Decolonizing Landscapes, Merkin
Decolonizing Landscapes: Indigenous Belonging in John Walsh’s Paintings
Sophia Merkin, Columbia University
Paintings by contemporary artist John Walsh feature lush and ethereal scenes, often populated by figures both human and mythical. Half Māori (Aitanga a Hauiti) and half Pākehā (of white settler descent), Walsh’s eerie paintings are suffused with a devotion to and kinship with the natural world of Aotearoa, New Zealand and its Indigenous peoples. His paintings lay bare the complicated and partial qualities of landscapes as an artistic genre, providing a counterpoint to centuries of European colonial tableaux. In spite of their pastoral and bucolic traits, landscapes are and have never been neutral; as anthropologist Nicholas Thomas argues, “[in] a settler colonial world, the evocation of an empty land awaiting some sort of meaningful inscription or spiritual definition cannot be seen as a purely pictorial or aesthetic statement.”1 Indeed, Walsh resists the traditional understanding of this genre, as well as the characterization of his paintings as such; in an interview conducted for this paper, he stresses that his paintings are “not pure Landscapes.”2 Drawing on postcolonial and decolonial theory as well as the vexed history of landscapes, I argue that Walsh’s canvases function as decolonizing agents. They destabilize and challenge the legacy of European landscapes and encounters, offering a distinctly critical and Indigenous rearticulation of the genre.
1 Nicholas Thomas, Possessions: Indigenous Art/ Colonial Culture (London: Thames and Hudson, 1999), 22. 2 John Walsh. E-mail interview. Conducted by Sophia Merkin, December 17, 2019.
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Decolonization and Landscapes: a Theoretical Primer
In various Pacific contexts, the word decolonization often denotes the historical events and processes that followed independence from European powers.3 Here, I embrace a two-part definition of decolonization, drawn from both Indigenous education scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith and historian Susan A. Miller. The first is the reclamation and revitalization of Indigenous practices, which Tuhiwai Smith suggests can function as “spaces of resistance and hope.”4 The second connotation is, as Miller writes, “the utilization of non-Indigenous practices for Indigenous purposes.”5 Walsh’s artistic practice exemplifies this simultaneous continuity and transformation. In this context, the redirection of European genres such as landscapes for Indigenous purposes is a critical practice. However, the relationship of landscape painting to colonization is an historically vexed one, as scholars working across geographies have emphatically demonstrated. W.J.T. Mitchell proposes that “we think of landscape, not as an object to be seen or a text to be read, but as a process by which social and subjective identities are formed.”6 Krista Thompson refers to colonial landscapes as “‘operational;’”7 often considered benign, she argues that landscapes are both politically motivated and inherently biased. Thomas further states baldly that “landscape painting must be the form of settler visual culture that relates most directly to the practical struggle of colonization, which is, first and foremost, about the occupation of the land and attachment to country.”8 Each
3 Tracey Banivanua-Mar crucially points out the inadequacies of decolonization’s political history. She explains that initially, ‘decolonization’ was coined by M.J. Bonn “as a negative [term], referring to an undoing or a moving backwards along the path of colonial intrusion.” However, she argues, “it now increasingly signals failure… decolonisation was a form of imperialism through retreat rather than invasion.” Tracey Banivanua Mar, Decolonisation and the Pacific: Indigenous Globalisation and the Ends of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 11. 4 Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (New York: Zed Books Ltd., 2013), 4. 5 Susan A. Miller, “Native America Writes Back: The Origin of the Indigenous Paradigm in Historiography,” Wicazo Sa Review 23, no. 2 (2008): 15. 6 W.J.T. Mitchell, “Introduction,” in Landscape and Power, ed. W.J.T. Mitchell (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2002), 1. 7 Krista Thompson, An Eye for the Tropics: Tourism, Photography, and Framing the Caribbean Picturesque (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006), 19. 8 Thomas, Possessions: Indigenous Art/ Colonial Culture, 53.
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of these theorists emphasizes the socio-political power and influence manifest in landscape paintings.
