Search

PO Box 2 Blackball

Paul Maunder's blog

The Tuhana Monologues

Written while locked down in Sydney with new grandchild.

1.

The Pink Thing, the Black Stuff and the Big Question

Pretty dodgy getting born I reckon. I mean it was sweet in the inside place. No need to breathe, I got fed and just floated around all day. No need to think. Nirvanah. Those gurus spend their lives trying to get back there, so why leave?

And then, woosh, out into the cruel world. Have to breathe, have to suck like hell to get a feed, have to pee and poo and the old digestive system is a problem so every belch, fart and poo is an effort. Of course, you make a racket, screw up your face and give it what for. Can’t see much either, it’s all a blur. Everything stinks and what about the noise? And then there’s these bloody adults dabbing at your bum and your balls, creaming you up, hauling at you, bending your legs and arms into zoot suits, patting your head and crooning bloody lullabies. Give me a break. Back to the womb anytime.

Not possible, bro’, you’re stuck with it.

Who said that? Wait until I get hold of him. Anyway, the only good thing in all this, apart from the nipple which is okay, is the pink thing and the black stuff. The black stuff makes the old digestive system a bit less hairy and it’s fun because if I spit some it gets on things and won’t wash out, so I’m making my mark on the world. Hah. Tastes alright and makes my poo less cowardly yellow. Warrior stuff.

The pink thing they wrap around themselves and they can tuck me into the pouch and it’s a bit like being inside again. Mellow, that’s what I reckon. They can go walking and I feel like I’m home again. I might get used to life without the black stuff but I hope the pink thing stays around. Those gurus might like a go sometime as well.

And then I get my eyes going and begin to focus and there’s stuff out there. Lots of it. All moving around, bubbling away. There’s a face behind the nipple and there’s another face above the pink thing. There’s a black dog that comes peering and there’s this old fulla waving a rattle and chanting. Reckons he’s a witch doctor or something. Dream on. It’s as interesting as the womb but not as mellow.

And then I realise they’re gonna expect more and more of me. And what say have I had in all this? I didn’t agree to coming out. Or did I? Maybe we’ll have that debate some time. Right now it’s time for the black stuff and the pink thing.

Po mārie

2.

Whare problems.

Now they want me to sleep by myself. There’s a crib, a basket, a bloody ginormous cot and a pram with bad suspension – they’ve tried them all but I’m not giving an inch. I like contact bro’: the old heartbeat, the blood warmth, the wheeze of the lungs, the vibration of the voice. The other thing about sleeping in beds is the health and safety shit they’ve come up with: have to lie on your back in a high viz vest with a surveillance camera on in case you cark it. Some joker doing a PhD got carried away. I’d like to have a word with him. I’m Tuhana I’d say to him, I’m the warrior. I’m not going to stop breathing. I can get into all sorts of positions in the pink thing: nose against chest, head under armpit – it’s okay, Jose, I’m still breathing. If you stop breathing you can’t cause any shit. Get real. You think I’m stupid? I mean, have you tried sleeping on your back, no pillow, surveillance on, you feel sort of tragic, like a left over sausage.

So, you can see why I’m not budging. The other thing that’s happened, the old fulla is collecting my pooed napkins, the pooier the better he reckons and tacking them to the back fence. Reckons he’s making a Jackson Pollack – gonna spray it with varnish and send it to the Venice Biennale. I think there’s some copyright issues. Time we got rid of him I reckon, but they won’t let him back where he came from. I can see why.

Right, I’ve had my moan for today. Time for a feed.

3.

Night and day

Night and day. Sometimes you open your eyes and there’s nothing much, other times bright as. What’s the difference? The big ones lie down when there’s nothing much. But the belly’s doing its tricks no matter what. Patterns. I like patterns. They want me to smile at them. They’d do anything for a smile I can tell. I trick them. Almost smile and they start beaming away, then I give them the old frown. Huh.  Easily fooled. What’s a smile anyway? Can’t smile at the nipple.

The old fulla’s pissing me off. I start to cry and he joins in, singing high up, sort of wailing and starts talking crap about harmonies. All I can do is stop crying. Tricky bastard. Have to watch out for him I reckon. Now he’s started playing the ukulele. Plink plonk. You are my sunshine. Give me a break.

