FLUX No. 41 F/W 2021

24 | ARTS & CULTURE

Dane Nakama’s local whismy, the legacy of limu, and a dialogue on kitsch and gender with photographers Vincent Bercasio and Jason Chu.

78 | FEATURES

On the gift of breadfruit, the evocative portraiture of Brendan George Ko, and a Hawaiian quilting controversy.

146 | EXPLORE

Preserving historic Honolulu, and redeeming O‘ahu’s island albatrosses.

26 | Mixed Media

Dane Nakama

36 | Health Wai‘anae Walking Trails

40 | Painting Arman Manookian

48 | Culinary Limu

56 | Maoli Hawaiian Archives

64 | Photography Vincent Bercasio and Jason Chu

A HUI HOU

160 | Emptiness

FEATURES

80 | A Storied Science

Mo‘olelo are stories powered by keen and vigilant observations of the patterns in our natural world. They also possess scientific truths within. In his reportage, Peter Keali‘i Thoene turns to the sciences and myths of Kīlauea and how both make sense of the natural world.

90 | The Gift of Kū

Extraordinary producers, ‘ulu crops could prove to be a multifaceted solution for Hawai‘i’s current food crisis. Jackie Oshiro highlights a cooperative infusing indigenous knowledge as a path toward greater sustainability.

100 | A Quilted Reckoning

Alexis Cheung untangles the contentious issues of appropriation and fashion that have hindered Hawaiian quilting in recent years. Controversies at the center of this distinct Hawaiian artform beg the question: Is there a pono way for a fashion brand to utilize its patterns?

112 | Brendan George Ko

A Maui-based photographer’s portfolio documents the islands and its peoples with a deep sense of feeling and grace.

 Image by Brendan George Ko

 Image by Josiah Patterson

 Image by Chris Rohrer

Tori Toguchi’s Portrait Series

Nikkei

 Still from IN FLUX

 Still from IN FLUX

On the Cover

Three images highlighting stories from inside the fall/winter 2021 issue. Clockwise from right: 1.) Ateliana and her son, photographed by Brendan George Ko; 2.) Dane Nakama at work, by John Hook, 3.) model Nate Sarsona, for a joint fashion essay, photographed by Jason Chu.

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| FALL/WINTER 2021 |

PUBLISHER

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SENIOR PHOTOGRAPHER

John Hook

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR

Samantha Hook

CONTRIBUTORS

Michelle Broder Van Dyke

Alexis Cheung

Chris Gibbon

Travis Hancock

Mitchell Kuga

D. Kauwila Mahi

Timothy A. Schuler

Peter Keali‘i Thoene

Jackie Oshiro

Kylie Yamauchi

IMAGES

Vincent Bercasio

Jason Chu

Lenny Kaholo

Brendan George Ko

Christian Navarro

Josiah Patterson

Chris Rohrer

Michael Vossen

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©2008-2021 by Nella Media Group, LLC. Contents of FLUX Hawaii are protected by copyright and may not be reproduced without the expressed written consent of the publisher. FLUX Hawaii assumes no liability for products or services advertised herein. ISSN 2578-2053

Peter Keali‘i Thoene

Daniel Kauwila Mahi is an ‘Ōiwi Hawai‘i visual artist, street scholar, video game designer, composer, and antiquarian from Maunalua, O‘ahu. Collecting information about and documenting fish in Wāwāmalu (Sandy’s) with his grandfather as a youth escalated into collecting prayers from his tūtūhine and collecting vintage books with his mother. These practices matured into collecting vinyl records, streetwear, sneakers, vintage clothing, Hawaiʻiana, family stories, and genealogies for the purpose of anchoring the past in day-to-day life. Working with community and being a public servant has always been the fulcrum of their work and the Hawai‘i State Archives creates a space where Mahi has the capacity to help the public feel the mana of and know their ancestors more intimately. In Mahi’s first piece for Flux Hawai‘i, on page 56, the writer reflects on the Hawai‘i State Archives, which contains multitudes of historical information, on page 56. “One of the most interesting items at the archives is a gun which has dings, scratches, and dust that was smuggled into Hawai‘i for the Wilcox Rebellion,” Mahi says. “I ka wā ma mua, ka wā ma hope; When we are firmly rooted in our past the flowers we make in the future will become more fragrant.”