Given the loaded relationship of landscapes to colonization, the adoption of the genre by an Indigenous artist is therefore complex. In his seminal essay “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,” Homi Bhabha writes that the mimicry of the colonizer by the colonized is a significant consequence of colonization, positing that “colonial mimicry is the desire for a reformed, recognizable Other.”9 He maintains that there is always a “difference between English and being Anglicized,”10 arguing that the colonized can never become English, only an English version of Indigenous. Bhabha articulates the attraction that the colonized can feel for the colonizer and for colonial institutions and practices. Elizabeth Harney and Ruth Phillips take this a step further, drawing on the work of Frantz Fanon. They maintain that “decolonizing societies and their intellectuals required authentic traditions to attain legitimacy, while their desire to attain the status of modern nation-states required that they reject the past.” As a result, “visual artists often weighed the efficacy of looking backward to partly remembered, partly invented traditions against the value of forging new forms of participation in the shared spaces and times of modernity.”11 Writing specifically about decolonization and art, Harney and Philips propose an implicit binary, and theorize that the fascination with coloniality functions in opposition to purely Indigenous forms. These theoretical frameworks provide a framework through which to consider Walsh’s work; however, the proposition of a pure duality of Indigenous and Western is limiting. In the colonial setting, people and cultures interacted regularly, influencing and transforming one another in an environment marked by unequal power relations and violence. This complicated dynamic is often oversimplified and Indigenous artists are too frequently portrayed as having only two options when it comes to European genres: either “mimicry or subversion”,12 in the
9 Homi Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,” October 28, Discipleship: A Special Issue on Psychoanalysis (1984): 126. 10 Ibid., 130. 11 Elizabeth Harney and Ruth Phillips, “Introduction: Inside Modernity: Indigeneity, Coloniality, Modernisms,” in Mapping Modernisms: Art, Indigeneity, Colonialism, eds. Elizabeth Harney and Ruth B. Phillips (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018), 18-19. 12 Ian McLean, “Modernism and the Art of Albert Namatjira,” in Mapping Modernisms: Art, Indigeneity, Colonialism, eds. Elizabeth Harney and Ruth Phillips (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018), 195.
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Figure 1. John Walsh, It’s not art, it’s just a scene, 2014, Oil on canvas, Gow Langsford Gallery
13 Megan Tamati-Quennell, “Decolonial Documents: Part Four,” Frieze, Nov. 21, 2018.
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Walsh’s Landscapes
These tensions and possibilities are palpable in Walsh’s work, which takes up and revises the paradigm of Western landscape painting for the expression of indigeneity. Many of his canvasses, including It’s not art, it’s just a scene (2014) [fig. 1], function as a commentary on colonialism and on the Indigenous-settler relationship that continues to play out in Aotearoa today. This work features a rocky, tree-covered, mountainous landscape in varying shades of brown, beige, green, black, and white. In the background, in alternatingly brighter and darker shades of blue roll hills, clouds, or waves; it is difficult to identify what the white and violet crests and peaks represent. On a brown outcropping in the foreground stand two figures with their backs to the viewer: one stands on the left, wearing dark blue pants, a blue shirt, and a dark backpack. To the right stands a figure with reddish hair wearing a purple dress, legs bare and starkly white against the dark trees. The brush in this canvas is tangled; no easy way through it appears, while the peaks in the farground are wild and roiling. Meanwhile, the two figures in the foreground appear to have come almost from another canvas, or another world. The outcropping on which they stand juts jarringly and intrusively in the lower right corner. Their tableau appears practically photoshopped onto the rest of the canvas, so disjointed do they seem. They stand with hips jutting out as if at a museum, surveying the view before them as though it were a painting created for their enjoyment. Walsh explains that he uses his landscapes to “set up situations where people are interacting with the land and… our relationship with it, conservation, exploitations, values, ethics, history.”14 It’s not art, it’s just a scene emphasizes how ill-fitting they are to the scene; title and painting unite to admonish the figures, and perhaps the European traditions they represent. The two figures’ covetous reaction to the land before them is inappropriate, and they do not belong. The Māori term frequently used in place of the word ‘Indigenous’ is tāngata whenua, literally meaning “people of the land.”15 These spectators are the opposite; they are disruptive, disconnected, and out of place.
