From what I’ve seen, only some of the artworks in the exhibition have labels, with the names of artists on them. Some pieces have labels with just the words “Aboriginal artifact”—the word “artifact” coming across as a lesser version of the word “art.” Others, like these puppets and this booth, have no labels at all. The words “FOLK ART” are emblazoned in letters cut from tin and painted with bright colors high up on the wall across the corridor from me. Art of the people; and yet only some of the artists get to be a singular person, while the rest are part of the collective, people. The puppets are just puppets, as if no one made them. Hanging up as they are, the absence of a person’s hand inside them is made more extreme and more sad. I put my own hand in each of them one by one, animating the king’s little arms, then the queen’s, and then, finally, the devil’s.

There is one other puppet, which looks different from the others. It is tucked in the corner of the booth, so isn’t even visible from the outside. It is a strange, darkly dressed woman with a large, heavy, dark-colored head carved from wood. She is a glove puppet and so has no legs. She has wild hair similar to my own, and a big hooked nose and large chin, between which her mouth almost disappears. For some reason, I’m drawn to her. I pick her up and lay her out on my lap. My hand fits into her torso perfectly. My thumb and little finger fill her tiny arms; my three middle fingers occupy the space inside her head with no room to spare.

“So, it’s just you and me,” I whisper to her.

“Okay!” I imagine her enthusiastically replying. “We can do it!”

I locate a roll of tickets in a small compartment under the stage where it looks like a drawer belongs, and hold on to it. The tickets are essentially just raffle tickets. Each one has a number printed on it. I hold them in one hand while, with the other, I hold up the puppet’s head.