Jackie Oshiro is a writer exploring ideas at the intersection of identity and place, history and modernity, and environment and tradition. She was born and raised in Nu‘uanu, O‘ahu, where the cool, quiet evenings fostered a voracious appetite for words, stories, and tales of far-off places. Eager for adventures of her own, she left the islands after high school, spending her formative years in Chicago, Japan, and Malaysia. But despite the excitement of winters colder than she could’ve imagined, skyscrapers taller than she could see, and flavors unlike anything she’d ever experienced, she found herself discontent. Her travels taught her about the world, but they also taught her about herself, what she values, and the impact she wants to have. Today she’s back in the Hawai‘i, writing about the initiatives working towards a brighter future for our islands, like her feature on ‘ulu, on page 90, drawing awareness and attention to the big ideas that have the potential to change the way we live and experience the world. “Growing up, I only ever had ‘ulu when someone would gift one to my family, and we would usually just make ‘ulu chips,” Oshiro remembers. “Since moving back to the islands, I’ve noticed ‘ulu is everywhere now, and it was really cool to be able to dive a bit into the forces behind its reemergence. I’ve also learned that ʻulu is very easy to cook with, and I use it quite a bit now in things like curries, spreads, and salads.”

Born in Kealakekua, Peter Keali‘i Thoene grew up between Hawai‘i Island and Maui. After attending Kamehameha Schools, his curiosity led him away from the pae ‘āina for a decade, but his heritage and his heart tugged him back in 2015. Since then, all roads have led him deeper into the native forest. His writing has always focused on Hawai‘i’s natural world, and has appeared in Big Island Traveler, Hualalai Magazine, and other NMG Network publications like Living Magazine. His story about the native science of Kīlauea, on page 80, is his first piece for Flux Hawai‘i. He considers it “an exploration of the balance society must find between modern science and indigenous proficiency,” he says. “Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK) taught us how to survive and thrive for millennia. Now technology has the potential to assist us as we move forward. However, we must find a balance between TEK and tech. MA‘O Organic Farms in Wai‘anae is doing a fantastic job with this balance. I’m energized to keep exploring my ancestors’ truths while weaving that understanding to our incomprehensible world.” Thoene’s aspirational goal is to create a thru-hiking trail across the mauka lands of the island of Hawaiʻi called the Hele Mauna Trail, which would ideally traverse all five volcanoes.

D. Kauwila Mahi

Jackie Oshiro

 Queen Kapi‘olani and Princess Lili‘uokalani at Queen Victoria’s Jubilee in England, 1887. Image from the Hawai‘i State Archives.

ARTS & CULTURE

“We could gather all these kūpuna with all of their stories together in the same place and have them talk story with each other.”—Wally Ito

An Artful Dialogue with Dane Nakama

In his 2021 gallery show, Mukashi Mukashi, artist and viral TikTok creator Dane Nakama presents a love letter to local culture and a sly critique of Hawai‘i’s blunt realities.

TEXT BY MITCHELL KUGA

IMAGES BY JOHN HOOK

“I would say this room is best viewed with your shoes off,” says artist Dane Nakama before leading me into a gallery carpeted with AstroTurf. “The grass costs plenty money that’s why.”

Going barefoot is just one of the many sly references to local culture in Mukashi Mukashi, Nakama’s first gallery show in Hawai‘i, was shown at The Gallery at Hawaii Theatre through the end of April 2021. Its presiding ethos? If you know, you know. In one piece, jalousies open into a painting of a rainy blue sky, a green clay gecko perched playfully on the window frame. In another, the word “paradise” is painted upside down with li hing mui. He equates the flavor of the dried Chinese plum with growing up in Hawai‘i. “When you first eat it, it’s not the most satisfying or easy to get acquainted with because it’s sweet, salty, and sour,” says Nakama, a 21-year-old senior at the California Institute of the Arts. “But that’s the experience of living in paradise.”

In March 2020, over spring break, Nakama flew to Hawai‘i with the intention of doing research for his senior project, an art show focusing on local Pidgin and the history of immigrants to Hawai‘i’s sugarcane plantations as it relates to his Japanese-Uchinanchu ancestry. Then the pandemic hit.

“I was like, wow, I guess I’m going to do my research for a really long time,” says Nakama, who grew up in Pearl City. Forced to move home, he turned to TikTok to connect, posting missives as @umeboi on everything from

 “My big goal is to break down visual literacy and confront ideas that are equally rigorous as they are democratic,” Nakama says.

Asian settler colonialism in Hawai‘i to process videos of his art. Most prominent are his TikTok videos explaining art history, which reveal Nakama’s knack for translating art jargon into language both conversational and informative. (One post on the work of Swedish artist and mystic Hilma af Klint has been viewed 1.2 million times.) Following in the footsteps of his parents—his mom is a third-grade teacher and his dad teaches seventh-grade history—Nakama wants to teach one day. “I know it’s probably biased,” he says, “but I honestly think teachers are one of the most influential occupations you can have.”