14 Walsh, interviewed by author. 15 Atholl Anderson, Judith Binney, and Aroha Harris, Tangata Whenua: An Illustrated History (Auckland: Bridget Williams Books and the Auckland War Memorial Museum, 2014), 10.
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A second painting entitled Te Wepu Tanga (2018) [fig. 2] decolonizes more overtly. The wide canvas features a thick black background on which clear turquoise waters lap beneath a billowing pennant-style flag. Within the flag, Walsh has painted another of his characteristically vivid landscapes: trees, bushes, brush, streams, all depicted in bold shades of greens, blues, blacks, whites, browns, and occasional reds. The tableau is anchored by its representational perspective, as well as the view of Mount Taranaki in the background, a regular feature in Aotearoa art by both Māori and Pākehā artists. The title of the painting, Te Wepu Tanga, references an iconic nineteenth century banner entitled “Te Wepu” (“the whip”16), associated with and likely designed by Māori military hero Te Kooti, who flew the flag in his resistance campaigns against the British in the 1860s. Historian Judith Binney maintains that the flag “[symbolized] the suffering, and the hopes, of the exiles”17 when it was flown by Te Kooti. Today, Binney explains, “Te Wepu itself lives as a symbol of the promise of renewed Maori unity and reconciliation.”18 In Walsh’s reinterpretation, the iconic silhouette of the flag remains, but the content has changed. Embracing the symbolism of Māori resistance to colonization, Walsh uses the vocabulary of European landscape painting, but challenges and destabilizes it, replacing it with a wild, windy, natural, unsettled brush, evocative of the centuries prior to contact.19 He retains the iconic structure of the pennant, but fills it with an Indigenous, pre- and decolonial landscape. This manipulation of temporalities is an important aspect of Walsh’s work; when asked about the decolonial implications of his paintings, he emphasized the importance of considering colonization transhistorically. “Colonisation, I’m not interested purely in the historical…” he explains. “These issues are the main drive of my work and
16 Judith Binney, Redemption Songs: A Life of Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Turuki (Auckland: Auckland University Press with Bridget Williams Books Limited, 1995), 132. 17 Ibid., 132. 18 Ibid., 133. Walsh is not the first contemporary Māori artist to reconsider Te Wepu; so too have Paratene Matchitt and Henare Tahuri. 19 Importantly, Julia Lum’s eco-art historical review of colonial-era landscapes in Tasmania discusses “indigenous modifications to land,” through practices such as intentional fires. Her analysis reminds us that Europeans and Indigenous peoples alike cultivated the land, and that the idea of a pre-colonial landscape as unconstrained by human behavior is a flawed one. Julia Lum, “Fire-Stick Picturesque: Landscape Art and Early Colonial Tasmania,” British Art Studies, no. 10, https://www.britishartstudies.ac.uk/issues/issue-index/issue-10/fire-stick-picturesque.).
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life. I often use historical stories and characters to make contemporary points.”20
Figure 2. John Walsh, Te Wepu Wanga, 2018, Oil on canvas, Gow Langsford Gallery
Identity and Indigeneity
Curators and critics frequently position Walsh specifically as a Māori artist, such as in the 2016 show of his work entitled Matakite, held at Pātaka Art + Museum. According to Mark Hutchins-Pond, the exhibition’s curator, “Matakite is a name Māori give to a visionary, one with second sight who perceives life in translucent, overlapping layers of time and space.”21 Hutchins-Pond locates Walsh not only as a Māori artist, but one with extraordinary Indigenous gifts and understanding. This show included a painting entitled Marakihau (2013), the title of which Hutchins-Pond defines as “allegorical guardians, part-human, part-fish, and part-waka.”22 He notes that the “recurrence of marakihau in Walsh’s paintings during the past two decades suggests he has developed a strong affinity with this otherworldly being,” and argues that the paintings serve as self-portraits. Although interpreting artworks autobiographically can be limiting, understanding Walsh’s subjectivities can be illuminating.
