In this Issue

1. Taku Mahi Toi o Te wiki-My Image of the Week

2. Korero Timatanga-Frontispiece

3. Photographer's Corner-Framing your work-the power of the past

4. Waiata moo te Ata-Poem for the day

5. Fevered Mind Links (to make your Sunday morning coffee go cold)

6. Koorero Whakamutunga-Endpapers

My Image of the Week

Taku Mahi Toi O te Wiki

the Maaori language has two words which are sometimes confused: hau and haa.

Hau means wind or winds, depending on the article you put in front of it. So Te hau is the wind, while ngaa hau means the winds. So while it can be used in a metaphorical sense, it's generally used in a meteorological sense.

Haa, conversely, means breath, breathing or to breathe. It can be a verb or a noun, depending on the context. When you think about it, it is very onomatopoeic. Try saying the word, and you realise you are breathing out and making the very sound of the word.

We breathe in, and we breathe out. All living things breathe in one way or another, including inanimate objects. So I was fascinated to read somewhere that a fly doesn't have lungs like us and breathes via a tracheal system, which delivers oxygen directly to each cell in the body.

You might say that hau, the winds, are our planet breathing. You might say that the lungs of our Mother, the Earth, are contained within the narrow band of atmosphere surrounding it. Taawhirimaatea, the God of the winds, is constantly at work, moving the air from here to there and back again.

Little wonder we are all fascinated by the weather and its effects on our lives. The planet needs to be able to breathe for us to do the same.

In 2015 I made a big decision. I packed up all my stuff and moved north to Hokianga to follow my whakapapa trail. I had nowhere to stay when I arrived, but that quickly sorted itself out. As I settled into the tidal rhythm of Hokianga, I began to look around, studying the land and landscape, both geographic and cultural. Exploring whakapapa (genealogy but not quite the same) is like being given a jigsaw puzzle with no edges or corners and very few pieces present. You assemble what you know then, and as new knowledge is offered, you attempt to plug it in where it seems to fit. What makes its similarity to the river’s flowing current makes it even more challenging. Looking at it from the surface, it all appears to be going in a logical line downhill to the ocean. However, stories can rise and sink because there are places where the river beneath the surface is flowing in the opposite direction. The river has many layers.

In early 2016 my sister came to visit. I took her out to Arai Te Uru, the southern headland of the harbour. It was a hot, electric afternoon, snapping, crackling, and rumbling like two stones being rubbed together. Armfuls of billowing clouds being piled up between the cool air off the ocean and the warm currents flowing from the land promised thunderstorms later in the day. We walked down the long Peninsula as far as we could, then stood on the small grassy knoll at the end, watching the day ticking by and talking about William Wells, our great-great-grandfather and the second harbour pilot in Hokianga, who would come out and stand on this very spot to guide the tall ships in over the sandbars at the mouth. It felt like standing on an open page of our family history book,
of being connected to our own story and our tupuna (ancestors).

I had bought my camera with me (well, of course, I would, because that's what photographers do), and I wasn't thinking about picture making, but rather the story about how Kupe, when he arrived on the great waka Matawhaorua, sent his two kaitiaki (guardians), Arai Te Uru and Niwa, into the harbour to check that everything was okay, and it was safe to come in. When he returned to Hawaiki-nui some decades later, he left the two of them to guard the harbour.

Then I looked up.

Above me, Taawhirimaatea had assembled some of his children, who were flowing and circling around another kaitiaki that towered up into the skies above the harbour. I made pictures, all the while asking myself:
 Ko wai koe? Who are you?

Sometime later, when I showed the photograph to a kaumatua (Maaori elder) friend, he gave me the name. Hokianga had not just two but several more kaitiaki.

On that day, one of the others had shown himself.

I took that piece of matauranga (knowledge), wrapped it up carefully while examining it from every angle, and placed it into a puzzle which had begun to take shape.

