After 5 years of learning te reo Māori, I reached my limit – at least for the time being. To be able to give learning te reo at Pinakitanga level, I really needed to give it mana and time. Working full-time and trying to study full-time at the same time is just not possible. But I didn’t want to leave wananga altogether. I still needed to be part of the whanau. I decided to turn to mahi toi. I had always been fascinated by weaving. I come from a family of crafters, knitters, sewers, creators of planes, trains, and boats!
So, I signed up for Toi Maruata – Level 3. Two years on, and I am now studying Level 5 – Toi Paematua. We have to create something for our final exhibition piece, something that has meaning to us, connected to whakapapa, inspired by artists whom we have researched. This has really got me thinking.
Rangahau | Ideas & Research
I am struggling to find inspiration for what I want to do – so many ideas around my head that I think I simply need to focus.
Simi just asked me if I had decided on my artists for my rangahau, and I faltered. I initially planned to stick with the two I researched in Level 4, but after exploring ideas further, I’d like to look at other options. I am still keen to continue with Andrew Goldsworthy as the mahi he does is grounded in my whakapapa, my kainga whenua, and his philosophy aligns with my own in many ways.
But whilst I love the mahi that Veranoa Hetet does, I feel she doesn’t really represent the ideas that I have to develop my mahi.
I started looking at other artists and love the mahi by the male kairaranga in this exhibition called “Tracing Change: A Continuing Lineage of Māori Male Weavers” by Karl Chitham (Ngā Puhi, Te Uriroroi). Just as in places all over the world, men played a key role in weaving and knotting, especially in the creation of fishing nets, lobster and eel pots. Now they are reclaiming a space in what has become, in the last 200 years, more of a female domain and weaving is now seen as an art rather than a craft.
Art or Craft?
Which begs the question: what is the difference between an ‘art’ and a ‘craft’? After a bit of searching in dictionaries and elsewhere, I understand that art is more about expressing our personal emotions and conveying our ideas and philosophy on life and anything else, whereas craft focuses on developing technical skill to create objects that serve a practical, utilitarian, or decorative function.
For me, though, there is a symbiotic relationship. Can we have one without the other?
On the other hand, art without craft is purely a concept. A creator might have a brilliant idea, but without the skill to realise it, the final piece will fail to convey the meaning they envisioned.
Craft without art is pure technique. A creator can be technically flawless and produce a beautifully made object, but without art, it lacks a personal voice, a message, or a unique perspective.
Interestingly, if we look back in history, the divide between art and craft didn’t exist. In ancient Greece, the word ‘techne’ applied to both a sculptor and a carpenter. The boundary between art and craft emerged during the Renaissance, when the individual genius of a painter or sculptor was seen to be more important than an artisan or weaver. Nowadays, artists are using traditional crafts like ceramics, textile arts, and weaving to convey deep emotional and political messages
I learned the balance of art and craft firsthand through my dad. Growing up, we did a lot of photography together. He was the master of craft, teaching me the technicalities of photography, the rule of thirds, f-stops, exposure times, and light ratios. While I struggled to master those technical mechanics, I naturally possessed the artistic eye. I could “see” a great shot, spot the perfect natural light, and instinctively know how to frame a subject.
Whenever I tried to capture it alone, my lack of technical skill got in the way. But together, we were a complete artist. I brought the art, he brought the craft, and by teaching each other, we created some great photographs.
But back to my rangahau…
I also like the work by Kiriana O’Connell https://publicrecord.nz/collections/vendors?q=Kiriana+O%27Connell, https://www.instagram.com/kirianararanga/.
I found this mahi of hers, which made me think about what I might create for my project.
For last year’s mahi, my inspiration was the story of Te Wehenga o Papatūānuku rāu ko Ranginui, and the formation of the first wahine (Hineahuone) from the red earth, red because it was stained with the blood of Papatūānuku as Ranginui was torn from her.
I also wanted to represent the landscape that I enjoy being in so much and which grounds me, so the colours I used were reds, browns, oranges, and yellows – the yellow representing the sun touching the tips of the mountains as it rises in the morning.