20 Walsh. 21 Mark Hutchins-Pond, John Walsh: Matakite (Porirua City: Pātaka Art + Museum, 2016), 3. 22 Ibid., 7. A “waka” is defined as “a canoe, vehicle, conveyance {or} spirit medium.” Te Ara Māori- English Dictionary. “Waka.” www.maoridictionary.co.nz. https://maoridictionary.co.nz/search?idiom=&phrase=&proverb=&loan=&histLoanWords=&key words=waka (accessed June 3, 2019).”
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Hutchins-Pond writes that certain “territory can be tricky to navigate when myths and stories are jealously guarded.”23 In spite of the strictly Indigenous framing often attached to Walsh’s work, the artist himself is more circumspect.24 He seldom gives interviews, and speaks infrequently about his life and work. When asked by Clive Kelly about his biculturalism, he answered, “‘it wasn’t an issue [growing up]. Until one point… We came in and lined up for something and the [Māori] boys asked, ‘Are you with them or are you with us?’ That was the first time it really struck me, that I had a choice, or was required to choose.” He explains, “I was undecided—I couldn’t deny either side.”25 Walsh identifies with both his Indigenous and Western roots. This subject position makes him distinctively positioned to challenge and blend the two cultures and their forms. Walsh is reticent about his subjectivity; he has recounted the early, blunt criticism he received from some Māori viewers: “I did the odd work reinterpreting stories from different tribal areas. And man, the clubbing I got—‘who the fuck are you, telling our stories!’”26 Indeed, his Te Wepu painting references histories and figures in an uncharacteristically specific way. As Walsh explains, his subjects and scenes are typically abstracted: he writes “I love creating landscapes – from imagination, collective memory of places I’ve visited,” rather than a specific experience or story, and emphasizes the same to Hutchins-Pond: “I’m orchestrating my own characters and stories,”27 he proclaims.
Walsh’s paintings frequently boast an otherworldly quality that is simultaneously beautiful and uncanny. Although many of them proclaim an Indigenous mindset (like Marakihau), some canvasses are more equivocating. In recent years, he has repeatedly painted manuhiri figures. A manuhiri is frequently defined as a guest or visitor, often (but not always) non-Māori.28 Māori and Indigenous Studies scholar Alice Te Punga Somerville characterizes manuhiri as “visitors defined by their relationship to tāngata whenua,” and notes that “[while] manuhiri are visitors, there is always,
23 Hutchins-Pond, John Walsh: Matakite, 5. 24 The curatorial positioning of Walsh as a Māori artist, rather than an unlabeled artist, invites scrutiny; however, it is not the subject of this paper. 25 Clive Kelly, “In the land: Talking to John Walsh about Painting,” Art New Zealand, Issue 148 (2013): 47. 26 Ibid., 50. 27 Hutchins-Pond, 5. 28 Te Ara Māori-English Dictionary, “Manuhiri,” www.maoridictionary.co.nz https://maoridictionary.co.nz/search?keywords=manuhiri (accessed June 3, 2020).
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ritually the possibility of welcoming and absorbing manuhiri into the ranks of tāngata whenua.”29 Liminal figures in Walsh’s paintings, these characters appear to skirt the boundary between Māori and settler in He Manuhiri (2019) [fig. 3]. A forest scene, three spectral figures in Western dress walk along a glowing white path flanked by tall, thick trees, in front of a violet and blue brush. They approach a single figure, who appears to be clothed in a piupiu.30 He awaits them with arms crossed at the edge of a pond beside a beached waka. Although he does not overtly welcome them, he anticipates their arrival, and does not refuse or combat them. The four figures are formally unified by the transparent style with which they are depicted.