She’s got a lactation consultant coming tomorrow to check out my technique. Bloody hell, I’m not even eight weeks old and they’re bringing in a consultant. Be an Aussie sheila with a loud voice. I’m still figuring out night and day − they gonna bring in a consultant for that? Still, they’re mainly alright. I’m not farting and belching as much, got plenty to drink and there’s still the pink thing when I need it.

This place we’re staying in, all the streets are named after battles in the wars. Used to be a military camp. They knocked over the abo in the early days and interned the japs here during the war. They trained horses here for the cavalry and sent them off to charge machine guns. Some history. What if I’m a Pacifist? What if I’m a hippy? Better bring in a consultant about that.  Night and day, sometimes nothing, sometimes bright as.

4.

Oh My God

I’m not perfect. That consultant came and reckons I’m tongue tied – grade 2 – lip tied as well. Might mean I can’t speak Polish when I’m older and my front teeth might stick out and rot or something. Have to go to a dentist and get snipped. Bit of a shock to the old system, but I believe her. She wasn’t a loud Aussie but a quiet woman from Yorkshire. And otherwise I’ll keep mashing the old nipple. Don’t want to do that so I’ll be brave.. Hard though not being perfect.

Windy today, creeping around the house. Old fulla said it reminded him of Wellington. He’s trapped. This virus is worse than the colic. He keeps nagging: just a fart, Tuhana, just a burp, no need for a meltdown. Is that right, mate? Just wait until you’re on the way out. I’m on the way in. Same sort of issues. Simple things are hard.

5.

Birds and trees

When he takes me in the pink thing in the morning – I don’t know about morning yet – anyway its colder and light coming in and I stare up and see stick things in the sky waving and splotches of white flying across the sky and landing in the stick things and making a racket like they’ve got the colic. They’re not locked down. Suddenly all the adults we meet have got things on their faces. Looks stupid. There’s this black thing they call a dog with us all the time but I’m not taking any notice. I’m too much me to notice a black thing called a dog.

6.

Op

I don’t like the car seat. The old man doesn’t either. Over the top he reckons. Guantanamo he calls it. I dunno what he means by that. Anyway, squashed up, surrounded, locked in, another bloody surveillance camera in case I croak it. God almighty. And it usually means trouble, big trouble. Bloody doctor cutting my bits. Hurts man, then it’s over. Back to Guantanamo. My mouth feels different. Whew, melt down all round. Give me the sticks in the sky and the white things having colic. And now she has to keep digging under my tongue to keep it floppy. Boy, do I let it rip.

7.

Lucky number

I like the bath they’ve bought, a bigger one and I can flop around. And some sort of toys to play with otherwise it could get boring, just eating, pooping and sleeping and letting rip with the odd fart and having a meltdown I’m not supposed to be having according to him.

I’m alive. Now let’s sort out the planet, arseholes. Get your act together or there’ll be a melt down you never thought possible.

The old fulla can probably go home. He wrote something and they took notice. Idiots. He’s alright. I’ll see him again before he croaks it. They should have a surveillance camera on him I reckon. He’s been here when I needed him. Thanks, mate, No hard feelings. Try not to have a melt down.

Tuhana

Locked down in Sydney

Locked down in Sydney

My managed flight for my original return was cancelled at the last minute and since then I have noted, along with others, the confusion of the promised repatriation effort. Originally we were told the airlines and the government were working things out, based on how long people had been waiting and that the airline would get in touch. Already there were three sites to keep an eye on: AirNZ, the Covid response site and a Safe Travel government site, all of them working through algorithms and all with a huge waiting time at their call centres.

And then, out of the blue (I found out through a Stuff article), there had been repatriation flights available on a first come first served basis, which had been gobbled up in fifteen minutes. How anyone knew about them I have no idea. Then it became a matter of people applying on compassionate grounds. But normal AirNZ flights were once again available from July 26th. Why? Their call centre operator didn’t know. The agency processing compassionate applications suggested it was thought (by whom?) that things would be sorted by then. These people couldn’t manage a primary school classroom. The only parameters they understand are the market and consumerism. Cuba would have shifted two and a half thousand people in a week. Algorithms talking to each other create a muddle of the worst order.

