How Malcolm Turnbull betrayed the arts community

By Samuel Leighton-Dore

Let me start by saying that the only kind of “growth” I’m getting from this Government and the 2016 Budget is the kind you should have inspected by a skin specialist and cut out.

If there’s anything worth taking away from the typically condescending rhetoric surrounding another lousy week in Australian politics, it’s that us millennials should probably all get “good jobs” we don’t care about, make “good money” not being offered to us, and buy properties we can’t afford – so that when we eventually whither and die we can “shell out” to the kids we might now never be in a viable position to have.

But what about the arts community Malcolm has historically championed and certainly enjoyed both personally and socially?

Firstly, nobody gets into the arts as way of making money and buying into the Australian property market. Duh. We’d rather have a viable plan for paying off our latest Telstra bills than purchasing an actual property; something which feels too far-removed from the realm of reality to be up for genuine consideration. Those pursuing creative careers realize that we’re potentially facing a solid decade-or-two in crappy hospitality or retail jobs, perhaps while juggling part-time study and/or investing months into a dwindling number of available government grants (cheers Tony) on the off-chance that we might eventually have our staying-alive subsidized to the smallest percentile in exchange for our creative labor.

Admittedly, this might all be a little tricky for someone like Malcom Turnbull to understand.

As a high-brow, white-collar “appreciator” of the arts, Turnbull enjoys gallery openings and film premieres in the same way I enjoy, say, electricity – I’m super-duper stoked it exists, but haven’t the faintest fucking clue what goes on between a light-switch and lightbulb to make it all work.

Turnbull is more than happy to show up and mingle over champagne and canapes once the work’s been done. He and his wife’s inner-circle of friends includes a number of high-profile creatives, producers and investors. But when push comes to shove, he’s proven unwilling to invest in the infrastructure required to support the artists who make the art, the filmmakers who produce the films, the impoverished creatives who become the culturally influential. He might’ve recently loaned out a number of important Australian artworks from the National Gallery of Australia for the newly renovated sitting room of his home at The Lodge – but invest in art? Nurture a culture that values creativity and expression?

He’d rather spend $160 Million on a plebiscite our country doesn’t need, forfeiting his main responsibility as, you know, a leader to fight for things he believes in. Like equality and the arts, right Malcolm?

It sounds to me like Mr. Turnbull needs to stick a lion’s tail on his ass and skip down the yellow-brick road to ask the Wizard for some fucking bravery. He had the opportunity to reverse some of the “disastrous” damage caused by last year’s budget, which saw $115 million cut from the Australia Council’s budget, but cowered under the pressure to be liked by his peers.

The Liberal Government this week stormed into the election campaign piggy-backing on the broad, manly shoulders of a perpetually stern and uninspiring Scott Morrison, spouting buzzwords like “jobs” and “growth” to whip Australia’s politically disillusioned working class into a righteous frenzy.

But the 2016 budget has offered the forgotten arts world no reprieve, no initiative – in fact, barely any acknowledgement at all. Despite once hinging his public image on being the cool, cultured, art-collecting step-daddy of Australian politics, Malcolm’s current agenda – focused on “roads, rail, dams, and public transport” – reeks of the Abbott era’s cold, heartless efficiency.

He might run a tight ship, but nobody’s enjoying the cruise – in fact, we’re starting to lean desperately over the railing, say our goodbyes, and weigh-up the drop into the icy  waters below.

Like one of the shittier Districts in The Hunger Games, Australian’s are being repressed – and it’s making us depressed. We’re now being expected to drink less grog, work for less cash, get home at a more reasonable hour, bend over in submission for sniffer dogs, and be grateful for the lavishly rich Capitol, who are probs snorting meter-long lines of cocaine in the polished boardrooms of Barangaroo at 3am.

Presented as a victory for millennials, the internship subsidy for Australia’s “young jobless” might be wrapped neatly in shiny opportune paper, but, more than incentivizing employers to bring-on younger employees, it has the potential to further devalue the hard work of young creatives; those already facing years of volunteering their skills in exchange for “exciting opportunities”, portfolio material and traction in famously hard-to-climb industries.

$4 per hour might buy a week’s supply of mi goreng, but it does very little to reinstate the missing confidence and ambition in Australia’s very capable (and hungry) emerging creatives.

Their ambition shouldn’t be finding a good job that pays good money and buying into an impossible housing market. It should be directed towards furthering their skills, applying for a number of available grants, and making good art – art that Malcolm, himself, would almost certainly enjoy once it became of value.