I can test my treatment plans and grassroots conservation strategies.

I intend for these principles to guide working relationships with my Indigenous peers and to act as touchstones for me as I navigate my career.

 

Self-determination and the dignity of agency: In 1972, Gough Whitlam, then prime minister of Australia, introduced the notion of ‘self-determination’ to Indigenous affairs and defined the term as “Aboriginal people deciding the pace and nature of their future development as significant components within a diverse Australia.” However, as David Roberts points out:

This in effect limits the exercise of self-determination to what is compatible with the interests of the Australian State. […] Self-determination has been defined much more narrowly in Australia than it has been in international forums where, as part of the decolonization process, it has been premised on the right of a people to decide their own political status and future (Roberts 2004, pp. 259-60).

Put simply, the current Australian state of affairs, which generally works neatly for white Australians, may not relate in any meaningful way to the customary laws and cultural activities of Aboriginal and Torres Straight Islander people. The impatience of privileged Australia for Indigenous populations to subscribe to our normative values has resulted in the systematic stripping away of Indigenous agency and profound cultural trauma.

It is essential, therefore, that collaborative programs involving Indigenous people focus on reassigning this agency back to them. This involves developing culturally appropriate employment opportunities for Indigenous people and respecting social and organisational methodologies that may be foreign, difficult to understand, or even frightening to western professionals.

I experienced a clear example of this whilst working briefly at Yirrkala Arts Centre. The Indigenous conservators I worked with used methods that would be unconscionable to the western conservator, particularly if used on contemporary pieces. Their methods included sanding back original material at sites of damage and over-painting to preserve a picture or story. Part of my work with Indigenous cultural heritage will involve reframing my understanding of ‘good’ conservation to include case-by-case variations that consider cultural practice, ownership and agency.

Consultation and two-way learning: Indigenous people have the right to be thoroughly consulted in matters that affect them. This involves: developing agreed, uncomplicated frameworks for the planning and implementation of programs, identifying and employing a representative advisory committee from within the community, maintaining open communication throughout the planning process and employing reflexive strategies that have the capacity to respond to changing circumstances.

Through this framework, program developers must listen to, acknowledge and act on the actual needs and desires of the community, rather than privileging our own understanding of their circumstances. Typical western measures of success and failure including financial targets and strict timelines may need to take a back seat to more qualitative assessments. Ideally, therefore, programs should be developed from within the communities that they target, so that traditional knowledge, days of significance and cultural norms are drawn into the delivery of services.

An example of where this was achieved successfully in a conservation context was the Harvesting Traditional Knowledge project, an initiative of the Association of Northern, Kimberley and Arnhem Aboriginal Artists (ANKAAA), which saw museum professionals from metropolitan Australia learning the traditional methods of creating and caring for bark paintings on country. As Davidson et. al. (2014, p. 5-7) describe:

Aboriginal people led conservators in harvesting barks and the two groups worked side by side so that knowledge transfer was embedded in the practice and discussion, rather than in formal lectures or presentations. […] The building of active relationships and networks to have a respectful conversation gives empowerment to Indigenous communities and guidance to the conservation profession.

Service, not saviour: Empowering Indigenous communities means acting in service of their community development. The white saviour complex is a tired trope and it is highly condescending to peoples who have maintained their culture through colonisation despite concerted efforts by white Australia to destroy it. Building trust for programs is essential and can only be achieved through an honest attitude of service with no ulterior motives at play.

Aside from overt ulterior motives, intentions play an important role. If my intentions are to ‘help’ Indigenous people and ‘protect’ Indigenous culture, then my own frame of reference will guide me to push strategies through which I have personally found success or those clearly documented by other western professionals, at the expense of all others. If, however, my intention is to ‘empower’ Indigenous people and to ‘serve’ Indigenous culture, then I open myself to an holistic view of conservation wherein I offer my learned expertise as just one part of a multifaceted, cross-cultural approach to preserving their cultural heritage.

As a budding conservator, I must take responsibility for the political, highly subjective nature of my work. I must learn to set aside my own privileged patterns of understanding and consider the implications of my participation in continuing Indigenous culture. This will, no doubt, be a perpetual learning process throughout my career, but an essential one.

The author wishes to acknowledge the contributions of the Grimwade Centre for Cultural Materials Conservation, Pintupi Homelands Health Service Aboriginal Corporation, Yirrkala Arts Centre and the Copland Foundation.