pied midden : issue no. 19.5 : a lineage of reciprocity : sarah hudson

Pictured here: Kauae Raro collective. Sarah Hudson at right.Image courtesy of Sarah Hudson.

half-midden

Right now, the electric green of the sun shining through the oso berry bush leaves has me transfixed. The sight moves me like a really amped rock n’ roll song with booming bass and heart-bursting chord progressions, listened to on headphones with eyes closed. Except I’m not sealed into myself. I can gaze on this impossible, searing green hanging in the grey-brown lattice of the still-winter forest, totally rapt but still aware of everything around me and my place in it.

I want to press my face into the damp grass and smell the mud through the moss. Or pick up round wet river rocks and let their weight add heft to the pendulum of my arm swing. Or inhale the cold bright air in the brief moment of sun on this second-to-last-day-of-February day.

I’m sitting here typing though, because I also really want to share this amazing interview with you, one exchanged over email recently with artist Sarah Hudson. Kauae Raro is an earth pigment collective in Aotearoa (also known as “New Zealand”), founded by Sarah with Jordan Davy-Emms, and Lanae Cable. This summer I ordered a copy of Sarah’s beautiful pale pink volume, Mana Whenua, which shares the work of twelve Māori artists and their relationships to the land through whenua/earth pigments, in the form of a dialog of postcards involving ochres in one form or another. Sarah asks potent questions of each artist. Reading her volume generated some of my own, so I asked if she’d like to play question-asking with me, and she agreed. What follows is the result of our mutual inquiries.

I’m popping this newsletter in between issues no. 19 and no. 20 as a “half issue” so you can read the interview while it’s hot-off-the-keyboards, along with gorgeous pics courtesy of Sarah (all but the very last one of the oso berry leaves, which is mine). Rather than wax on about my internal process as I sometimes do in my intro, I’m going to step out of the way and let this great interview have the spotlight (and…I do a fair bit of blabbering in the footnote, which contains my short and long-ass answer to the question Sarah throws out mid-interview.). Ok. Here’s the interview.

wild pigment project interviews sarah hudson of the kauae raro collective

WPP: Has whenua always been a part of your life? When did working with whenua first become part of your personal artistic practice?

SH: Conceptually, whenua has always been a part of my life but this intense connection and commitment to land is only a very recent thing. 

My parents raised me within our Ngāti Awa and Ngāi Tūhoe tribal boundaries, so I’ve always been able to locate myself in relation to places my grandparents lived, and their grandparents and their grandparents... Over the last year or so I’ve been able to appreciate connections even further back; my Tūhoe genealogy goes back to the mist which has taken on a new appreciation after spending time with the dirt in our ancestral homeland Te Urewera. 

WPP: How did the Kauae Raro Research Collective come into being? Did the collective have goals, initially? How have those goals evolved?

SH: In December 2019, Jordan Davey-Emms (Ngāti Pākeha), Lanae Cable (Ngāti Awa, Ngāti Pūkeko, Ngāi Tūhoe) and I went on a road trip to celebrate our ‘birthday week’- we visited sites of rock art within our Te Waiariki district and it changed the course of our 2020. All in one day, we saw petroglyphs, parietal art and steaming colourful cliffs of iron rich earth which reminded us that Māori have always been artists, it is an important part of our cultural practice and the resources to create are all still here, offered up by the land.

Jordan has a background in pottery and conceptual art, Lanae has a background in research and Māori medicine and I’m not sure how we even got the idea for a rock art roadie, but it was the start of some very special lines of enquiry. We did have some initial goals; some have been unpacked – others sit there while more ‘urgent’ projects develop. We’ve embraced an intuitive approach to research which has yielded a kind of rambling research journey in which we grant ourselves permission to wander in different directions off the central dirt path.

WPP: I love the name of your collective. I understand Kauae Raro to mean “earthly knowledge,” which seems so perfect. Is that correct? How would you translate the Māori title of your new book, Mana Whenua? The concepts contained by both words seem potentially expansive (which may be why you chose them!).

SH: That’s right, one understanding of Kauae Raro is earthly knowledge, which seemed really apt when we were starting out. We have since come to appreciate the intertwined duality of Kauae Runga which can be expressed as celestial knowledge. Another reading of these terms can be lower and upper jawbones which holds cultural significance of knowledge, familial links, power and magic.

