by Anne Summers
While I was producing the second issue, to be published in March 2013, I was rushing to complete the book Kathy Bail had commissioned a year earlier. She had agreed that it should now be a print book, and a somewhat bigger project that tried to make sense of the widespread hostility towards women that had so publicly manifested itself with Julia Gillard. The Misogyny Factor was published on 1 June 2013 and immediately caused a stir. Its bright yellow cover with the arresting image of a traffic stop sign conveyed a simple, direct and uncompromising message. It provided an immediate talking-point, especially now that Gillard was being publicly and pitilessly stalked by Kevin Rudd, the man she had deposed three years earlier. He succeeded in returning the favour on 26 June. That evening Julia Gillard made a dignified exit speech, in which she said she was certain it would be easier for the next woman, and even more so for the one after that. Reflecting on the role gender had played in the difficulties she had faced as Prime Minister, she said, ‘It doesn’t explain everything, it does not explain nothing, it explains some things. And it is for the nation to think in a sophisticated way about those shades of grey’. She had been in the job three years and three days, longer than Gough Whitlam, and longer than Kevin Rudd would be, even after he shouldered her aside to grab his second term.
Now as I went from bookshops to libraries to writers’ festivals, talking to enormous crowds about my book, everywhere I went men and women, but especially women, were upset; they were really upset. It was quite extraordinary the way people were grieving. These literary events seemed to take on the aura of funerals. People kept asking me, ‘Is she all right?’ Everyone seemed to assume that because I had written so much about Gillard, not just in the book and in the Newcastle speech, but also in my newspaper columns over the past year, that I knew her, that we were friends. In reality, I had met her only once or twice and only in a professional capacity. I did not have her email or her phone number. But these questions got me thinking.
The last time I had spoken with Gillard was on 10 June, the Monday of the Queen’s Birthday holiday, when I had interviewed her for the cover story of just the third issue of ASR.7 She had also agreed to a photoshoot with Peter Brew-Bevan, a top Sydney photographer, who had worked with me at Good Weekend and who had shot Qantas CEO Alan Joyce for the cover of our second issue. It was a tremendous coup for a tiny start-up like mine to secure a prime ministerial interview, especially while she was under such duress. I knew it was her way of thanking me for my support and I was determined to produce a memorable issue. None us knew that day that Gillard had less than three weeks left in the job but she seemed to sense that the clock was running out. Apart from arriving in the hefty, bullet-proof white car with the necessary complement of Australian Federal Police, she brought none of the trappings of her office: no press secretary or advisers. She was accompanied just by a young woman who helped her with her clothes. She did not even bring a phone or a handbag. Peter Brew-Bevan had put a lot of thought into the images, and what he produced that day encapsulated the dignity and warmth of this woman who had served us so well. Our cover shot showed a close-up portrait of Gillard in a plain white shirt, looking straight to camera, a light bulb just above her head. It was simple and arresting; here she is, it said, the real person you never got to know. Inside we used a shot of her in a bright pink jacket, smiling warmly, sitting on a stool in front of a blackboard on which was scrawled, in schoolkid chalk, a list of the amazing number of reforms she had achieved as Prime Minister: National Disability Insurance Scheme, Gonski, paid parental leave, a computer for every student, plain packaging of tobacco, $3 billion in tax cuts, $7 billion in jobs creation, the Murray–Darling water agreement, apology for forced adoptions, removing combat restrictions on women serving in the military, the Asian Century White Paper. I am now sorry that we neglected to include what I believe will be the reform that changed this country most profoundly, and which would never have happened if she had not ordered it: the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse.
In early July, I had accepted an invitation to meet the entrepreneur and philanthropist Catriona Wallace in her North Sydney office. Wallace cuts a striking figure; she is tall and skinny with long red hair, and she likes to wear flamboyant outfits with very high heels. She does not fit the template for a business woman, yet she had been extraordinarily successful running several businesses specialising in customer engagement; she also had a hand in programs to help women newly released from prison, disadvantaged kids, and others needing a leg-up. She employed a number of refugees waiting for their asylum status to be assessed. She’d asked to meet me, she said, because she admired my work and wondered if she could help me: her expertise in digital publishing was perhaps something we could explore? Her publisher, Julie Trajkovski, a super-friendly dark-haired young woman who exuded competence, joined us. The trend in digital, Catriona explained, was to create ways to bring the publication to life so that readers could engage more fully with what they had absorbed from the screen. One way to do this was with events. Catriona and Julie were impressed that I had snagged an interview with Julia Gillard. They suggested I put on an event with Gillard as a way for ASR readers to engage with the publication; we could start to build an emotional connection with what currently only existed in cyberspace. It was an intriguing idea. We talked about a lunch at a big city hotel. You could attract a couple of hundred people to something like that, they said. You also need to make money from this, Catriona reminded me. Her focus was all about business. What she was in effect offering me was a business mentorship, something I sorely needed. I was full of ideas for the magazine but I did not have a clue about how to leverage these ideas into the income I needed if I was to keep going.