Figure 3. John Walsh, He Manuhiri, 2019, Oil on unstretched canvas, Gow Langsford Gallery
29 Alice Te Punga Somerville, Once Were Pacific: Māori Connections to Oceania (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2012),139-140. This is disputed by Hirini Moko Mead in Tikanga Māori: Living by Māori Values (Wellington: Huia Publishers, 2003), 121. 30 A piupiu is a type of skirt traditionally made from harakeke or flax (Emily Rangitiaria Schuster, “Piupiu,” in The Eternal Thread: Te Aho Mutunga Kore / The Art of Māori Weaving, eds. Miriama Evans and Ranui Ngarimu (Wellington: Huia Publishers, 2005), 56.
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In Manuhiri (2017) [fig. 4], hazy mountains recede darkly in the blustery background, while a brighter wharenui (“meeting house”31) stands on a rocky beach. Several figures can be seen in the distance encircling the structure, while at the foreground, two figures—the manuhiri—stand in the lower right corner, separated from the rest of the scene by murky elements, difficult to identify as either foliage or jetty. These two figures stand in the same location as the two figures in It’s not art, it’s just a scene; however, their relationship to the painting’s action is remarkably different. Whereas the two figures in It’s not art are marked by their incongruity, the two figures in Manuhiri are connected in multiple ways. Between the figures around the marae and the two manuhiri one figure turns toward the visitors, providing a link from the foreground to the middle ground both formally and personally. The figures in the painting are all painted similar shades of pink, providing a visual relation between the tāngata whenua and the manuhiri. Lastly, even though the smaller of the two figures is looking away from the marae, the mountains, the water, the brush, and the manuhiri are all painted by Walsh with the same horizontal brushstrokes. As a result, the figures blend into the rest of the canvas, rather than stand out from it. Walsh explains of both of these manuhiri paintings that he intentionally aims for the figures to be “ambiguous, in that any of us could identify with the manuhiri visitors or the tangata whenua of that place.”32 In both canvases, the manuhiri exist on the border of an Indigenous world. They are not turned away, and sometimes appear to be allied with their counterparts. Particularly in light of Te Punga Somerville’s explanation of these complex figures, I interpret the manuhiri as autobiographical projections by Walsh; like the artist, although there are foreign aspects to the manuhiri, they are embraced into the local landscape. When asked about this reading, Walsh answered “I haven’t thought this while creating the works, but it’s probably there.”33
Walsh’s subtly multivalent understanding of his own identities calls to mind poet and philosopher Édouard Glissant’s essay “For Opacity.” Glissant writes poignantly: “[as] far as my identity is concerned, I will take care of it myself. That is, I shall not allow it to become cornered in any essence: I shall also pay attention to not mixing it into any amalgam. Rather, it does not disturb me to
31 Te Ara Māori-English Dictionary, “Wharenui,” www.maoridictionary.co.nz. https://maoridictionary.co.nz/word/10137 (accessed June 3, 2020). 32 Walsh. 33 Ibid.
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accept that there are places where my identity is obscure to me, and the fact that it amazes me does not mean I relinquish it. Human behaviors are fractal in nature.”34 These sentiments come to mind when interpreting Walsh’s paintings, and explain how he can think through his own Indigeneity and identity without finite expression or classification. Rather, Walsh’s opaque presentation of and reflection on tāngata whenua and manuhiri evokes Glissant’s refusal to define himself, or to allow others to do so for him.
Figure 4. John Walsh, Manuhiri, 2017, Oil on canvas, Gow Langsford Gallery
34 Édouard Glissant, Poetics of Relation, trans. Betsy Wing (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990), 192-193.
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Walsh’s practice is informed by multiple traditions, and by combining them, he envisions new possibilities, exemplifying the definitions of decolonization that I have adopted here. Tuhiwai Smith writes that “[imperialism] frames the indigenous experience. It is part of our story, our version of modernity. Writing about our experiences under imperialism and its more specific expression of colonialism has become a significant project of the indigenous world.”35 Walsh exploits the framework of European landscapes to challenge colonization and further Indigenous beliefs and practices. In his ethereal paintings, he cautiously navigates the porous divisions between Indigenous and settler, demonstrating that the two cultures and their art forms are mutually influential, rather than discrete. He embraces the creative possibilities of landscape paintings and their legacy as a vehicle for political messaging and action, but transforms the genre, repurposing it for decolonization, rather than colonization, and for the championing of Indigenous peoples and cultures.