Kiriana’s mahi ‘emerges directly from the earth, from Papatūānuku,’ but also speaks to her sense of belonging. Her choice of colours, red, black and white, speaks to the persistent tension that Māori women experience as deeply politicised and as the whare tangata’. They are the colours of the Tino Rangatiratanga flag designed by Linda Munn, Hiraina Marsden, and Jan Dobson in the 1990s. ‘The colour palette of black (Te Korekore), red (Te Whei Ao), and white (Te Ao Mārama) have become synonymous with Māori resistance movements for self-determination and is symbolic of (among other things) the creation story with Ranginui above, Papatūānuku below, and Te Ao Mārama in between’.
Red is a colour that has been used politically more recently to protest against the assault on Te Tiriti o Waitangi by our current government. “Paraikete Whero isn’t just an art project, it’s a movement. A protest stitched by hand, grounded in te ao Māori, the Māori worldview, where creation and resistance live side by side. Where art is not a luxury, but survival. Ceremony. Fire.” (Phoebe Davis) https://kettering.org/paraikete-whero-a-small-act-a-global-echo/
“At the time of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, the treaty signed between Māori and the British Crown, red blankets were handed out by British officials. Sometimes they were gifts. Sometimes they were tools of manipulation. But we’ve taken them back. Now, the red blanket is a statement of sovereignty. Of bloodlines. Of tapu, sacredness. Of protest. These paraikete are taonga, sacred. When we stitch, we speak. We remember. We take responsibility for the ones who came before us, and for those still to come. Our mokopuna, our grandchildren, are watching.”
I was privileged to have been invited to join this rōpū of wāhine toa by my friend Pheobe Davis and was introduced to Frances Goulton at Waitangi. I stitched my own paraikete, although mine is not red. As tangata tiriti, I wasn’t comfortable about whether using a red blanket was appropriate, so I decided to use a grey army blanket from my cupboard, which had come from my parents at some stage. It carries a different sort of meaning; it is a symbol, maybe of the colonising force of the English. I chose instead of a red blanket to stitch in red, black and white. I chose to stitch whakataukī and statements that represent my position as tangata tiriti in support of my hoa Māori.
Art is Resistance
“He paraikete whero, he kōrero toa: Stitching resistance in the face of erasure.”
England. My homeland. Born, raised, and rooted there until my mid-40s. Growing up with my family in a large northern city, and then moving in my twenties to the Yorkshire Dales—living, working, and breathing those hills. Climbing, walking, canoeing, and spending hours deep underground, caving.
But there’s a shadow there. I remember being sixteen, learning the brutal reality of colonisation and what the English did across the globe. It was a massive shock. I felt this intense urge to reject that heritage, so I leaned hard into the Irish side of my family instead. A safe haven, or so I thought. But later, I found out the Irish side were likely colonisers too, probably descended from the English who invaded Ireland and settled. There was no escaping it.
I’ve always been drawn to the land, but back then, it was a playground. I wanted to play in it. It’s only recently that I’ve truly begun to understand what the land means to indigenous people—not a playground, but a place of deep, foundational connection and respect. I’ve always been a conservationist, and I hope I always tread lightly and respectfully in those spaces, but the paradigm shift is real.
“Because protest isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it is one act. Quiet. Grounded. Done in aroha, love, and wairua, spirit. And that one act can shift everything.”
It makes me wonder about my mahi toi and my project. How can my weaving tell my story? A story of solidarity with the tangata whenua of this place I’ve chosen as home. It needs to hold the discomfort, maybe even the shame, of where I come from. But it also needs to hold a growing acceptance: I can’t change history. I can’t undo what was done. I can still find a way to be proud of my heritage while putting my hands and my energy into supporting decolonisation right now, in the present.
Can a piece of art hold all of that? The shame, the pride, the solidarity?
“Ko enei paraikete – he paraikete kōrero” — the weaving of stories of loss and grievance.