And then the matter of quarantine. Those stranded have been here mostly for family reasons, want to get back home, and would be only too happy to self isolate. But self isolation was rejected early on because some backpackers in Queenstown insisted on partying. But this is a different situation entirely. I’m fully vaccinated, had a negative Covid test, could be picked up at the airport by my partner, Caroline, also full vaccinated, driven to Blackball for us both to hunker down, along with the required testing; at no expense to anyone. But how to suggest that? It would require a political party.

As well, during this Sydney experience, I have the realisation that the digital world is now dominant, the ‘real world’ of presence is simply an accompaniment, supporting this dominant sphere. Whatever I do requires registration, user names, passwords, permissions, all faithfully recorded by Chrome and will feed into algorithms. All interactions with the state and with the corporate sector requires this compliance. Individual praxis disappears, to be replaced by irritation growing to anger and then despondency at the endless going around in circles that is characteristic. It is oppressive to realise that the working class reproduces itself, no longer to form the next generation of production workers, but instead to form the next generation of digital consumers. I suspect it is time for a counter cultural reaction, where compliance is rejected, presence is considered vital and relationship restored.

In the midst of this, we watch a remarkable documentary by David Attenborough, A life on our planet. As a ninety year old environmentalist he can trace, through his adult working life, the continuing and fatal degradation of the planet, noting the moments when world leaders could have done something – and mostly didn’t. It’s a tragic and intensely moving documentary. ‘Man shall have dominion…?’ At the moment man is having great difficulty establishing dominion over a tiny virus.

When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?

Visit to the gallery

I escaped baby duties for a few hours and went into the city to visit the art gallery of NSW. As I exited St James station I was reminded of the beauty and charm of Sydney’s centre, with the original planners having the foresight of placing the domain and Hyde Park in the centre so that there is this generous commons − add the harbour, the bridge, the opera house – as far as city centres go it doesn’t get much better. The people are lively, the sky scrapers remain dwarfed by the perfection of the opera house, the public transport works and the homeless are decorative on the park benches.

The gallery is impeccably managed, the staff efficient, welcoming without fuss, processing us through the covid protocol and obviously happy in their work. In the foyer was an installation made from burnt wood from a recent bush fire: black branches, a coffin, a bell, plaques of flora and fauna wiped out. In the first room three large circles made from threaded pieces of bush fire created charcoal, on the walls song line paintings, evocative and mysterious in their detail. A collage of photographic portraits of Torres Strait Islanders shows extraordinary faces, so different from our air brushed images. This is an edgy country with a violent past and now faced with ecological and climate crisis. Yet contradictions of magnitude can be stimulating.

And then a walk-through of Australian European art history, some Sidney Nolans of course – interesting to compare him with McCahon and to realise the extent that Australian painters have kept to a figurative tradition. My fellow viewers were more articulate and energetic than in New Zealand. And then an Asian section with exquisite pottery and the calmness of a landscape, Finally I sat in the reasonably priced café, once again extremely efficiently run and overheard two young women discuss the  communion wine and wafer and whether it might be changed. An unusual conversation.

As I headed back to the suburbs I realised the splendour, democracy and vitality of the city centre is experienced by relatively few of the greater city inhabitants. It is the reserve of the privileged who live in the immediate surrounds or of people like me who seek it out. The rest of the millions are living much narrower lives culturally, with the media, the malls and the league clubs, plus family dominant. It is a life possibly even more limited than that of the provincial city.

Yet the metropolis remains the mecca for those seeking the vibes, the contradictions, the training, the peer culture of the arts. It is why I first came over here, to attend drama school. So, the debate between excellence, access and participation continues. The migrant women who live next door, one Turkish woman (Kurdish perhaps?), the other Lebanese (possibly Palestinian?) but questioning as to origin is impolite – they are probably endlessly asked the question of where they come from − hesitantly knock on the door, at different times, to give Whaea a gift for ‘the new born’. Pre covid, Australia welcomed 200,000 migrants a year, adding a city the size of Wellington annually.

The new born child is an evocative phenomenon in any culture. They’ve noticed this arrival through their window, maybe overheard crying and need to pay homage.