A week after the show’s opening, sitting barefoot on the artificial grass surrounded by his art, I spoke to Nakama about Mukashi Mukashi, accessibility in the art world, and myths.

You’ve been home unexpectedly for over a year now. How does it feel?

Being home was kind of a really exciting experience actually, because this is the

first body of work I made about being from Hawai‘i. I’ve never addressed that topic before.

Was something holding you back?

I thought being Japanese-Uchinanchu from Hawai‘i was so specific of a narrative that nobody in my school would care or be interested in it, which was ignorance on my part. But it was also partly that, as I was making this work, I didn’t have the vocabulary, visually and literally, to talk about it with myself—negotiating that type of upbringing-slash-identity. And so objects in this show are co-made or were made long ago by my grandfather or passed down by my great-grandfather. I really wanted to bring as many people with me to this show. Maya Angelou said it whenever she gave a talk: she brings everyone from her life, her past, with her. That really resonated, especially with a show like this.

 In March 2020, the pandemic set Nakama on an artistic journey of exploring his identity and upbringing in Hawai‘i.

There’s a sense of whimsy throughout Mukashi Mukashi, including strains of folklore interpreted through the lens of Hawai‘i. Like this piece depicting Momotaro-san in the sugarcane fields. What role do myths play in your work? I like the term “mukashi mukashi” because it can both mean “once upon a time” and “a long time ago.” With that comes a sense of reality rather than strictly myth based or fiction—more of a fantasy-inspired view of reality. But I do think that this approach to storytelling has allowed me to confront myths of my own identity. Both in a sense of acknowledging the blunt realities of Hawai‘i, be it the dismantling of the coloristic image of paradise enforced and profited from in Hawai‘i, to the honest appreciations of little moments, like interacting with banana trees when I go on walks. I think I tried to use the tool of a fairytale— or rather, reconstructing a fairytale—to frame my own relationship to Hawai‘i as one that isn’t over-romanticized but still allows me to appreciate aspects I’ve previously taken for granted.

In an alternate reality, Mukashi Mukashi would be showing in California as your senior project. What does it mean for you to be showing it here in Hawai‘i instead?

Beforehand, I didn’t know when my family would ever get to see my work. I had my first art shows in Japan and California before I even had one in Hawai‘i, which is very telling as far as my family knowing what I do. So I was very much like, this is the moment. I had my grandmas come, my 100-yearold auntie was able to make it, people that I didn’t at all take for granted. Like if I’m going to show this, I’m going to make sure that it’s a show that they can appreciate. It was stepping out of my comfort zone because in the art world, we have a tendency to cater towards only art-world people, and as much as we don’t want to admit it, it’s very much this bubble. And so me having to reconsider and be like, OK, how am I gonna frame the show so that my family can understand it while also spearheading the ideas that I want to get at in my work? I’m not going to compromise for either side, but how can I meet them in the middle?

So making the show more accessible in a way?

A bit. I mean, even previous to this show, a big aspect of my practice was accessibility. My big goal is to break down visual literacy and confront ideas that are equally rigorous as they are democratic.

 Nakama has cultivated a following on TikTok discussing art history at @umeboi.

Is that what made TikTok so exciting to you?

Yeah, I ultimately want to teach, so when that community [on TikTok] started to develop, it taught me so much about navigating that space—like every video was a test of what words I should or shouldn’t use, and in what matters I should explain something so it could be well received and people could walk away like, wow, I actually learned a lot. That totally reframed my approach to artmaking as well. If I talk like this in my videos and I’m satisfied, I shouldn’t hold myself back from making work that I just want to make, or [from making] failed attempts in my work as well. I was not at all anticipating that.

Many of your pieces incorporate two dots. Has that become your signature?

I’ve used them for about two years now— kind of going in the same line of, how do I make art both accessible and conceptual? I always tell people art is the relationship one develops with an artwork, and when I put two eyes on any object, I can tell people,

Oh, it’s eyes. These objects are looking back at you, like imaginary friends. You’re more enticed to give it time and stare back at this thing. It’s also kind of cute—I think the two dots are the closest I’ve gotten to actually bridging the gap between cuteness and conceptualism. And cuteness as a means of disarming viewers is very effective.