35 Tuhiwai Smith, 20.
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References
Anderson, Atholl, Judith Binney, and Aroha Harris. Tangata Whenua: An Illustrated History. Auckland: Bridget Williams Books and the Auckland War Memorial Museum, 2014.
Banivanua Mar, Tracey. Decolonisation and the Pacific: Indigenous Globalisation and the Ends of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016.
Bhabha, Homi. “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse.” October 28, Discipleship: A Special Issue on Psychoanalysis (1984): 125-133.
Binney, Judith. Redemption Songs: A Life of Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Turuki. Auckland: Auckland University Press with Bridget Williams Books Limited, 1995.
Glissant, Édouard. Poetics of Relation. Translated by Betsy Wing. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990.
Harney, Elizabeth and Ruth B. Phillips. “Introduction: Inside Modernity: Indigeneity, Coloniality, Modernisms.” In Mapping Modernisms: Art, Indigeneity, Colonialism, edited by Elizabeth Harney and Ruth B. Phillips, 1-29. Durham: Duke University Press, 2018.
Hutchins-Pond, Mark. John Walsh: Matakite. Porirua City: Pātaka Art + Museum, 2016.
Lum, Julia. “Fire-Stick Picturesque: Landscape Art and Early Colonial Tasmania.” British Art Studies 10. https://www.britishartstudies.ac.uk/issues/issue-index/issue-10/fire- stick-picturesque.
Kelly, Clive. “In the Land: Talking to John Walsh about Painting.” Art New Zealand, Issue 148 (2013). 46-54.
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McLean, Ian. “Modernism and the Art of Albert Namatjira.” In Mapping Modernisms: Art, Indigeneity, Colonialism, edited by Elizabeth Harney and Ruth B. Phillips, 188-208. Durham: Duke University Press, 2018.
Miller, Susan A. “Native America Writes Back: The Origin of the Indigenous Paradigm in Historiography.” Wicazo Sa Review 23, no. 2 (2008): 9-28. Mitchell, W.J.T. “Introduction.” In Landscape and Power, edited by W.J.T. Mitchell, 1-4. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002.
Rangitiaria Schuster, Emily. “Piupiu.” In The Eternal Thread: Te Aho Mutunga Kore: The Art of Māori Weaving, edited by Miriama Evans and Ranui Ngarimu, 56-57. Wellington: Huia Publishers, 2005.
Tamati-Quennell, Megan. “Decolonial Documents: Part Four.” Frieze, Nov. 21, 2018.
Te Ara Māori-English Dictionary. “Manuhiri.” www.maoridictionary.co.nz https://maoridictionary.co.nz/search?keywords=manuhiri (accessed June 3, 2020).
Te Ara Māori-English Dictionary. “Waka.” www.maoridictionary.co.nz. https://maoridictionary.co.nz/search?idiom=&phrase=&proverb=&loan=&hist LoanWords=&keywords=waka (accessed June 3, 2019).
Te Ara Māori-English Dictionary. “Wharenui.” www.maoridictionary.co.nz. https://maoridictionary.co.nz/word/10137 (accessed June 3, 2020).
Te Punga Somerville, Alice. Once Were Pacific: Māori Connections to Oceania. Minneapolois and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2012.
Thomas, Nicholas. Possessions: Indigenous Art/ Colonial Culture. London: Thames and Hudson, 1999.
Thompson, Krista. An Eye for the Tropics: Tourism, Photography, and Framing the Caribbean Picturesque. Durham: Duke University Press, 2006.
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Tuhiwai Smith, Linda. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. New York: Zed Books Ltd., 2013.
Smith, Terry. “Visual Regimes of Colonization: European and Aboriginal Seeing in Australia.” In Empires of Vision: A Reader, edited by Martin Jay and Sumathi Ramaswamy, 267-279. Durham: Duke University Press, 2013.
Walsh, John. E-mail interview. Conducted by Sophia Merkin, December 17, 2019.
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