Camellia Map: Riversdale Road Avondale

Bowen Galleries, Wellington 3 - 31 December 2012

I moved to Avondale when we bought our first house two and a half years ago. In doing so I left the community I’d lived in for twelve years, since returning to New Zealand after a similar time living in London. I was displaced by the move, and through it became psychologically connected to the many who have been exiled to alien communities by inner city house prices. In an effort to tie myself to the area I researched local history. Avondale’s past is fascinating. Until 5 June 1882 it was called Te Whau, which is the name, of Māori origin, for Entelea arborescens, a native tree. The old name endures in the Whau River, which is an estuarial branch of the Waitemata Harbour, that runs into a creek that cuts through New Lynn to Green Bay – a Godwit flight path and once one of two major Auckland Portages. Avondale gained its first European settler in 1843, who was joined by several more in the 1850s with the completion of the Great North Road. It is the home of the introduced Australian Huntsman spider (now commonly known as the Avondale spider). The district had many market gardens and was the site of the development of the Hayward variety of kiwifruit. 

There are attributes of contemporary Avondale that don’t fit into this grand narrative. These smaller histories are only observed on the ground through physically being here and seeking a sense of place. The development that has taken place in the area in the past few years, largely unregulated, has covered over prime market garden land with a mix of industrial building and poor housing, jarring a sense of urban design. The street I live on is in a completely flat part of Avondale and there are few trees. I found myself looking up a lot, askance from the cacophony of substandard infill housing and lack of greenery and care.  It was through this daily gesture that the seed of this project began.

Of the few trees that do exist in Avondale, many are Camellias. The story of how they came to feature so abundantly I do not know. But I can say they are incongruous with the housing aesthetic. I became fixated with the landscape created by the Camellia trees. Looming above the built environment, these features took on the characteristics of mountains – where there are none.  I began to take ritualised walks to document these ‘mountains’. After weeks of going through this process every other day, a parallel observation began to take shape, which was the bizarre juxtaposition of each Camellia bush with its associated building.

To document this aspect of the urban environment, and at the same time create an aesthetic value that I could live with, I began a database of house colours and associated Camellia flower colours. Each property with a Camellia was redesigned as a gradient map and in doing so the urban design, or lack of, was remedied. The set I have selected for the project at Bowen Galleries is a sample of all of the houses with Camellias from one street in Avondale, which is the street I live on – one of the streets with possibly the worst housing in this area. The entry to the street has one of the best Camellia Mountains that I documented.

By the time this exhibition closes I will have left Avondale. Through some fluke of the munificence of angels, we have managed to purchase a home back in the community we left two and a half years ago. This, then, has become a loving, and fitting, parting gesture.

saw two whales this twenty eight day of may in cloudy bay, Bowen Galleries 2010

http://www.bowengalleries.co.nz/artists/williams.php

I went looking for a concealed memory for Ghuznee Street, to tie Bowen Galleries to a vanished story of Place, reactivating a little-known history. And through a boarding house I learned was established on the street around 1858, situated nearly opposite St Peter’s Church corner, I came to ponder the sea.

In the stories of sailors, whalers and early New Zealand settlers the sea is the master narrative, but rarely mentioned in the central text as Subject.

The boarding house on Ghuznee Street hosted a variety of guests including many remittance men. It was set up by Sally Dougherty (1818 – 1898) who used the boarding house as a platform to campaign against alcohol, having been appalled by its affects on the whalers she had lived in the company of in Marlborough Sounds.

Sally’s great granddaughter Celia Manson researched and recorded Sally’s life, and the social and political events intersecting with it. The account is told across two books in epic and admirable detail. Although, after reading the books, it was the poetic resonances and singular poignant events that most captivated my imagination – five in particular. First: Sally and her family made a journey from Wairau to Wellington in a rowing boat, which was protracted and arduous and resulted in a miscarriage. Second: Sally was the only European woman on a Cutter’s Bay whaling station, with a husband who was often absent at sea. During this time she gave birth to twins, one of whom died just after birth and the other was drowned about a year later. Third: In all her journeys from the time she left her homeland, Canada, Sally carried cuttings of her favourite plants, which she established at each of her homes. These included, fuchsias, geraniums, strawberries, roses and lavender. Fourth: Sally’s hair was deep auburn and lustrous and remained so all her life (which my memory may have embellished, but nevertheless stuck with me in this form). Fifth: I imagined the sea thick with whale blood. This image was associated in my mind with the red of Sally’s hair. It was also associated psychologically with a fundamental displacement. The image was not literally mentioned in the stories of Sally’s life, nevertheless it was inescapable as whale deaths underpinned her path to the boarding house.