I don’t know if I’ve ever sat on the floor of a gallery before. Why the fake grass? I first used AstroTurf in a show at my house, for an open studio showing. A big part of it for me is to dismantle the whitegallery feeling. I love the art world, but I can understand that it’s a very sterile environment. It can be very intimidating and very professional. I want people to come into this space and feel like they can spend time.

 Following in the footsteps of his teacher parents, Nakama wants to be an educator one day.

 Learn more about the artist at bydanenakama.com.

Off the Beaten Path

On these beautiful winding trails rich with plants and artwork, travelers are invited to walk for both wellness and learning.

TEXT BY TIMOTHY A. SCHULER

IMAGES BY JOSIAH PATTERSON

Long before it was home to Wai‘anae Coast Comprehensive Health Center, the small but jagged peak of Pu‘u Mā‘ili‘ili was a fishermen’s lookout. Protruding from the flat lowlands like a breaching whale, the small mountain provided a clear view of the water, and of the circling seabirds that indicated large schools of ‘ōpelu or other fish.

This is just one of the many tidbits of Hawaiian history and culture a person absorbs wandering the public walking trails behind the health center’s main campus. Carved into the hillside, and constructed almost exclusively by the health center’s staff and volunteers over the past two decades, the trails weave through densely planted gardens and copses of kukui nut trees. They create a web of pathways invisible from the road that provide patients and community members alike with opportunities to immerse themselves in nature, history, and culture.

The walking trails offer both exercise and inspiration, as well as stunning views. A small pavilion near one of the many starting points proclaims, “Hele no ke ola, hele no ka ‘ike,” which means “Walk for wellness, walk to learn.” The learning is literal. Almost all of the trails are themed and feature informational kiosks, some with touchscreen capabilities, that describe various aspects of traditional Hawaiian culture. On the Lā‘au Trail, for instance, visitors learn about the noni tree, a relative of coffee, whose

fermented juice is used to reduce blood pressure and prevent diabetes, and about māmaki, whose small white berries were used to relax a woman’s muscles during childbirth.

This knowledge is provided by the health center’s Kūpuna Council and the cultural practitioners at the Dr. Agnes Kalanihookaha Cope Native Hawaiian Traditional Healing Center, opened in 2009. The center operates separately but in partnership with Waianae Coast Comprehensive Health Center and offers lomilomi (Hawaiian massage therapy), lā‘au lapa‘au (herbal medicine), lā‘au kāhea (spiritual healing), and ho‘oponopono (conflict resolution). However, it does not take referrals. In the Hawaiian tradition, those seeking healing must come of their own accord.

According to Richard Kia‘iikeolamaiola Bettini, the health center’s president and CEO, there was no grand vision for the gardens. In 1996, there was simply a need for a pathway to the health center’s new amphitheater. From there, the endeavor snowballed—or rather spiraled, looped, and climbed the hillside—and now the center boasts 1.5 miles of trails, all of which are free and open to the public from sunrise to sunset. Many of the paths feature detailed stone, copper, and woodwork by the late Melvin Kauila Clark, a Native Hawaiian artist and health practitioner (and the first Native Hawaiian to serve as board chair of the

National Association of Community Health Centers) and Sooriya Kumar, a Sri Lankan copper artist whose work is a combination of traditional technique and spiritual practice.

The trails are an oasis for both patients and staff. Studies have shown that walking in nature can significantly reduce a person’s risk of depression, and participants in Waianae Coast Comprehensive Health Center’s behavioral health program take weekly walks, which can reduce the risk of heart disease and diabetes, through the gardens. Staff members take to the trails on their breaks, and community members come to enjoy the variety of plants and fountains.

Increasingly, Bettini sees international travelers on the trails. In response, the health center and the Native Hawaiian Traditional Healing Center are working on an even more radical project: developing the campus into a full-fledged visitor destination, a place where visitors can learn about traditional Native Hawaiian healing practices while supporting West Side communities. Bettini believes it will

give visitors and residents alike a chance to discover a part of O‘ahu that, for many, has remained out of view. “There’s so much energy in this community that people don’t know about,” he says.

 The walking trails offer exercise and inspiration, as well as stunning views.

A pavilion near a starting point proclaims, “Hele no ke ola, hele no ka ‘ike,” which means “Walk for wellness, walk to learn.”

 Waianae Coast

Comprehensive Health Center’s Waianae Journey

App is available for iPhone and Android devices.

The Ghost of Manookian

The modernist Armenian painter Arman Manookian lived a short and mysterious life. He left a legacy that defies definition yet demands continued interpretation.