The next morning it is misty and moist, a Blackball sort of day. As I walk the baby around the block, I imagine a local community arts project focused on how different cultures welcome the new born and the associated stories it would produce… I pause to get in touch with the rhythm of the land, sinking down through the layers of alienation which cover this country.

Somewhere in Sydney

The suburb of Holsworthy where I’m staying has evolved from it’s original army base function in order to support a housing development. The development is well designed as an interlocking maze of courts, each street containing around fifty houses. There are small parks or common areas dotted throughout, there’s a child-friendly speed limit of 40kph and the houses are generous, three to four bedrooms, sometimes condominiums with a small back lawn and a garage in front. The planners have even left a patch of wilderness, a scraggly piece of gum-tree bush for older kids to play in. There’s a small scale shopping centre with a supermarket, a liquor outlet, a couple of takeaways and a community centre and there’s a train station nearby with regular trains to the airport and the city. The inhabitants are overwhelmingly first generation migrants, from the Middle East or Asia; the occasional elderly Australian registering as a museum piece.

But despite this competent planning for community, the people seem resolutely cut off from one another. No one looks and no one talks. The front door of where I’m staying is 5 metres away from the neighbour’s front door but the concept of dialogue is, by some unwritten agreement, out of the question. People exit, get in their car and drive away. The nearest to a public event is someone washing their boat. Of course children have to go to and from school so there is morning and afternoon movement, but overall, a considerable alienation reigns and I realise that inside each house  memory of, and maintaining contact with home, is the important thing and achieved via social media, reruns of Iraqi soap operas, Bollywood movies and television on demand from the home country. Locally there are perhaps visits to mosque or church and a network of extended family who have similarly migrated.

These people are, above all, here for material reasons, to live the Australian Dream. And it must be working out, for the cars are new, the houses are air conditioned, there are abundant bathrooms and the tv, fridge and stove will be smart. But this fundamentalist materialism produces a cultural sterility. This is another wave of capitalist settler culture. The indigenous culture, a time when different relations with the land were formed, is totally absent. These new settlers are achieving the immediate dream and for the next generation, an even greater dream begins: to be an NRL star, or a rapper or a model, or simply to head up the IT ladder, to become a fair dinkum Aussie. Or maybe to, in turn, head to LA or New York.

Outside the suburb, as you enter the link roads and highways, crammed with trucks and other traffic, lined with service centres, takeaways, light industry and warehousing, an intense ugliness exists. Here as well, the traffic gridlock begins.

But there is, with Covid, a great irony, for in a place which denies contact, contact now needs to be able to be traced with thoroughness. The virus joins people, crossing ethnic, material and geographic boundaries with great ease. The virus becomes the community which capitalism has eradicated − except in the mind of a nostalgic town planner. And in a further irony, once contact has been found, people need to be even further isolated.

I suspect the climate emergency will have a similar effect; re-moving the migrant yet, at the same time, leaving some behind, to relearn other types of relationship. The Aussies, like the Americans, will find this hard. At the moment there are only a few marginal, small countries on the edge of the global catastrophe who seem capable of adjusting in a reasonable manner: Aotearoa, Iceland, the Scandinavian countries, maybe southern Ireland.

But enough. There remains, in every situation, the wonder of the new-born child, slowly opening his eyes and gazing, with a slight frown, on the world he has inherited. This morning, at 4am, he babbled for the first time and language was once again created. That first babble produced in me a feeling of immense love.

Encounter

The second Blackball Readers and Writers Festival, run by the Bathhouse Co-op, was very successful. People are happy and thinking, was Nicky Hager’s comment at the final dinner. It’s a small event, around 70 people all up and held in the library of the local school. There’s a single program so everyone attends everything – so no choices and no rushing from place to place.  The theme was ‘activists, renegades and recluses’. People like the small scale and the mingling and the conversations that take place over kai. European activists have the concept of radical hospitality − the change that can take place around the dinner table − and something of that nature occured.

On the first day we ‘resurrect’ a West Coast writer, someone who wrote while living here for a period at least. This year it was the turn of poet, Peter Hooper, who worked by day as a teacher and who lived a lonely life – was most probably gay – but a man who had a big influence on students with a literary bent. He was also an early environmentalist. Cold Hub press have gathered his poetry for the first time and it is an evocative read.