I came to conclude the Sea in Sally’s life was a lyrical and sublime vortex.It was hope, sorrow, disarticulation, despondency, optimism, loss, fear, isolation, resilience and patience rolled into one.

Sally, known earlier in her life as Sarah McAuley, was born in Londonderry, Ireland. She sailed to Canada with her family at the age of seven and grew up in a log cabin in the New Brunswick forests, near the port of St John. In 1837 she married Captain Daniel Dougherty, whom she immediately set sail with to the South Pacific aboard the whaling ship James Stewart. On that trip Sally spent time in Australia and then the Bay of Islands, where she gave birth to her first child. In 1838 she made her own way back to Canada where she gave birth to her second of seven children. Daniel returned to Canada in 1839. Then in 1841 the family sailed as passengers, first aboard the sailing ship Drusilla for London, England; and from there, in 1842, they sailed on the London for Wellington, New Zealand. Shortly after their arrival they moved to Cutters Bay, Port Underwood, Marlborough, where Daniel had established a whaling station. They moved briefly to the Wairau River in 1848, then at the start of 1849 the Doughertys went to live in Wellington, where Daniel had been appointed pilot. There they made a home at Tarakena Bay, between Lyall Bay and the entrance to Wellington Harbour. Daniel died in 1857 at which time Sally made the move to the boarding house on Ghuznee Street in order to support herself and her family. In 1869 Sally moved across town to Thorndon, continuing to take in boarders, and remained there until her death.

References:

Manson, C; The Story of a New Zealand Family: the Beginnings; Cape Catley Ltd, Picton 1974

Manson, C; Widow of Thorndon Quay: Part II of The Story of a New Zealand Family; Pigeon Press, Wellington 1981

Manson, H; Dougherty, Sarah 1817/1818? – 1898; Dictionary of New Zealand Biography, updated 22 June 2007 
URL: http://www.dnzb.govt.nz/

saw two whales this twenty eight day of may in cloudy bay, Bowen Galleries 2010

Best Wishes Nora Gee (by the collaboration: Paper Does Not Refuse Ink), Projectspace B431, Auckland University 2010

This is an excerpt of an ongoing collaborative project.

Research related to the project can be viewed at:

www.paperdoesnotrefuseink.blogspot.com

This is the catalogue text from the show:

Tracey Williams and Taarati Taiaroa in conversation with Dan Arps

Can you tell me a little bit about Nora Gee? How did you come across her collection?

Nora Gee kept all the cards, invitations and telegrams she (and sometimes relatives) received form the 1940s to the 1970s. We came across Nora’s collection in the ephemera collection of Special Collections at Auckland City Library. We were going through the ephemera collection methodically as a first step in our research, which was a logical starting place as we had mutual interests in the converging themes of print culture and ‘small’ narratives.

So what do you know about her?

I was talking to someone at Elam today and they asked me about who Nora was. I answered that she really was a nobody - not in a value judgment sense but in the sense that she wasn't part of a society-forming grand narrative. Nora was a kind of 'every woman' of her generation in that way. When you talk about the cards to people they transgress into stories about their mothers or aunts or friends who keep similar collections. The only unusual thing about Nora's collection is that it is complete and is held as such by the library. From the cards you learn odd things that you wouldn't normally learn about a person. Like that she sometimes kept cards that she gave to other people; and that she sometimes wrote cards to herself. She had a husband that died and she wrote cards to him after he died. She had no children of her own, but fostered children. She immigrated to New Zealand in the 1940s and that's when the card collection started (with Bon Voyage cards).

When sneakily scourging through someone’s rubbish bin in a systematic way, you start to learn a lot about them. Nora's cards are very much a trail of her personal relationships and life events. Initially starting this project I felt like I was dumpster diving where I shouldn't be - almost grave robbing. At the time there seemed to be a responsibility implied to finding out more about Nora. The librarians’ production of a timeline through the cards and the intense engagement we started to take with the cards on a print value, however, soon calmed this need and exposed more truths about Nora as a character than perhaps a traditional life-heritage search would ever expose.

So what do you see as Nora's values and how have you responded to them?

I am not sure that Nora was interested in the actual printing processes. The value of the cards to her was their ritual function. But the fact they were printed objects allowed them to have that function. That Nora held onto every one of these 'rituals' suggested she wanted to keep them alive for herself. Nora had dated the cards and the library had categorised them according to date and occasion, but what stood out for us were several reoccurring themes in the images and text; and the people who'd given the cards to her. We have reorganised the collection according to those themes: kittens; birds; flowers and ships - and selected some of the text themes like 'greetings' and 'wishes'. We have also 'extracted' examples of these themes and hand printed them as one-offs, or reconfigured elements in small editions, attempting to ascribe importance and material value by inverting the notion of mass production.