TEXT BY CHRIS GIBBON

ARTWORK COURTESY OF CEDAR STREET

GALLERIES, HONOLULU MUSEUM OF ART AND PACIFIC CLUB

At the time, the untitled 1930 oil on canvas work, later dubbed “The Mat Weaver,” represented a new direction for artist Arman Tateos Manookian. Its hint of pastel, softer lines, and humanist composition were subtle departures from the bold colors and crisp geometry of his previous works such as “Outrigger and Red Sails,” which portrayed reverent visions of “Old Hawai‘i” as an untouched culture of near mythological beings.

The Turkish-born artist had arrived at Pearl Harbor in 1925 as a 21-year-old clerk for Major Edwin McLellan, a Marine historian who had noticed Manookian’s talent for illustration when he was assigned to his office and tasked the artist with creating drawings to accompany his historical publications. (Manookian’s work also regularly appeared in the Marine Corps magazine Leatherneck.) Manookian had enlisted in the Marines in 1923, after two years of art study at the Rhode Island School of Design. He falsified his U.S. Citizenship to do so; he’d landed at Ellis Island three years prior as a refugee, having fled the Armenian genocide that began in Constantinople in 1915 when he was 10 years old.

After being discharged from the military in 1927, Manookian remained in Honolulu and began to flourish as a painter, his dazzling work quickly gaining public and critical acclaim. A brilliant colorist, he deployed a simplified yet somehow harmonized palette of electric reds and blues and radiant golds and relied on abstraction

 Manookian’s pivot to a humbler figure going about an everyday task displayed an interest in presenting more contemporary, social concerns.

for conveying emotion. In a newspaper article, he was quoted as saying, “certain arrangements of abstract forms and colors, quite independent of objective nature, are capable of producing a sensation much more pleasing, satisfying, lasting and profound than any representative painting will ever achieve.”

At the same time, according to David W. Forbes in his book Encounters with Paradise: Views of Hawai‘i and Its People, 1778-1941, Manookian “rejected attempts to label his work as ‘modern.’” This contradiction was perhaps symptomatic of a deeper internal conflict. Argumentative, temperamental, enigmatic even to those close to him, Manookian was known to have destroyed his work on more than one occasion. He clearly struggled to understand both his personal and professional place in the world.

No one knows what horrors Manookian witnessed as a boy, but art historian John Seed, who is the primary authority on Manookian, has suggested it’s conceivable

that his arrival in Hawai‘i inspired him to express a utopian vision of life his own people never had the chance to pursue. While modernism at the turn of the century centered on a rejection of history and a belief in progress, Manookian looked to the past for his utopia, in which an unassuming society lives out an idyllic communion with nature. Idyllic, and marketable. Before “The Mat Weaver,” Manookian’s pieces more heavily displayed motifs—relative simplicity, planarity, recursion—associated with the art deco movement, which coincided with the Hawai‘i Promotion Committee’s schemes to push the U.S. territory as a world-class travel destination. Art deco has been described as modernism made accessible, and the HPC leveraged this style as the promotional aesthetic of Hawai‘i for the tourism industry for decades to come. Theresa Papanikolas, the curator of an Art Deco Hawai‘i exhibition at the Honolulu Museum of Art in 2014, which featured Manookian prominently, wrote, “artists like Manookian spun the islands’ oft-contested

 The Turkish-born artist had arrived at Pearl Harbor in 1925. Opposite, image by Chris Rohrer.

“The

Hawaiians”

“Early Traders”

past as an innocent idyll peacefully populated by brave, seafaring men and lovely, accommodating women.”

While Manookian’s portrayals of Hawai‘i may have informed the narrative the HPC was eager to market, there are also clues to a subversive streak. In his 1928 work “The Discovery,” Manookian depicts the arrival of Captain Cook in Hawai‘i: In the foreground, with their backs to us, local chiefs look on, large and proud and rich in color, as the British land ashore as diminutive specters, grey and featureless, harbingers of impending and irrevocable change. Was Manookian making a political commentary here? If so, how does this reconcile with his escapist utopias? Perhaps this was more internal conflict.

It seems possible, then, that the new direction in “The Mat Weaver” was a response to these dissonances; that Manookian was attempting to embrace the modernism in his work he’d previously

denied, and, by presenting a humbler figure going about an everyday task, was pivoting from historical fantasies to more contemporary, social concerns.

Whatever he was searching for in his art, it seems he was unable to find it. In 1931, Manookian took his own life. He was 27. That his career was so short, and yet so seminal and enduring, means that we are compelled to continue to interpret it, even though, like Manookian, we may never find definitive answers.