After I’d been on the road for my book tour, I reported back to Catriona and Julie that I thought if we could get Gillard our event needed to be bigger, open to a wider audience than businesswomen, and needed to be in more places than Sydney. We started checking out venues. I drafted a two-page letter addressed to ‘Ms. Gillard,’ in which I described the emotional responses I had been witnessing. ‘These outpourings have made me think that it would be great to be able to provide a means whereby people could come and hear you—and see you—to express their feelings, to hear that you are all right and to perhaps get from you a takeaway on how to view the extraordinary story of Australia’s first female Prime Minister,’ I wrote. ‘Perhaps you could even lead the “mature discussion” you urged us all to have on the evening of 26 June about the relevance of gender to your Prime Ministership.’ I proposed events in Sydney and Melbourne, in ‘a controlled and classy environment’ that would also serve as fundraisers for ASR. I emailed the letter to her chief of staff Bruce Wolpe. I got my reply the next day. It was a Yes.
On the night, 30 September 2013, Gillard was allocated the conductor’s suite at the Sydney Opera House, a group of rooms that looked out across the water to the Bridge and which included a grand piano. I was next door, in a much smaller room. After we’d formally greeted each other, we both retreated to have our hair and makeup done. I had had my first conversation with her about the event just the morning before. She had flown back in from an overseas trip and I was worried she would be tired, but she sounded fresh, looking forward to a birthday celebration that Tim Mathieson her partner was planning for later that day. I asked if she wanted to go through the subjects I was thinking of for our conversation, and whether there was anything she wanted me to avoid. She had no restrictions, just two requests. She wanted an opportunity to rebut reports in the Australian Financial Review that she and Tim had split up, and she wanted to be able to announce that she had just secured a position with the Brookings Institution in Washington.
My whole body was thumping as I waited in that little room. My hair was done, my face was as good as it was ever going to look. I tugged at my flimsy little black jacket with its pattern of appliqued sequined flowers. It was not the sort of thing I usually wore, but this was my first time on the stage o
f the Sydney Opera House. I wanted to look a little bit show-bizzy. Gillard obviously felt the same way; she wore a grey lurex jacket she’d picked up in Washington the week before. The Opera House had asked me if we’d like a call. Why not, I thought, but when I heard it, my heart beat even harder.
‘Miss Gillard, Miss Summers. Ten minutes to stage’. The words reverberated around the corridors of this building where so many legends had performed. I had seen a fair share of them—Pavarotti, Sutherland, Bryn Terfel, Renee Fleming, the Berlin Philharmonic—sitting out the front, enjoying myself. Now I was getting a tiny taste of what it was like to be the performer, to walk out onto that stage and face the thousands of eager upturned faces. The five-minute call came. Gillard and I followed our escort through a maze of corridors until we reached the stairs that led to the small room where the stage manager worked. I don’t know how some of the larger performers managed those stairs. I had to take off my stilettos. Gillard and I, both outwardly calm, said nothing to each other as we waited. Catriona Wallace, who was emceeing the event, walked on stage from the other side. People were still finding their seats while she explained how the evening would work. The crowd began to quieten, but nothing could quell the undercurrent of excitement that crackled like electricity in the air. The concert hall was packed to its 2600 capacity, with even the choir stalls behind the stage full. A large orange banner, announcing Anne Summers Conversations, hung in front of them. I had not known Catriona and Julie had done this. Was this really happening! Catriona announced me and I walked onto the stage. We’d rehearsed it several times that afternoon so I knew where I had to go, but I felt dazed and disoriented as I heard the crowd roar. It wasn’t me they should be cheering. Just wait, I tried to gesture, she’ll be here in a minute. Then the music started.
I think I spent more time worrying about what music to play for Gillard’s entrance than the questions I’d ask her. We needed the right sound, but what would that be? Classical? Funky? Female? I asked friends. It was Sandra Yates who came up with the perfect solution. But could we afford it? It turned out that the Opera House had rights to every piece of music in existence, and it was covered by the rent we’d paid. I don’t think there was a person in the place who did not recognise the first chords of ‘Respect’, and as they reverberated throughout the concert hall, the audience went absolutely crazy. Aretha Franklin began belting out that she just wanted ‘a little respect’, Julia Gillard walked on stage, and the roar that went through the room was like nothing I had ever heard before. Afterwards, Donna Ingram, the Waradjuri woman who a few moments earlier had welcomed us to country and now was standing beside Gillard just offstage, said that as the music started and the crowd began to roar, Gillard had lifted her shoulders and exhaled deeply. A shiver made its way through her frame, Donna said, as she stepped through the door into the light. It was as if all the hatred and the vitriol and the pain that she had had to absorb during those years was finally leaving her body. She walked out of the darkness towards the love and admiration and the sheer joy at her presence that awaited her that night. She glowed as she sat down, and we began our conversation.
