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?'
'Of course I am. That's what I love ... street art evolution.'
'Street art evolution. I like that too. What gave you the idea for Overlooked Lane?' I was suddenly aware how odd it was that this strait-laced guy was standing in the laneway complimenting my work, giving me an art history lesson and interrogating me with questions.
'Why are you asking me all these questions?'
He lifted his foot out of the gutter and stood evenly on the pavement. 'I'm an arts journalist. I contribute to the The Age.'
My toes tightened in my shoes and I stuffed my fists into the pockets in my army jacket.
'I want to do a story on you,' he said. 'About how you started something special in this laneway. A positive lockdown story. If we could get a good picture we could do a cover story in the weekend lift-out. I'll have you sitting over there by that homeless girl. What do you think? I'll get my photographer down here and you and I can have a chat. It'll be great exposure for your art. People kill for these type of stories. It's a hundred grand worth of advertising for your work. A commercial gallery will pick you up in a heartbeat. They'll be knocking on your door.'
'I'm not looking for a commercial gallery,' I said.
'Are you scared of the cops seeing you in the newspaper or your parents?'
'I'm not looking for publicity,' I said, standing on tippy toes and gathering my cans into my backpack. I closed the zip and turned to him, 'I don't do this for attention on me.'
'The story will be better with you.'
'Please do the story, but don't mention me. Have your photographer take pictures of the artworks. It's not about seeing my name or picture in the newspaper. It's about seeing the people we overlook. That's who we need to see.'
Just then, Asten stepped into the laneway. He looked at the journalist, questioningly.
'Hi?' he said, his greeting a question.
'Jason,' the guy said, keeping his hands by his side, bracing his distance.
'Jason works for the The Age newspaper,' I said.
Jason reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. 'Think about it,' he said. 'I know this is underground and all, but don't miss out on an opportunity like this. You might regret it one day.'
'Okay, I'll think about it,' I said. I took his business card and shoved it in my army jacket pocket. Asten and I both watched as he walked away.
'Who was that?' Asten asked, when Jason had disappeared around a corner.
'Some arts journalist wanting to do a news piece on this laneway.'
'I've never been here ...' Asten began. I watched as his eyes took in the works. 'Did you start this?'
'I did.'
'Overlooked Lane,' Asten said, seeing the sign. 'Is that why that guy wanted to talk to you?'
'Yeah.'
'He's going to write a piece?'
'Maybe.'
'That's awesome. You should do it.'
I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn't sure, yet. It felt more important to me that Asten was here looking at my works. He walked over to the homeless girl and stood above her, looking down, his hands folded across his chest. Then he walked over to the boy holding the huntsman spider and said, 'Pigmentation's story about the garbage picker boy. She's told me about it.' He stood by my grandmother's paste ups. 'Who's this?'
'My grandmother,' I said. 'She was amazing.'
'This is amazing,' Asten said, holding up the palms of his hands. 'All of this. I've got goosebumps on my arms.'
'Other people are adding works now too,' I said. 'They get it.'
'I get it,' he said. I watched his beautiful eyes as he scanned the walls, the metre box, the painted ground and then they landed on my face.
He was the only person in the world I wanted looking at me. I pulled my face mask to under my chin and smiled. Asten pulled his facemask down too.
'There's rumours we're going to stage four restrictions,' he said.
'They've been saying that for weeks.'
'This time it's for real. I've got a friend who works in the food industry. They've been given advanced noticed. Things are about to get intense.'
'There's only 30 people in hospital.'
'I know, but they're worried the virus is out of control. They're going to attempt a New Zealand-style knock-it-on-its-head type of lockdown.'
'What does that mean?' I asked.
'It means we won't be able to go further than five kilometres from home. It means we won't be able to see each other,' he said.
'For how long?'
'My friend said six weeks at least.'
I put my backpack down on the ground. 'Six weeks of total lockdown? It's all been a waste of time,' I said, gutted by the news. 'We had it under control.'
Asten stroked the back of my neck and spoke softly. 'When I heard the news, all it made me think about was you. I can't go six weeks without seeing you. It would be torture.' His eyes were a mixture of sincerity and despair. 'You're what gives me hope in the day. You're what I look forward to.' Asten wrapped his arms around me, drawing me close against his chest and laid his face in my hair. 'I don't know what I'm going to do if I can't see you. We have to find a way.'
'It's what I think about day and night,' I said. 'Us being together.'