You say that Nora’s cards present a value for print culture that you haven’t found elsewhere, what do you think that value is? Is there a sense of nostalgia or sentimentality?

The 'value' has two general levels. One is that the collection contains a selection of examples of the different printing processes, inks and papers that were in use during the period she kept her collection - as well as design formats. Then there is the 'value' of the portrayal of someone's life and what mattered to them through such a comprehensive collection.

Perhaps you could describe some interesting examples of design aesthetics, print processes, or types of imagery that you have found in the collection?

It's fascinating what becomes interesting to you when you have thoroughly looked at 837 cards belonging to an individual person. The average card size in Nora’s collection was 15.3 by 10.8 cm, and contrary to presumptions (toward apparently ‘generic’ artifacts), rarely was the same phrase or image repeated. One of the things that was apparent was that earlier cards had much more attention paid to their design and printing methods. For example single cards often had an overall design that connected the inside and outside, and included both foil printing and embossing. Others had silk inlays, or glitter effects, or were die cut, or had pop-out features. Even some of the simple cards – like those that were essentially a sheet of paper quarter folded – had been thoughtfully designed as an overall effect and included some of the embellishments mentioned. Later cards were generic and although the printing was slick, less attention was paid to detail and the 'personalisation' of the cards. This indicated to me that cards a generation or two ago had much more of a meaningful ritual function than they do today. Cards in the early 21st century are highly finished and mass produced and appear to have a throw-away commodity function; a reflection perhaps of societal values in general on both counts.

So what do Nora's cards tell us about print culture, or New Zealand culture more generally at this time?

New Zealand print has a brief history as an imported tradition of European explorers, missionaries, local private presses and governance structures.

Originally an agent for organisation, record keeping, education, community, documentary, propaganda and the dispersion of information; print became more popular as a means of personal expression after 1900. Printmaking has been considered in recent years as unfashionable, stuffed in tradition and un-critical. Because we have such a short tradition in print there hasn’t been much research done in order to critically respond to it on a local level. It’s important to ask whether the baggage associated with printmaking should be left in the dungeons of Europe, in order to allow the re-assessment of what printmaking is and can be in a New Zealand context.

I’m interested that your discussion of print media encompasses both traditional fine-art printmaking and commercial or mass produced printed matter, greeting cards and the like. Do you think that the renewed interest in print comes from the convergence of these forms made possible through digital printing and the like? Does technology shift your perspective in this way?

The distinction between fine-art printmaking and commercial or mass produced media is a rather recent development. In fact historically these are no such distinctions. 'Traditional fine art printing' was an adaptation by artists of the tradition of printing itself, which is a continuum of the print revolution brought about by the Gutenberg Press around 1439 (although printing technology existed before this, woodblock printing being used for centuries by the Chinese in particular). This was the beginning of mass production of knowledge (through printing) and consequently its democratisation (hence the revolution). Print split along different lines from this point: broadly one associated with text, literature, the book and design; and another with visual arts and design. The lines converge in the fields of design and cultural studies. In many ways the way we are looking at print is in its most traditional form by collapsing the distinctions between fine art and mass production. Digital technology is another step on the printing technology continuum, which paradoxically is heading to non-printed forms. Personally, I find it interesting that artists first became interested in print mediums because of its democracy (that of mass-production) and now artists are turning to traditional methods as a kind of revolt against mass-production - which has kind of eaten itself.

My Ship / Tënei Wakahëra Tauranga Art Gallery 2009 to 2010

My Ship / Tënei Wakahëra Tauranga Art Gallery 2009 to 2010

Here is an edit of the catalogue text that accompanied My Ship / Tënei Wakahëra: Tracey Williams interviewed by Penelope Jackson, Tauranga Art Gallery curator (August 2009).

PJ: You were brought up in the Bay of Plenty. What are your earliest memories of the place?

TW: I grew up in the area through the 1970s and 1980s. I lived at Te Puke, Rangiuru and Tauranga. I have positive and clear memories of both the rural and the provincial. I could fill pages with my memories. To give you a snapshot: I remember being outside a lot and spending time at the beach; lamb and calf days; A&P shows; the Kaituna River; Maketu Beach; small baches at Papamoa; watching the stars under a tarpaulin on the beach with my parents; my first day at school; walking to and from school; the boy who swore a lot; playing outdoors until dusk; being an Eskimo in a church play; riding my horse; big bustling inter-family gatherings; spending time at the local marae; the clump of trees near my friend’s house we pretended were horses; fish and chip nights; my favourite kindergarten teacher; country and western concerts; long grass; a Morepork in our barn; our house cow; our aggressive rooster; the ancient tractor that my father drove from Mt Maunganui to Rangiuru; the family valiant; smashing my front teeth; Wonder Woman; The Osmonds; disco dancing and riding the school bus.