Just like Kauae Raro, Mana Whenua has a multiplicity of meaning too. I’m apprehensive to attempt a direct translation as I don’t want to do an injustice to te reo Māori, our language. But my intention with this title was to acknowledge our deep, complex connection with the land as the indigenous people of Aotearoa. 

WPP: Why do you think that the status of the contemporary use of earth pigments by Maori artists has been, as you say, “under-the-radar”?

SH: Colonisation. There are some elements of Māori visual material culture that are strong and flourishing due to the sustained hard work of communities who have remembered, reignited, and shared the language, techniques and meanings. There is a rich lineage of Māori practitioners who use whenua in work, particularly conceptually. We hope through our Kauae Raro research we can strengthen connections between Māori artists using whenua physically, and build a community that can continue to grow, celebrate, and push this beautiful medium.

WPP: Are there challenges involved in incorporating traditional materials and practices — especially pigment-related ones — into contemporary studio work? 

SH: I’m answering these questions sitting on stolen land. Here in Aotearoa we have a history of 200ish years of colonial land grabbing, then centuries before that where indigenous people lived, moved, negotiated and shifted borderlines when necessary. Before the British arrived, there was no land ownership in Aotearoa. People lived with a reciprocal respect for the land in acknowledgement that she is our ancestor, Papatūānuku. 

The idea of selling works made with earth pigment – with land – is super loaded for me. I’ve been a practicing artist for ten years and have been making a living off that for the last three. For me, grappling with the commodification of land within my practice has been tricky. I definitely think my ancestors would love the idea of me making money from a practice that I’m so passionate about – but I just haven’t been able to come to terms with that element of earth pigment practice just yet. 

WPP: How has Kauae Raro’s research contributed to your personal studio practice? How does working with whenua support what you refer to as your explorations of “mana motuhake and tino rangatiratanga,” which I understand to mean “natural autonomy” and “natural sovereignty”?

SH: Kauae Raro’s research practice has completely reinvigorated my studio practice. I’ve been able to shift from a end-goal orientated practice (working from project to project with clear timelines) to establishing a solid, well-tended-to studio practice (I’m hoping this is a long game). 

We meet every Friday and go on a ‘field trip’, sometimes this is driving somewhere new and walking for a few hours, sometimes this is meeting up with knowledgeable people, sometimes it is sharing skills and knowledge. 

Wherever we go, it is important to us to acknowledge the original people of the land. It seems this act has the power to strip away some of the present-day noise that exists in the likes of multi-million dollar beachside properties, wetlands that were drained for farmland, or suburban residential areas.

It’s almost a magic lens that we get to view the land through, we see the resources that the land holds, we see the people that the land holds and see ourselves in that lineage of reciprocity. This research practice means we also get to actively practice our mana motuhake and tino rangatiratanga. 

WPP: Do you think that working with whenua should be reserved for Indigenous artists? If not, do you think there are some contexts that are suitable for non-Indigenous artists to forage for and use earth pigments — and other contexts that are not? 

SH: Great question! Is this a question that gets asked to non-indigenous artists?***(Ed. note:see footnote below for Tilke’s answer) I’d be really interested to hear other people’s perspective on this topic. It is one that Kauae Raro consistently ponder.

I acknowledge Earth pigments are in everyone’s genealogy, I also recognize that not everyone gets to stand where their ancestors once did. It’s important to recognise and build relationships with the indigenous peoples of the land on which you inhabit, forage and practice. If a creative practitioner is benefiting financially or is getting career opportunities that come from working with whenua – I believe in acknowledging that privilege with reparations. That could look like giving a portion of your sales profit to indigenous causes, serving the indigenous communities with your time and skills, or helping indigenous creatives access the same opportunities you do. 

Perhaps an offshoot of this topic and one I do feel strongly about, is the appropriation of indigenous visual culture. I see this as a violent act of continued colonial oppression. I won’t rant about this topic but it’s not cool, there are plenty of articles online about cultural appropriation that folks can access. 

