Reflections on process and place
The works for Onepū started with a providential gift of timing – a chance to give before taking. On a cool October morning in 2024, a group of locals and I met to plant kōwhangatara (spinifex) and small patches of pīngao (golden sand sedge) on an eroded dune face. I learnt a little of the dune system, fed by ocean currents, wind and rain – and impacted by the paths cut by human feet and vehicular wheels. And of the habitat that the plants thrive on – poor soils, untouched by nitrogen feeding lupins.
In my mind’s eye I see the vastness of the dune landscape visually encased within the boundaries of the wide river-mouth, sheltering hills, a driving wind and quiet backyards of Port Waikato. Elemental forces and fine, upright fibres dominate the scene with hues of silver, gold and brown. Plants are buried to their tips, sand is blown up dunes, before sifting downward, protective fence-lines engulfed and steep banks drop to the sea.
Materially I had in mind to work with familiar fibres of harakeke and pīngao. These seemed an obvious choice but on this visit their sparse presence made me reluctant to harvest. A few weeks earlier I had been offered pīngao from the East Cape (dug up and damaged by wild horses) and this seemed an appropriate gift exchange. In working with this golden fibre, commonly used by weavers, I hoped to raise the awareness of the declining plight of this coastal species. Harakeke fibres from the nearby pā harakeke of Auckland Botanic Gardens (Manurewa) would form the weaving foundation, while wharariki (mountain flax, Phormium cookianum) seed capsules from my place of work in Auckland CBD would add colour to the fibres.
Many hours of preparation for a large-scale work followed, with intermittent visits to spend time walking the dunes, watching the growth of our plantings and the changes over a few short months. A New Years weaving hui in Kawhia, not far down the coast was also a time of learning through korero, sharing and weaving. I was warned that pīngao is the preferred nesting place for the katipō spider. The spiders endangered status reflects the continuing decline of pīngao and the increasing pressure on the sand dune systems, from their front beach edge with sea level rise, and urban development from the rear.
Over early summer, Wharariki seed capsules & seeds were steeped, boiled and left to stand, yielding pale mauves and brown hues for the prepared muka whenu (strands). Delicate skeletonized wharariki seed capsules were a serendipitous by-product. The delicate inner working of the plants structure felt relevant to the project, not just in their silken, self-dyed colour but in the hidden secrets of the seed-stacking structure contained within each pod. A month later the harakeke seeds (from Auckland) were ripe and full of seed and the process was repeated with soft chocolate brown added to my working palette. With fibres mostly prepared I worked on small pīngao tauira (samplers) using the seed tips of pīngao and damaged older fibres that might otherwise be overlooked or discarded.
Working with such a talented cohort of mothermother artists fed into the work through conversations and time together. Jana, one of our local artists, watched the harakeke flowers maturing in the dunes and helped me gather just enough, perfectly formed, seed capsules for a small weaving in early February. The spinifex female inflorescence where abundantly piled at our feet and a handful were gathered. Back in the studio their spikes fell apart and a tiny petal of pearlescent creamy white was revealed at the base of each seed. In an intense, and seemingly timeless, burst of making that comes with the discovery of a newly found material, the spikey balls were promptly pulled apart and woven together again. The small scale of these works called for an acute attention to detail and with each material discovery my plans for the large-scale work became less relevant than staying true to revealing the minute and exquisite details of material that had come to hand.
The time spent in the Port Waikato landscape, and with materials present in the dunes, has driven my making over the past few months. My mind is somewhat empty of any bigger meaning or context to the series and I have found that quite refreshing. . .to step out of my over-thinking mind for a few moments (or hours) as fingers and materials find new ways of doing and being together. One informing and working with the other, seeking understanding of what was, what is, what might be.
A conversation over coffee with the couple who gifted the pīngao did remain at the forefront of my mind “we don’t try to control the sand, it is in constant movement and will go where it wants to go”.
The works for Onepū started with a providential gift of timing – a chance to give before taking. On a cool October morning in 2024, a group of locals and I met to plant kōwhangatara (spinifex) and small patches of pīngao (golden sand sedge) on an eroded dune face. I learnt a little of the dune system, fed by ocean currents, wind and rain – and impacted by the paths cut by human feet and vehicular wheels. And of the habitat that the plants thrive on – poor soils, untouched by nitrogen feeding lupins.
In my mind’s eye I see the vastness of the dune landscape visually encased within the boundaries of the wide river-mouth, sheltering hills, a driving wind and quiet backyards of Port Waikato. Elemental forces and fine, upright fibres dominate the scene with hues of silver, gold and brown. Plants are buried to their tips, sand is blown up dunes, before sifting downward, protective fence-lines engulfed and steep banks drop to the sea.
Materially I had in mind to work with familiar fibres of harakeke and pīngao. These seemed an obvious choice but on this visit their sparse presence made me reluctant to harvest. A few weeks earlier I had been offered pīngao from the East Cape (dug up and damaged by wild horses) and this seemed an appropriate gift exchange. In working with this golden fibre, commonly used by weavers, I hoped to raise the awareness of the declining plight of this coastal species. Harakeke fibres from the nearby pā harakeke of Auckland Botanic Gardens (Manurewa) would form the weaving foundation, while wharariki (mountain flax, Phormium cookianum) seed capsules from my place of work in Auckland CBD would add colour to the fibres.
Many hours of preparation for a large-scale work followed, with intermittent visits to spend time walking the dunes, watching the growth of our plantings and the changes over a few short months. A New Years weaving hui in Kawhia, not far down the coast was also a time of learning through korero, sharing and weaving. I was warned that pīngao is the preferred nesting place for the katipō spider. The spiders endangered status reflects the continuing decline of pīngao and the increasing pressure on the sand dune systems, from their front beach edge with sea level rise, and urban development from the rear.
Over early summer, Wharariki seed capsules & seeds were steeped, boiled and left to stand, yielding pale mauves and brown hues for the prepared muka whenu (strands). Delicate skeletonized wharariki seed capsules were a serendipitous by-product. The delicate inner working of the plants structure felt relevant to the project, not just in their silken, self-dyed colour but in the hidden secrets of the seed-stacking structure contained within each pod. A month later the harakeke seeds (from Auckland) were ripe and full of seed and the process was repeated with soft chocolate brown added to my working palette. With fibres mostly prepared I worked on small pīngao tauira (samplers) using the seed tips of pīngao and damaged older fibres that might otherwise be overlooked or discarded.
Working with such a talented cohort of mothermother artists fed into the work through conversations and time together. Jana, one of our local artists, watched the harakeke flowers maturing in the dunes and helped me gather just enough, perfectly formed, seed capsules for a small weaving in early February. The spinifex female inflorescence where abundantly piled at our feet and a handful were gathered. Back in the studio their spikes fell apart and a tiny petal of pearlescent creamy white was revealed at the base of each seed. In an intense, and seemingly timeless, burst of making that comes with the discovery of a newly found material, the spikey balls were promptly pulled apart and woven together again. The small scale of these works called for an acute attention to detail and with each material discovery my plans for the large-scale work became less relevant than staying true to revealing the minute and exquisite details of material that had come to hand.
The time spent in the Port Waikato landscape, and with materials present in the dunes, has driven my making over the past few months. My mind is somewhat empty of any bigger meaning or context to the series and I have found that quite refreshing. . .to step out of my over-thinking mind for a few moments (or hours) as fingers and materials find new ways of doing and being together. One informing and working with the other, seeking understanding of what was, what is, what might be.
A conversation over coffee with the couple who gifted the pīngao did remain at the forefront of my mind “we don’t try to control the sand, it is in constant movement and will go where it wants to go”.