The excitement around the event had been unprecedented. As was the learning curve Catriona, Julie and I embarked upon as we organised our very first major events. We’d quickly upgraded to the Sydney Opera House and Melbourne’s Town Hall, in part because smaller venues were not available but also because I felt if we were going to do this, we should aim for the stars. We confirmed both venues on back-to-back nights. Catriona put the $25,000 deposit for the Opera House on her credit card; fortunately, her company also had a $20 million public liability insurance policy, a requirement to make the booking. Bruce Wolpe emailed me to say Gillard was worried the venues, with a combined capacity of more than 4000, were too big. She ‘hope[s] you have a fantastic marketing plan to fill all those seats’. He wanted to talk about our media plan. But for now there would be no publicity. None. The deal was that no one but our small circle was to know about this. Gillard did not want any announcement to overshadow Kevin Rudd’s electioneering. If it leaked, the deal was off. We managed these two momentous events with fewer than ten people knowing. The Opera House did not know who they were reserving the Concert Hall for. On Gillard’s advice we waited until Tuesday—three days after Saturday’s election—to announce, so that Monday would be free for any post-election media wash up. She was right; once we announced, no other news registered. At 6.45 a.m. on Tuesday 10 September, three days after Tony Abbott, Gillard’s nemesis and the object of her ‘Sexism and Misogyny’ speech, was elected Prime Minister, I emailed the name to the Opera House Box Office. They began printing the tickets ready for a 9 a.m. onsale. We sent out a press release and an email to our subscribers. Ten minutes later my website crashed, as people piled-on trying to link to the Opera House box office. Someone put it on Facebook and I think it was Catherine Devaney in Melbourne who first tweeted it. That was it. Tickets started being gobbled up in both Melbourne and Sydney at a startling rate. We had not yet issued our offer, based on another Gillard suggestion, to give schoolgirls tickets at a discount price. We never did. By lunchtime, Melbourne’s 2000 tickets had gone and by early afternoon, the Opera House was asking if we wanted to open up the choir stalls behind the stage, another 400 seats which, in our wildest dreams we’d never thought we would need, which we now agreed could be sold for $20 each. By 4 p.m. the Opera House, too, was sold out. Its website had crashed a few times, but it managed to get through what they later told me was one of the fastest-selling events in the organisation’s history. Had my father still been alive, it would have been his 100th birthday. I could imagine him looking down at my latest business venture, which was starting to look as if it would be a lot more successful than the New York one he’d been so worried about. It was an unexpected and joyous turn of events.
It was Gillard’s first public appearance since she left the Prime Ministership fourteen weeks earlier, so there was extraordinary interest in just seeing her as well as hearing what she had to say. The event was broadcast live by the ABC and watched by around 400,000 people; it was re-broadcast, on radio as well, later that evening and its total audience made it one of the national broadcaster’s top-ranking programs for the year. Other television programs had reporters on hand covering it live, or interviewing me afterwards. I’d had trouble getting through my questions because of the constant interruptions of applause. As a result, I did not get to a couple of the tough questions I’d planned, on the carbon tax and of single mothers being forced into employment. There was plenty of criticism of me for being soft on Gillard, so I made sure the next night in Melbourne that we covered these issues early in the interview. I had offered a conversation, not a grilling, but that did not mean I was going to dodge asking her about some of the tougher decisions she’d made. Not to ask would have been insulting, not just to her but to the audience as well. As it was, she got a few hisses from even the devoted Melbourne audience to her answer on same-sex marriage. The Melbourne event was special because of the presence of a clearly ailing Joan Kirner, the former Premier of Victoria and a mentor and friend of Gillard’s, sitting in the front row.
We got 2500 new subscribers to ASR after Gillard had praised the magazine during her Opera House interview. Then in Melbourne the next night, she again said how important it was to have alternative media. I said how much I appreciated her donating her time for these two events, telling the audience the income would go entirely to ASR. I intend to do more events, I said, and hoped they would enable me to keep the publication going. Eric Beecher, a former editor-in-chief of the Sydney Morning Herald and now the publisher of a suite of online publications including Crikey, said to a friend of mine sitting next to him, ‘Maybe she has found a new publishing model.’ I certainly hoped he was right.
With the Gillard conversation I had, without really planning to, launched another venture. As well as editor and publisher of a magazine I was also something of an impresario. We had money in the bank a
nd with the workload expanding rapidly, I hired Christine Howard as an assistant. She turned out to be the kind of great all-rounder a tiny operation like ours needed. She was a wizard events organiser and totally calm in a crisis. Together we did the work of ten people, or so it often seemed to both of us. I also hired Helen Johnstone, who had worked at the Sydney Writers’ Festival as a marketing and partnership manager. Christine had the only other desk in my attic, so Helen had to work from home. We turned remote into an art form as she ran down every corporation and potential sponsor in town, to try to get them on board. She was very pregnant at the time.