Frontispiece

Koorero Timatanga

Atamaarie e te whaanau:

Good morning everybody.
I almost missed it.
The last exhalation of autumn.
The colours of autumn build to a peak as the green ebbs from the crown of the trees, and each one polishes and burnishes its finery in celebration.
It had been ten days since I visited the park, and I knew that if I didn't make it within the next couple of days, the opportunity to wander, marvel, and celebrate with the trees would be gone.
I had watched the giant liquidamber at the top of the terrace beyond my home, my visual metronome, signalling that time was running out, that if I was to catch the last grains of sand in the season’s hourglass, I needed to get out there.
The mosses also told me to get out there.
Walking back from my washing line with a basket of freshly-dried washing smelling of wind and sunlight, I looked down. Towards the end of autumn, the luminous-green winter mosses, which had been cowering down in the earth beneath the pitiless heat of summer, were beginning to push up through the grasses in the shadowed areas. The autumn mists and damp morning grass had told them it was time to rise again.
So I called by the park in the early afternoon, with a warm wind filtering softly through the trees and golden patches of sunlight splashing and splaying on the cooling ground.
I kicked off my shoes and wandered barefoot in and out of the secret clearings between the trees with my camera, entranced by the desiccated rustle of dried-out leaves, carelessly-scattered notes to the memory of the year. The trees I had photographed ten days ago had dropped their colour and retreated to wait for the onset of winter and the arrival of Hine Takarua, the Winter maid.
I gathered as much material as possible, knowing the opportunity won't come again for another year.
My picture harvest of the season was done.
There is something to be said for swaying in time with the rhythm of the year.

Each week I am asked what the theme will be for Breathing Light. I don't know until a few days beforehand; frankly, I don't worry. As often as not, each issue doesn't declare itself until it is nearer to publication. After all, I'm not writing it; it uses me to write itself. And I'm happy to follow along.
The wonderful thing is the stuff people send me. A Canadian friend sent me a reference this week to a First Nations Elder, very much an environmental activist. The week before last, an Australian reader sent me an excellent article with an Australian aboriginal elder talking about his life, journey, and his people's perspective on the natural world.

I have to wonder that after centuries of European colonisation, the time hasn't come for us to take careful note of indigenous wisdom, and a better way of living with the natural world and our environment, one which respects the oneness of everything, and the fact that we are all part of a remarkably-integrated system, rather than separate from it.

Kotahitanga. Oneness.

We share the same breath as all living creatures each time we breathe.

We might ask ourselves how we, as individuals, can better integrate ourselves and live in tune with that.

Perhaps we might ask ourselves how to better integrate into the One Breath.

Let us all write hymns, honouring the wonder of what we found on our journey across the Blue Planet.

Photographer's Corner

Framing your work-the power of the past

Framing your work-the power of the past

The photograph has always been a thing of importance for indigenous peoples. Whenever I go into a wharenui (Maaori meeting house) or a Maaori friend’s home, inevitably, I will find photographs on the wall of their ancestors and tupuna. There is a reason for this.
For most of us, photographs are more than ink or silver on paper. They are the people in the picture. If they are images of our tupuna (ancestors), then we are connecting directly to them.