'We're being torn apart. The universe is keeping us away.'
'This damn virus. I hate it,' I said, pressing my face into his chest.
'It's making me realise, though,' he said. 'What's important. What keeps me going is you.' He pulled his head back and lifted my chin with his pointer finger. When he kissed me it was a profound interventionist treaty, a grandstanding of radiant hope, it was a key unlocking the door to my lonely padded cell, the last piece placed in a snow blizzard puzzle.
'I don't want anything keeping us apart,' he said. 'You have to believe me.' I stroked his cheek, running my thumb upwards to the skin beside his eye. 'I'm so sorry this has been so long and drawn out. Thank you for being so patient. Thank you for persisting with me.'
'Ever since we met, my heart has belonged to you,' I said.
'Me too,' Asten replied.
'You've been like finding another part of myself.'
'We are an extension of each other,' Asten said.
My heart was inflating, someone had their foot on the pump and it was being blown up so full it may burst.
'You give me courage,' I said. 'Ever since we met, my life has changed. I've met Pigmentation, I believe in my work, I've finally got support from my family. This ...' I swept my arm around the laneway, 'I found what I wanted to say with my art finally.'
'We have to find a way to see each other,' Asten said. 'I could dress in camo gear and walk all the way to you. I don't care about the cops or the fines, I have to see you.'
We kissed again, our lips sealing our desires like a red wax seal.
Asten's phone beeped. He withdrew, his eyes looked uncertain, like he was deciding whether to check who the message was from. In the end, he didn't pull his phone out of his pocket. A dropout feeling plunged through me.
'Alicia came and saw me,' I said.
'What?'
'She warned me to stay away. She said she'd reported me to the police for seeing you. That I'm not a valid reason to leave home.'
'Bloody hell,' he threw his palms up. 'Where?'
'Somehow she found my home.'
'Christ,' he said. 'I've never even been to your house.'
His eyes darted around the laneway, he cleared his throat with a semi-cough, his eyes blinked five or six times in quick succession. I could see how even the mention of her name gave him a perverse physiological reaction. 'I feel sick,' he said all of a sudden. 'This is all too much.' He picked up an empty can and threw it against a dumpster, it fell to the ground with a stinging clattering sound. I witnessed his pent up anger and how he didn't know what do with it.
He turned to me. 'I've been on the tightest restrictions for the longest time,' he said. 'Her restrictions.' His voice came out like he had a fist in his mouth.
'You have to leave her,' I said, at last.
'I know.'
'It will be okay. She'll be okay. She's stronger than you think.'
He looked around again. 'This laneway is great,' he said. 'Ivy, it's truly great.' But I could feel our closeness reeling back, like someone had Asten on a hook, and they were reeling and reeling until the fishing wire was so taut it may snap. He gave me a peck on the cheek. 'I'll sort this out,' he said. 'I have to see you. We have to be together.' But his words had lost their conviction. They felt hazy. Disorientated. Lost. Like finding a light switch in a enemy's house in the dark.
'It's a form of emotional abuse, what she does to you,' I said.
'Huh?'
'It's emotional abuse. She's manipulative. Be careful,' I said. 'Maybe you should speak to someone. A professional. Someone who could help.'
His shoulders tensed. He picked up my backpack and held it out to me. 'I'll work it out,' he said, his voice flatlining.
'I was wondering ... have you looked into JobSeeker – that payment everyone who's out of work is getting? Can't you get it? That could help your situation, couldn't it?'
'I had a quick look at the form. It was overly complicated. They want details about everything. They practically want to know when you last took a shit.'
'You could probably get it,' I said. 'It would give you more freedom.' I couldn't understand why he hadn't already done this. The government was doing their best to support people out of work. Surely this could be his ticket for independence? He wouldn't have to rely on Alicia for financial support anymore. I couldn't understand why he hadn't already filled out the paperwork.
'I haven't had the time,' he said. But he had had the time. If he hadn't been working, then he'd had lots of time. Anyone can figure out how to fill out a form. It's basic.
'It'll be less conspicuous if we walk on our own,' Asten said. 'You go first.'
He placed his facemask over his mouth and I placed mine and we kissed through our masks, like Magritte's famous lovers painting of two people kissing through cloths over their heads. I smiled as we kissed at the absurdity of this. But I couldn't shake the feeling that kissing through a mask was symbolic, like somehow there'd always be something stopping us from being truly together.