Becky Manawatu proved a humble yet committed person, seemingly young, yet she has teenage children, and after a huge debut with Auē, is joining the whanau of established Maori writers.

And then another honouring occurred as Elspeth Sandys spoke of her uncle, Rewi Alley, the subject of her book, A Communist in the Family. As she spoke we became fully aware of Rewi as a significant figure in 20th century history – a leading activist in the Chinese revolution and a tireless worker for social justice, held in high honour in China, yet here? − an information panel off the main road in Springfield where he was born. Our communist phobia is ridiculous.

Nicky Hager is another activist who has impacted significantly as a writer. I had the task of interviewing him, which required a reading of his seven books. In doing so I was struck by the depth of his study of the NZ role in the US Afghanistan adventure, a book called Other People’s Wars. It is the least read of his books but perhaps the most important as he details the stupidity and the consequences of a country like Aotearoa following the Americans in their imperial interventions, of spying on their behalf, and of equipping our military, at great expense, so that we can join their deadly games. And this happens partly because of the top brass in the defence forces and in MFAT leading the politicians by the nose because they like the kudos of mixing with the big boys. As he points out, this continues a tradition of ‘tagging along’, from the Boer War onwards and is sold to the public through the sentimental ANZAC tradition. Our role should be very different.

There were other contributions, from the more traditional story teller, Sandra Arnold to the growing work from within the environmental and climate emergency movement by writers like Tim Jones and Kathleen Gallagher, where we begin to imagine life within this framework.

And as I said, people enjoyed the event as an encounter not based on marketing and commodity (there was zero dollars spent on advertising), but based on community tradition.

As Gaza burns

As Gaza burns – once again – an important essay turns up in the New York Book Review. It happens with this conflict: a piece of writing that penetrates the hopeless evil. Last time it was Rachel Corrie’s emails; this time its Nathan Thrall’s One man’s quest to find his son.

Nathan Thrall is a journalist who has been based with a human rights organisation in Jerusalem and who has gradually realised the hopelessness of monitoring abuses in the West Bank and Gaza. Instead he has written this long essay, based around the death of a kindergarten-aged boy on a school bus which suffered a head on collision with a settler-driven vehicle driving on the wrong side of the road. When the news of the accident reaches his father, Abed, a tortuous journey begins involving detours, checkpoints, confusion as to possible hospitals the boy may have been taken to, ID problems of access, until he eventually discovers the charred corpse of his son.

The author uses the incident to unpack the dense bureaucracy of the apartheid regime that Israel has imposed on Palestinians. We can forget that (as in South Africa) the running of an apartheid state requires bureaucracy at every level of society: ID cards, residence permits, travel permits, work permits, building permits, school systems, health systems, policing, tax, roads, walls and borders, checkpoints, judicial and prison systems… it becomes immensely complex, absurd  and oppressive.

But as well as revealing this, the essay articulates the history of the desire behind the system: the desire to rid the land now called Israel of Palestinian Arabs, a desire, in fact, for ethnic cleansing. In 1948, four out of five Palestinian inhabitants were made refugees. In 1967 one in four of those remaining were expelled. Nevertheless, the higher Palestinian birth rate means half the population are Arab. The Israeli dilemma becomes then, ‘ On one hand the inability to erase the Palestinians; on the other, the unwillingness to give them political and civil rights.’ The compromise solution to this dilemma has been  the building of Jewish settlements, walls and roads, in order to fragment the Palestinian population, so that it lives in scattered pieces and cannot organise as a collective. And then to impose various decrees, laws and restrictions onto these Bantustans. And the contrast of wealth and infrastructure between the settlements and the Palestinian fragments is huge. Anger and despair builds. In a final irony, the task of administrating daily life in these areas of extreme oppression is given to a local Palestinian ‘authority’.