WPP: Do you think that foraged mineral and botanical pigments should replace industrially manufactured artists' pigments?

SH: Again, I’m cautious about the commodification of foraged mineral pigments (“selling land”) – and understand that not everyone has access to the resources and knowledge that would enable them to be able to use earth pigments. So, I value that there are accessible art materials that people can purchase if they feel the need to express themselves. 

I think there’s space for professional visual artists to take a more critical look at the materials they use in their practice. I hope that Kauae Raro is doing their bit to spread the love for earth pigments. Hopefully, this activation and education will bring waves of Māori artists using whenua in their practice and pushing the boundaries of its application. 

WPP: In your opinion, how might non-Indigenous people who are interested in earth pigments best support the thriving of land and traditional land stewards?

SH: Acknowledgement first and foremost – know on whose land you stand and gather. Like I said above, extend opportunities to indigenous people, community service utilising your specific skill set as creatives, and cold hard cash ha ha. Giving back is the key here, reciprocity is integral to working with the land. 

WPP: Would you be interested in seeing a global pigment-related gathering of Indigenous artists, both traditional cultural practitioners and contemporary artists? If yes, what would you like to see happen at such a gathering?

SH: This is a dreamy prospect. One of the coolest artist gatherings I’ve been to allowed a lot of space for hands-on making during the day and in the evenings, we took turns at pecha kucha style presentations. These six-minute chats allowed some extra insight into people’s practice and during the day we worked, asked questions, ate food and shared time. 

I feel people in the earth-pigment game would appreciate a freer, more hands-on model of gathering rather than a rigid conference sitting in a room listening to people speak for an hour at a time. 

WPP: What’s something that’s surprised you about the research you’ve participated in? 

SH: The sensorial experience of being in nature. We posted recently about the sense of euphoria we get from being outdoors. To be guided by our senses and feel our way through an environment has brought us closer to customary Māori creation narratives. In many iterations of how the first woman was created, Tānemahuta (the deity of the forest and birds) searches for the female element guided by our earth mother, Papatūānuku. Hineahuone (the first woman) is formed from fertile red soil, we feel close to her in our search on the whenua. 

Alongside the feelings of connection, where we find these creation narrative likenesses, we have developed an appreciation of how powerful and sensual it can be as women exploring and reconnecting with nature. 

This is tactile work, we experience it in a very bodily manner. Our fingers search for smooth clay, our toes squish in the mud, we rub it on our bodies and wash off in cool water. 

In granting ourselves permission and time to explore and play outside, we’ve tapped into a surprising amount of pleasure and euphoria which we are so grateful for. 

(end interview)

***

Thank you so much for your words, Sarah, and by extension, the Kauae Raro collective. Readers, if you’re interested in ordering a copy of Mana Whenua, you can find the book here. You can also, of course, follow the collective on Instagram, where they post regular glimpses of their pigment adventures.

That’s all for now… see you in a couple of weeks!

Stay Transfixed,

<3 Tilke

*** This interview footnote is my personal response to Sarah’s question: “Is this a question that gets asked to non-Indigenous artists?” Of course, it’s just one of many possible responses to a question that can be daunting to answer. I’m sharing this in case it helps spark ideas for anyone else who’s on the journey this question invites. If you have an answer you’d like to share with Pied Midden, please email it to me, Tilke Elkins, at info@wildpigmentproject.org.

WPP: The short answer: it’s a question that I ask regularly of non-Indigenous artists. But it’s not a question that I hear many other people, Indigenous or not, asking non-Indigenous artists. And, it’s a question that I want to keep asking, because, even if there is no pat answer (or at least, there hasn’t been one yet) the question invites a lot of other questions into the air.

So now here’s my long answer (if you have time for it!). 

Speaking personally — this question is central to my work with Wild Pigment Project. It’s the question that motivated me to start the project, because I was asking it myself. I admit, my first impulse was to ask Indigenous artists, elders and culture-keepers this question, because I thought if I could somehow get “permission,” then that would mean that what I was doing was acceptable. My inner feeling, pre-Wild Pigment Project, was that actually it wasn’t ok for me to gather up “stolen land” and make paintings with it, or sell it as pigment. When I asked other (non-Indigenous) artists what they thought, many of them (some defensively, some matter-of-factly) said what you alluded to, Sarah — that Earth pigments are in everyone’s genealogy, so everyone has a right to use them.  But that didn’t feel like an adequate response to me. It ignored the history of violence towards Indigenous people and cultures in colonized lands and in a very literal way, perpetuated the act of pocketing stolen land — all the worse when it was sold for a profit with nothing given back. 