 Manookian looked to the past for his utopia, in which an unassuming society lives out an idyllic communion with nature.

Limu Legacy

A renewed taste for native seaweeds is returning to people’s palates due to the efforts of experts, volunteers, and chefs.

TEXT BY KYLIE YAMAUCHI

IMAGES BY LENNY KAHOLO

Wally Ito remembers a time when limu blanketed the shoreline of One‘ula Beach on O‘ahu’s leeward coast. At low tide, the water left behind two-feethigh heaps of fiery branches—a reddish seaweed called manauea, also known as ogo in Japanese, the most commonly eaten species in Hawai‘i. Anyone who swam at One‘ula found themselves twisting among the scratchy masses, leaving the water only to find limu caught in their hair and swimsuits. Keiki playing in the shallows made limu wigs. Meanwhile, 8-year-old Ito was preoccupied with other matters: He collected handfuls of seaweed, rinsed off the sand and dirt with saltwater, and brought them home to his mother. Like many local Japanese parents, she could stir up an ‘ono ogo namasu, a pickled dish using seafood and vegetables.

Almost six decades later, the shoreline at One‘ula is bare. Low tide reveals only small pockets of ogo, and people swim freely. The keiki of this generation have probably never made limu wigs. While the landscape has changed, Uncle Wally, as he is commonly called today, is invested in limu now more than ever.

Hawai‘i also produced the world’s leading expert in Pacific algae, Isabella Aiona Abbott, who came to be known as the “First Lady of Limu.” The ethnobotanist, who passed away in 2010, was the first Native Hawaiian woman to obtain a doctorate in science, and she introduced Hawaiian knowledge to ethnobotanist scholarship. Her 1992 publication Lā‘au Hawai‘i: Traditional Hawaiian Uses of Plants was the first written compilation of the cultural uses of native plants in the region, and it is still widely used and reprinted.

 “I had this idea,” Uncle Wally Ito said. “We could gather all these kūpuna with all of their stories together in the same place and have them talk story with each other.”

While older studies indicated that there were up to 149 species of limu with Hawaiian names, kanaka expert Isabella Aiona Abbott narrowed the number down to 29 species known to science.

Conservation efforts may make it possible to reincorporate limu more broadly into local diets.

A number of limu experts in Hawai‘i continue to spread Hawaiian knowledge of limu through oral tradition. One of them is Uncle Wally, who has a background in marine biology but only took an interest in the history and science of limu in his 50s. Uncle Wally met limu communities across the islands when he started working with the late Henry Chang Wo Jr. of ‘Ewa Limu Project, who became his mentor. “I had this idea,” Uncle Wally said. “We could gather all these kūpuna with all of their stories together in the same place and have them talk story with each other.”

In 2014, Uncle Wally and Henry hosted the first Limu Hui retreat on O‘ahu, which they named Gather the Gatherers. At the four-day retreat, attended by about 30 experts, a primary goal is to encourage kūpuna to spread the Hawaiian history of limu.

“Limu is part of the identity of Native Hawaiians just as much as the language,”

Uncle Wally said. “So to lose this knowledge is to lose a part of that Hawaiian identity.”

In pre-colonial Hawai‘i, fish, poi, and limu were the dominant staple foods. Hawaiians ate limu with fish or as a salad like people today eat limu manauea on top of shoyu poke. Limu was an unrestricted food for women, so they frequently gathered and ate limu, becoming familiar with the varying species and where to find them.

While older studies indicated that there were up to 149 species of limu with Hawaiian names, Abbott narrowed the number down to 29 species known to science. Of these, Uncle Wally believes only 15 can be found and identified in Hawai‘i today. He ties this decrease to urban development affecting freshwater flow and the spread of invasive limu.

In response to the decline, conservation groups have formed to grow and replant limu. Every month, volunteers of Waimānalo Limu Hui spend

 Limu regrowth has taken at Kaiona Beach since Waimānalo Limu Hui formed in 2017.

a day at Kaiona Beach Park making limu anchors and dispersing them in the water. According to President Ikaika Rogerson, since the hui’s start in 2017, Kaiona Beach has shown regrowth.

While Uncle Wally rarely eats limu nowadays because of its massive decline, conservation efforts may make it possible to reincorporate limu more broadly into local diets. For others, such as Chef Mark Noguchi, invasive limu species taste just as good as native species. His chosen ingredient is gorilla ogo, which he finds growing in abundance at He‘eia Fishpond. Noguchi has experimented with salting, pickling, drying, and frying gorilla ogo. He commonly uses it on top of poke or fish, but he has also put it in salsa and ground it on fresh poi. “With gorilla ogo, you need to chop it up well,” he said. “If not, it’s like you’re chewing on a bunch of twigs.”