But the traditional task remains: Jews must take over the land and while that task is being achieved, international efforts to resolve the conflict must be ‘parried and delayed’. As Thrall relates, there is now a historical narrative to the attempts to realise this desire, expressed by the 19th century Zionists as follows: To take possession in due course of Palestine and to restore to the Jews the political independence of which they have been deprived for two thousand years.  This entailed firstly an infiltration of settlers and then the lobbying for a state. But how to justify a small number of Jews, mainly from the Russian Empire, taking over Palestine against the will of the majority?  Jews may have deserved a safe haven , but that does not give a right to dispossess, and even so, the original Zionist agenda was not a response to persecution but rather a resisting of the assimilation of Jewish identity.

Partition was accepted as a step toward obtaining the whole of Palestine and after the establishing of Israel the project of colonisation really began. Land and houses were confiscated, curfews imposed, political parties banned and Palestinians constantly humiliated. Because it had become an absurd contradiction, there was a change from a secular, semi- socialist vision of ‘Jewish redemption within the salvation of humanity’, to a religious nationalism based on the bible.  And this vision had to be fundamentalist for it would be undermined by any acceptance of a Palestinian right to self determination, which would also mean the acceptance of the refugees’ right to return and that a minority has not the right to impose on a majority.

The basically fantastic claim that the bible constitutes a land deed and that a group has the right to reclaim a territory after a two thousand year absence has to be maintained at all costs. All the secular ethical arguments have to be rejected. Accordingly, the state of Israel has never recognised the existence of an Israeli nationality. Israel is, instead, the state of the Jewish people, viewed as a single nation and spread throughout the world. The children of a non Jewish mother and a Jewish father are not Jewish, are not citizens, and whoever disconnects Jewish nationality from its religious foundations is a traitor. Israel cannot therefore entertain a liberal, secular, democratic agenda. It is necessarily an apartheid state, financed by the US government

And Abed mourns for his son.

The essay can be read at: https://www.nybooks.com/daily/2021/03/19/a-day-in-the-life-of-abed-salama/

Tap tap

The grandkids are here for the holidays and Wendy at Red Books lent them an old portable typewriter in working order, ribbon and all.

Immediately the ancient sound filled the house, as the digital world, with which they can often feel obsessed with, and addicted to, disappeared. Here was something simple. You press a key, an action occurs involving a key pressing an inked ribbon against paper and making a visible letter which you can both see and touch. There are no screens and Google is not involved. Nor is your work stored on some server in Arizona.

Lily began writing a story about a girl who sees a ghost in an old house. Tap, tap, first page done, onto the second. That night she read the story she’d started and I could comment and discussion begin as to why a ghost hangs around – the life disturbance that is involved. A bit of an argument, the boy listening intently. She stuck to her guns, so did I. Nanna commented that this is a part of the writing process and I bring in the concept of the reality check. More tap, tapping then to bed. She wants to sleep on a sofa – her brother sleeps on the other one. Sleeping on your own can feel creepy sometimes, she says. A sort of whareiti has been created. The typewriter stays on the floor.

In the morning they’re back on the typewriter, the physical act of typing somehow very satisfying.  The boy is often aggressive first thing in the morning so we get out the boxing gloves. To have his aggression matched leaves him with a puzzled look. The tap tapping continues. I explain carbon copies and the gestetner machine. I’ve never seen her this involved and I begin to wonder, Have we been totally sold down the drain by Google, facebook, zoom etc.?

Dean

Easter Saturday saw the unveiling and memorial gathering for Dean Parker; family, friends and colleagues being able to finally express their aroha for this much respected playwright and activist − some would use the expression cultural worker. There were many tributes and on the journey home I reflected on the occasion. In the midst of an overwhelming feeling of solidarity, there was nevertheless a certain discomfort, almost embarrassment at the fact that Dean, both in the UK and in New Zealand became for a period, a member of a communist party – a card carrying member as they used to say − rather than merely a sympathiser. What was the meaning of him doing so, as a writer, even if, after a period, he left? Having been similarly a member of a communist party – in my case I didn’t leave, rather the organisation folded − the matter interests me.

To be a committed communist means, firstly, that you share the belief in the working class taking over, sometimes violently, the means of production of a society. There is no accommodation with capitalism. The means to the takeover vary, from a syndicalist alliance of co-ops, unions, community and rural organisations replacing the state, to the Leninist version of an advanced proletariat, with the party’s guidance, taking over the state apparatus and using that as a means of taking control of production.  There are other variants: Mao’s emphasis on the peasantry; Fidel and Che’s guerrilla interventionism, but it is a totalising belief, rejecting mystification and compromise.