Around the time when I was first asking these questions, I had a powerful experience on some land in the desert here. I was drawn to a sacred place, intuited its name, gathered a small amount of pigment, made sketches and a large painting of the place, and then later connected with a First Nations elder who confirmed that what I had intuited about the site was correct. I asked this elder, directly, The Question (should I use this pigment?) and he said, “If it feels right, yes. If it doesn’t feel right, then no.” He also said that hoarding pigments struck him as very foolish, and that certain ochre places, especially those containing pictographs, should be avoided as foraging places. 

This helped me, and allowed me to relax a little into a relationship with foraged pigments. Not because I thought I had total permission to do whatever felt right to me, but because someone I trusted told me that I should try to answer this myself. 

I’ve always had in-depth communications with non-human beings — mostly trees, plants and stones -- because I grew up a pretty lonely only child and they were the ones who were there to play with. So I’ve foraged for edible plants since I was a kid, and I understood the idea of reciprocity and talking with the plants I harvested, cleaning up litter and leaving offerings that were meaningful to me. I wondered about how I could reciprocate on a more culturally significant level, to the people on whose land I was foraging. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s very important book Braiding Sweetgrass was crucial to all my thinking around this. 

I decided that giving a percentage of any income I made in connection to pigments I gathered, to First Nations land stewards connected to the land the pigment came from was a key thing to do. I started by doing this whenever I taught classes on pigment gathering and paint preparation. 

Then, when I was thinking of a way to support Wild Pigment Project so that I could devote myself to it full time, I came up with the idea of Ground Bright, a monthly pigment subscription. From the beginning, I gave 22% of my net proceeds to land stewards, mostly Indigenous, who were relevant to the pigments contributed to the project: cold hard cash, as you say! :) When I started doing this, I was pretty broke, and 22% of not very much was not very much. Now that I’m feeding myself with this work, it’s something I feel decent about. Giving is a luxury that artists often can’t afford, but instead of thinking of it as “giving,” I just built it into the structure of earning money, so I never have to make a decision about whether I give or not. That decision is an integral part of earning a living, and I feel strongly that if it weren’t, I wouldn’t be making a go of this.

When I see non-Indigenous people selling pigment without acknowledging the people on whose land they forage, or giving financially to traditional land custodians, I have questions. I hope that leading by example will offer an inspiration. The idea of a “land tax” or “paying the rent” to Indigenous people is an idea that seems to be catching on. I know there’s something like it in Australia, called Pay The Rent. In California, there’s the Shuumi Land Tax, a voluntary annual contribution that non-Indigenous people living on traditional Lisjan Ohlone territory can make. 

There are two other things I’ve done to do my part to reciprocate/repair. I’m involved in a political body that works with local First Nations elders and historians to educate the public about Kalapuya culture (the Indigenous people on whose unceded land I live), and I offer scholarships to people who self-identify as being part of underfunded or marginalized communities, with outreach to Indigenous communities. 

I think it’s crucial for white people like me to answer the question I asked you ourselves — to really tune in to what feels right and act accordingly, instead of looking for answers from Indigenous people so that we as white/non-Indigenous people don’t have to do the hard work of figuring it out. And, as a person who’s working to increase communication between communities globally on this issue, I really welcome whatever Indigenous people want to share with me on the topic. I also know that I may have nothing to do with/be totally irrelevant to the ways that Indigenous communities organize, or do not organize around the subject of land pigments. I want to invite this dialogue without being attached to being part of it.

I think a lot of non-Indigenous artists are not thinking about earth pigments as living beings with complex histories and connections to communities. If I have one hope for my work with this project, it's to help bring that to the fore for the global pigment community, and to encourage reparations and reciprocity as a regular part of working with pigments. Pigments are what I might call “tentacular” — they’re connected to everything else. Start there and all can follow.