The chef has gained extensive knowledge of limu history from Uncle Wally and other kūpuna. “When we understand where our food comes from, we have a

greater respect for it,” Noguchi said. After learning that limu was one of three major Hawaiian seasonings alongside pa‘akai (salt) and kukui (candlenut), he started using limu more. Every event Noguchi caters has at least one limu dish demonstrating one of the many possible and delicious ways limu can be prepared. But before we can return to a limu-based diet, we have to make sure there’s enough to go around.

 A number of limu experts in Hawai‘i continue to spread Hawaiian knowledge of limu through oral tradition.

Endless ‘Ike

In manuscripts and photographs, Hawai‘i’s historical record is rich with untapped knowledge. A kanaka street scholar reflects on its magnitude.

TEXT BY D. KAUWILA MAHI

PORTRAITS BY MICHAEL VOSSEN

IMAGES FROM HAWAI‘I STATE ARCHIVES

In 1862, prolific Hawaiian writer Joseph Ho‘ona‘auao Kānepuʻu saw a fragmentation of a chant in the moʻolelo of Hiʻiakaikapoliopele published in Ka Hoku o ka Pakipika Concerned, he wrote in to Kapihenui, the newspaper’s editor, on the October 30 issue: “E makemake ana ka hanauna Hawaii o na la A.D. 1870, a me A.D. 1880, a me A.D. 1890, a me A.D. 1990.” (Translation: “Generations of Hawaiians in 1870, 1880, 1890, and 1990 are going to want [these moʻolelo and mele].”) This excerpt, dusted off and translated by Noenoe K. Silva in her book The Power of the Steel-tipped Pen, reminds us that our kūpuna chanted in the rising sun with the same fervor that their voices reverberate in our archival materials, ensuring that if the sun rises, our people will too.

As the sun’s rays warm ʻIolani Palace from behind Mānoa, a few of us are nestling into the cold of the Hawaiʻi State Archives, jacketed and warming ourselves and spirits for the day ahead with coffee, māmaki tea, and laughter. Then we part ways, heading toward our isolated rooms. Some of the archivists go upstairs to search for records, some prepare the digitization station, and a few of us head to our translation spaces. As a graduate research assistant for the archives and “honorary archivist,” a title appointed to me by the Hawaiʻi State Archives, I tirelessly bounce between all of these capacities.

 D. Kauwila Mahi, a graduate research assistant at the Hawai‘i State Archives, in front of ‘Iolani Palace. “Archives, like trees, store information and communicate through root systems across generations,” he writes.

I ka makahiki 1862, ʻike aku nei ke kākau moʻolelo hiwahiwa ʻo Joseph Hoʻonaʻauao Kānepuʻu i ka hakina o kekahi oli ma ka moʻolelo ʻo Hiʻiakaikapoliopele a hāpai ʻo ia i manaʻo iā Kāpihenui, ʻo ia hoʻi ka luna hoʻoponopono o Ka

Hoku o ka Pakipika, i paʻi ʻia ma ka lā 30 o ʻOkakopa: “E makemake ana ka hanauna Hawaii o na la A.D. 1870, a me A.D. 1880, a me A.D. 1890, a me A.D. 1990,” i kākau ai ʻo ia nei. (Translation: “Generations of Hawaiians in 1870, 1880, 1890, and 1990 are going to want [these moʻolelo and mele].”). ʻO kēia paukū, na Noenoe K. Silva i huʻe i nā huna lepo a unuhi ma kāna puke ʻo The Power of the Steel-tipped Pen, he mea hoʻomanaʻo nō ia, ʻo ka ʻūlāleo a me ka nehenehe o ko kākou poʻe kūpuna i ke oli ʻana no ka hiki ʻana o ka lā, pēlā nō hoʻi ko lākou ʻena aloha no nā waihona palapala kahiko, i koi aku nō inā ao ka lā, ao pū kākou. I ka wā e hoʻopūmehana ai ke kukuna o ka lā i ka Hale Aliʻi ʻo ʻIolani no hope mai o Mānoa, e nanea ana kekahi o mākou i ke anu o ka Hale Waihona Palapala Kahiko, lāke ke ʻia a hoʻopūmehana ʻia mākou i ka mauli, ke kope, ke kī māmaki, me ka ʻakaʻaka. Haʻalele akula nō, a komo i nā lumi mehameha. Piʻi kekahi o nā akewika i ke alapiʻi e ʻimi palapala ai, hoʻomākaukau kekahi i ka wahi paʻi hoʻoui la, a hele kekahi o mākou i ka wahi unuhi. Ma koʻu kūlana ʻimi noiʻi no ka akewika, he “akewika hanohano” hoʻi, ʻo ia kekahi inoa i kapa ʻia e