On the top of the bookshelf in my lounge are photographs of my parents on their wedding day and my great-great-grandmother. So often, I will talk to them when I'm trying to solve a life puzzle. The photograph connects me to their continued presence. And yes, if I'm open, they will answer me. Or something will happen by way of an answer. That is the indigenous way.
Our photographs deserve more than living away on a hard drive until it fails. We owe it to ourselves and our journey to make physical copies of them because they are us and mile markers of our life journey.
It can be straightforward. For example, my son sends me pictures of my dear wee granddaughter (the most beautiful child in the world-please don't argue!), and I print them out on a little Canon Selphy dye-sublimation printer, then put them on the door of the fridge using magnetic picture frames. Every time I go near the refrigerator, I pause momentarily and celebrate her life journey. I'm connecting to an ancestor going forward.
So let's talk about framing your work. Let's talk about printing it, putting a frame around it and hanging it on your home's wall.
Inkjet technology is now so good that you don't have to worry about the picture fading (unless you have it sitting directly in the sun). Most good inkjet printers have dyes capable of lasting a century or more. Printed on good quality paper (or get somebody to do it for you), then framed correctly, and you've co-created a legacy for the people who will follow you. Remember:
Every picture you make, have made or will ever make is a self-portrait. And why would you not want to share yourself with your loved ones?
Framing can be done cheaply. However, if you believe in the value of your work, why would you put it in a cheap frame from The Warehouse/Walmart/Home Depot?
Having made your print (or having had its maid), it's time to strike up a relationship with a framer. There are good framers and cheap framers, but there are no good cheap framers. Choose one who has been in the game some time and knows what they are doing. You can tell who they are because they bring respect to your work. When they handle your work, they will do it carefully and with a degree of love. They will also go through some trouble to ensure you get the right frame and matte. They may even suggest float mounting to get the best from your work. Listen to them. They know what they are talking about. Take their advice and be prepared for a long wait. Any framer who tells you you can expect a six-week delay is probably a good one. They are busy. Stay with them.
However, here are a few tips when you're getting your work framed.
Most mattes are four-reply. Using a six- or eight-ply matte will make your work look more significant unless you are going for multiple matting. Of course, the thicker, deeper matte will cost more. But essential work with it?
When selecting your matte, ask the framer to take a piece of the glass you will use and put it over the matte and your work. While we think the glass is entirely colourless, it is not. UV70, the glass I prefer and recommend, has a slight greenish tint. If you use a piece of glass when selecting your matte, you'll be surprised at how it alters the colour of the matte beneath it. What looks good without the glass can look quite different under the glass. I've yet to meet a framer who knows this.
Finally, be generous with the size of the matte. In this case, listen to your framer. They better understand how generous the matte should be and how it will show off your work to its best advantage.
While I've talked about photographs here, why not consider framing your embroidery or father's war medals or anything else important in your life?
Framing your work is about creating a legacy, a marker peg in the sands of time.

Waiata Mou Te Ata-Poem For the Day

Waiata Manu Aute i Te Po (Nightkite song)

In last week's issue, I pointed out a fantastic video about the great singer/songwriter Paul Simon creating his next opus. I hope you watched it.

One of the things that struck me was how inspiration comes to him around 3 am. I get that. Another friend, the most elegant fine artist I know, does the same thing. In her opinion, 3 am and onwards are the creative hours.

When I crawl out of bed from under the covers of night, usually around 3 to 3:30 am, a lot of input and insight comes to me. I try to remember to write it down. Then, when I rise, I will go and stand outside on the grass and look up at the stars (if there are any and it isn't raining) and feel outwards with my fingertips into the luminous darkness.

Today's poem came to me as a small clutch of kupu muka (word threads ) emerging from the undergrowth of the night.

Waiata Manu Aute i Te Po (Nightkite song)

I have dreamed the wandering night

flutterfingers unquivered and quivering,

embedded in the darkbreathing nightwind

with wings outstretched along

a trail of lingering stars.

Adrift on a sea

of Divined intention,

I have tethered myself to the silver heart

of the ruminant earth

by a silverthread songline of joy,

while the ticktock moon’s paleface rune

made arcpatterns in the dark.

Fevered Mind Links (to make your Sunday morning coffee go cold)

EndPapers

Koorero Whakamutunga

I was reflecting on Breathing light and realised that I needed to create a header image closer to its intent. So, at the bottom of this newsletter, you will see a new version.

I made the picture one day while flying into Paatea/Dusky Sound in a storm. The energies were potent, and our helicopter pilot struggled to keep us in the air. In many ways, te hau (the wind) was Breathing light.
The text is in reo Maaori (my seventh and the last language I will learn). It states the four pou (pillars) of my belief, my connection between Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatuuaanuku (Earth Mother).
-Arohaa-Love-the presence and exchange of Breath
-Maarama-wisdom, understanding and in-sight ( the word marama means moon or month)
-Whakapono-truth and authenticity
-Rangimarie-peace

Finally, I'm unsure if there will be a Breathing light for the next couple of weeks.
My number has surfaced in the New Zealand health lottery, and I'm off to hospital the week after next for a minor procedure. Normal transmission will resume as soon as possible.

As always, walk gently upon our Mother and be kind to each other.
He mihi arohaa nunui ki a koutou katoa

Much love to you all,

Tony.