PJ: How encouraging was Tauranga Girls’ College of your artistic ambitions?

TW: I was enthused by my teachers Mark Salamonsen and Grant Thompson. But art was seen very much as a hobby – not as a career – which was also a reflection of those times socially. Subjects were encouraged that were seen as useful to get a job with.

PJ: During your childhood and teenage years what access did you have to seeing real art?

TW: The only art I saw was in books or slides at Tauranga Girls’ College. Although my mother and her friends were involved with the craft movement, which they would say is ‘real art’.

PJ: Was boating part of your family life?

TW: Not in the grand sense. We had a small wooden boat that my father had built. We spent a lot of time on coastlines, especially in the summer when we’d camp for weeks on the Coromandel. That boat (my father built) is a consistent feature of those expeditions. Later on we got a Laser yacht that I could sail.

PJ: You came to the idea about the ship and navigation/migration relatively quickly for this project. Do you think sub-consciously you’ve been thinking about this subject for some time?

TW: Yes. Absolutely. I’d made a couple of 2-d ships previously. Firstly, at Te Tuhi I made a ship that was a hybrid tall ship/waka. For that show (as with My Ship) I was researching alternative historical narratives. I found that traditional accounts of history (both Maori and European) revolved around grand narratives centred wholly on men’s actions. I made that ship out of tissue paper which was the only material I had available within my budget when I came to construct it – reminiscent of the way women ‘made-do’ historically. At a subsequent exhibition with Bowen Galleries in Wellington, I used a ship as an allegory for concealed hope. So, yes, ships have been there for a while as vehicles to explore the ‘other’ voice.

PJ: Would you describe this work as a feminist piece of art – in your exhibition brief you referred to it as ‘women’s craft work’?

TW: My concerns in researching local history were to dig below the surface of recognised narratives that demarcate Tauranga Moana. As with all culture-defining accounts, these narratives are centred on men’s accomplishments, therefore heterogeneous and subsidiary stories are often women’s. So a feminist reading is a consequence of what I am interested in – not an intention. Although I concede: however you get there, once you step into that territory you are in a political arena. I have my viewpoints, but I am not interested in them being obvious in my work. Elements of the exhibition in part critique master narratives – for example the voiding of women’s stories as a consequence of inscribing culture-defining histories exclusively through male voices and deeds. However, my concern as an artist is not to repeat or comment on them in a dogmatic or linear fashion, nor do I want to pose didactic or counter accounts of Otherness; syndromes of centre and marginalisation; and social conflicts across eras. I also want to avoid presenting utopic memorials of the past, present or future; and idealised images of society and location. My final answer to this is: When a man makes a work that contains masculine readings – do we ask if he’s man-ist?

PJ: What does the ship tell us about the state of craft, or object art, in New Zealand today?

TW: The material and technical outcomes are the most appropriate means of addressing the theoretical issues at stake. My Ship isn’t directly about craft yet that’s very much part of women’s history in New Zealand. Craft hasn’t really been included in typical art history models either. I am not sure this work would have been seen in a public gallery in New Zealand twenty years ago. Although, lately there seems to be a bit of a reversal about attitudes to craft in a wider cultural context, for example the growth in community markets demonstrates a desire to move away from mass production.

PJ: From the outset of the project you expressed, and articulated, the shipping aspect, why was that? And also I’m thinking about how it came to get the title My Ship.

TW: When I started this work I was looking on at a place I had experienced early in my life – in a different time through child’s eyes – but was approaching from a physical and emotional distance. I’m a lot closer to it now. I’ve lived and breathed it for months and I have been greatly enriched by it. I regret that I didn’t know more about the local history of Tauranga when I was growing up. Gate Pa, for example, was the name of a suburb; Matakana was simply an island; and Mt Maunganui was a surf beach. The idea of a ship as a centrepiece for the work was at once a logical step from the parable of a ship as an artefact describing both history and the hope contained in a voyage; and at the same time it literally referenced the location of the gallery – almost on the harbour’s edge. Tauranga Moana has the history of being part of New Zealand’s first peopling by means of Maori contact and settlement via Waka, followed by hamlets of Europeans; it has it has a strong trading annals, across time and within and between Maori and European; during wartimes it was a means of landfall and retreat, and the strategic positioning of redoubts and pa sites; and it is a port. When I first began my research I naively thought I would come across singular stories that would encompass alternative accounts of Tauranga’s history. Then I realised that one can only imagine another’s experience even if it shares a common trajectory. Therefore the ship is My Ship as it is the only position from which I can honestly speak with authority.