And having joined, what is the creative worker’s role and how does the party discipline – once an analysis has been worked through of, for example the women question or the national question, collective commitment is required − how does this commitment affect the content of a work – or the form? The creative process and the creative worker are unreliable in this regard, story and characters assuming a life of their own and the writer usually going along for the ride.

And then the creator has to grapple with the issue of the mode of production. Is she going to produce works with the correct line for the middle class audience characteristic of most of the art forms, or try and take art to the working class in their own venues? If so, how does the latter happen and who pays for it? Is the creative worker in capitalist society a worker working for a boss or is she someone who has independently produced a product which she is then selling to an outlet; or being guided by an intermediary (agent/publisher/producer). Are they then working for the theatre or simply selling something to the theatre? And how is the price determined? Or is it a co-op of actors, writer, director, designer producing the work? How are the shares determined? The closest we get to a binary worker-boss relationship would be writing for a soap opera, in which case is a union required? And finally, what is the role of the private or state patron – sometimes both – and what is the relationship with the worker?

Complex issues, which, being a party member, creates some clarity and often a whirlpool of contradiction, for does the party have an analysis of these issues? Unfortunately, in New Zealand anyway, that has often been unlikely. Dean experienced this complexity and it informed his work and his career, And that energy rubbed off onto others. It would be a grown up moment for NZ theatre for a biography of Dean to be written within this framework. That is one task. Another of course would be the publication of a collection of his best plays with a lengthy and conscious introduction. We’ve done the praising, and in many ways, that is easy. But the real challenges remain.

And finally there is the wit to keep alive as well and it seems to me the Bloomsbury nights could continue as an annual event, someone putting together moments from Ulysses with short extracts from Dean’s plays, plus some songs.

Let’s keep the praxis of Dean Parker – that’s the task.

Te Kore

The Auckland Art Gallery is, at the moment, given over to Maori artists. A few classic European works linger − as artefacts of a marginal culture. The situation of the 1960s and 1970s where a few Maori works would have been shown on the margins of a predominantly Pakeha collection is neatly reversed and a Maori cultural hegemony exists. We see, quite possibly, the future Aotearoa.

The centrepiece is a collection of work by Peter Robinson called Te Kore, which investigates the nothingness of beginnings, from which Te Po will evolve and then Rangi and Papa follow. The void is a resonant concept, encompassing both myth and science – the big bang, dark matter and so on. Light and dark feature with neon coils leading to nothing other than one’s own reflection; a piupiu woven with the thin wires found in the old telephone cables is beautifully lit, a flattened staircase in a mirror glows – it is powerful conceptual art.

Thereafter there is the Toi Tū Toi Ora: Contemporary Māori Art exhibition, a pot pouri of images, some craft, some protest art, some sculpture, some pottery… As I wandered I realised that this is religious art, repeating, as Christian art does, key stories and themes. For Christianity the virgin birth, the crucifixion, Lazarus; in this case, the separation, the children, the waka, whanaungatanga, whaikorero… In this context Robyn Kahukiwa is a major artist, for she brings the realistic human form to this religious content, in the same way as the Renaissance artists brought the realism of the human form to the previously ascetic symbolism of medieval art. There is a digital attempt to capture the physical presence of the demigods, which is both muscular and curiously coy in its hiding of the sexual organs. The careful drapery of some European art is repeated. Is there, more generally a lack of sensuality, a puritanism revealed? Similarly, other than reliefs devoted to Tangaroa there is a surprising absence of the natural world in this collection. Nevertheless, this is a major exhibition, an indication of a new normal.

But there is an issue, for a tedium begins to be felt, the tedium of religious art, which is in essence, prehistorical. Man has not yet become subject to the historical narrative and the complexities of economic, social and cultural journeys taking place dialectically, revealed by a consciousness which refuses religious certainty. This tedium could become a cultural issue mirroring the self satisfaction of the Pakeha ‘God’s Own Country’ syndrome of the 1950s.

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