Whakahikohiko

A gift from Papatūānuku, then, as Fran points out. Curved around poi, twisted into kete, they wink at us, appearing and then retreating from sight as the sun moves across the room. Why did you choose copper? I ask. Fran grins, and in a flash, replies “I think it chose me.” Fran (Taranaki, Waitaha, Kāti Māmoe, Rapuwai, Kāi Tahu) has been a working multimedia artist for many years. Born in Ōtautahi, she studied Māori Visual Art at Toihoukura in Gisborne, under the guidance of Tā Derek Lardelli, graduating with a degree in Fine Arts. Now living on her hau kāika in Te Umu Kaha (Temuka), Fran works primarily with copper, and as we talk, I note she shares similar qualities with the element. While the glints of metal are what catch my eye first in Fran’s home, what I notice next are the many forms of mahi toi: between clusters of family photos and mementos, paintings cover the walls, whakairo and raraka rest on shelves and clay sculptures stand tall in corners. I mistakenly assume that most, if not all, of the work is Fran’s, but when I point out a particular painting, she tells me it was done by a member of her whānau; that one over there is from a friend, as is this kete, and that uku nearest me is by a fellow artist.

Fran is quick to praise others: she lights up like twinkling copper, beaming as she talks about her best friend or compliments the work of another artist. But when it comes to her own work, she is less effusive and more elusive. On the marae, she tells us, she prefers to be in the kitchen – “I don’t like the front” – and this humility shows in her home, too. Not much of her own mahi is on display, and I think that’s the way she likes it. Fran’s hesitation to talk about herself at length comes, not from any sort of lack of self-belief, or timidity (she is not the shy and retiring type!) but rather a strong conviction that her work is of her people, and for her people. She is generous, giving many of her pieces to whānau and friends, and recently gifting her artwork for use in a local community playground. When I ask her about the process of starting a new work, her answer is characteristically modest: “I wait”, she explains. “I wait to hear from my tīpuna, and I let them guide me.”

Her tīpuna know what they’re doing, then, in choosing to guide Fran: when we do get to her work, it is to an already stunning installation she is making for Whāia te Taniwha. I say making, but it is more precisely a work of weaving. Strands of twisted copper are coiled and curled, laced and looped – whatu with whetū, perhaps? And let’s be clear, though guided by her tīpuna, Fran’s skill and artistry are at the fore here. “I’ve got the best twist”, she says of her copper work with a smile (I can confirm, she does). On the day we visit, several months before the exhibition opens, Fran shows us an intricately woven hīnaki, where fine, delicate copper filaments are interlaced with thicker, bracing threads; inside are two sleek, silver tuna. There is a feeling of movement about it, even at this early stage – perhaps it is the shimmer of the copper in light, or the undulating lines of the tuna – but I get the sense of a current in motion, of taniwha slipping through the wai. “I’m all about movement”, says Fran, demonstrating for us how, eventually, these taniwha will glide above our heads, with her work suspended from the ceiling of Te Puna o Waiwhetū (a fitting place for this work, then). She plans to accentuate that sense of rise and fall by lighting the work in a way that will ripple through the hīnaki to create a wave-like effect, echoing both the wai and the movement of tuna as they propel their bodies forward. It strikes me that copper is a fitting material for the theme of the exhibition, too. Like those mysterious glim- mers of light that first caught my eye, taniwha (who are often depicted as tuna, or simply are tuna) are secretive, enigmatic, slippery. They are seen when they want to be seen, or perhaps more accurately, when they need to be seen. I ask Fran what taniwha mean to her: “I love taniwha”, she answers, “I saw one this morning in our awa.” Her tīpuna created rock art that depicts taniwha. Taniwha, for Fran and Arowhenua, are kaitiaki – like her copper hīnaki, they protect by keeping out, or letting in. They are tohu, she says, “they’re our guides, they welcome us, they look after us. But I think we lost our understanding of them along the way. Taniwha are about what’s happening underneath.” And it is what lies beneath that concerns Fran. The health, the mauri, of our awa, and what affects it – drought, erosion, flooding – these are issues Fran wants to bring up out of the wai and into the light, and taniwha can do that. I ask her what she thinks of descriptions of taniwha as monsters, as malevolent, destructive beings. “Nothing can bring the destruction of ourselves”, she replies, “but us.”

There is a second reason I think Fran’s use of copper is uniquely appropriate for this exhibition. Earlier in our visit, she showed me a poi made by a friend, around which she had woven those glittering copper threads. “Since I started using copper”, she explained, “my hands have healed. They used to get stiff when I was weaving, but I don’t have that problem anymore.” Healing copper, healing taniwha – Fran’s work is a call to remember the restorative power and shared connections that constitute te taiao, and our responsibility to honour and care for it.