 Ma nā ‘ulu‘ulu palapala a me nā waihona ki‘i, he nui ho‘i kau nā hunahuna ‘ike waiwai o ko Hawai‘i mo‘olelo, i laha ‘ole i ka lehulehu i kēia wā. Eia ka no‘ono‘o ‘ana o kahi haumāna lāhui no ka nui ko‘iko‘i o ia mau waihona o ka ‘ike.

About a decade ago, I was a troubled undergraduate student at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa when activist and professor Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa tasked me and betterprepared scholars in her Hawaiian Genealogies class with visiting archives. On the 20-minute ride from UH to the State Archives aboard the A bus, I prepared myself with paʻi ʻai, ʻawa candy, pule, and bumping Aquemini by Outkast. When I arrived, a small crowd of students were already slowly finding their ways inside. I followed them into a hidden elevator and headed upstairs to see a daguerreotype of Lydia Pākī who later becomes Liliʻuokalani and we stepped into the mana of our intellectual cosmogony.

There exists a dichotomy of jovial and tragic moments in Hawaiʻi, and at the Hawaiʻi State Archives, there are 400,000 such moments intimately documented and crying out to be dusted off at the Hawaiʻi State Archives. These documents—material ancestors in a multiplicity of languages—are elders holding knowledge like tattoos across wrinkled, dainty bodies. Through the archives’ sterile walls wafts a fragrance of an ancestral past, inundating a revolution of consciousness, enticing us. Our ancestors carry this fragrance like rustling leaves whose veins are inked with cursive, wanting to hold, caress, pray for, and provide refuge for us all.

Such ancestors are accessible to the public by way of short encounters with rascals behind the archives’ counters who enjoy baked manapua, poi malasadas, and deep talks about spirituality. Occasionally I will hear researchers crying with joy after seeing a photographic emulsion of their ancestor for the first time or holding a document that an ancestor signed. If you are here long enough, you’ll likely also hear grunting and grumbling about the people who conspired to overthrow Mōʻī Liliʻuokalani on January 17, 1893.

You have probably asked, though, what is archival research good for? Archives, like trees, store information and communicate through root systems across generations. The Hawaiʻi State Archives houses the minutiae of ancestral pasts and futures, the good and bad, at moments which needed instantaneous documentation. There are various types of materials and collections. My personal favorites are the manuscript collections, which provide running dictionaries of chanters, different versions of moʻolelo, recipes for ‘ōkolehao, drafts of mele, personal newspaper clippings, and photographs. There are photographic collections of glassplate negatives that remember ancestors both human and non. The Governmental Collections house petitions, the draftings of funeral processions for various aliʻi, menus for evening parties of our reigning monarchs, an account of the 400 pounds of poi per week that was consumed within the

 Archives ensure our relationships outlive us and ardently make refuge for the future. The Hawai‘i State Archives house collections of manuscripts, photographs, and petitions.

ka Waihona Palapala Kahiko o ka Moku ʻā ina ʻo Hawaiʻi iaʻu, hana au i ia mau hana a pau.

Ma kahi o ʻumi makahiki aku nei, he haumāna laepua kolohe au ma Ke Kula Nui ʻo Mānoa, i ia wā koikoi ʻia mākou poʻe haumāna e kekahi polopeka a he aloha ʻāina hoʻi, ʻo Lilikalā Kameʻeleihiwa, e kipa aku i nā waihona palapala kahiko like ʻole, me kekahi haumāna i ʻoi aku o ka mākaukau ma kāna papa Moʻokūʻauhau Hawaiʻi. No 20 minuke kau aku nei au i ke kaʻa ʻōhua A no ka Akewika Mokuʻāina mai U.H. mai, hoʻomākaukau iho nei au iaʻu iho me ka paʻi ʻai, ke kanakē ʻawa, ka pule, me ka hoʻokani ʻana iā Aquemini na Outkast. Ma koʻu hōʻea ʻana, ua ʻākoakoa kekahi hapa liʻiliʻi o nā haumāna ma waho a e ʻoniʻoni ana i loko. Uhai aku au iā lākou i loko o kekahi ʻeleweka huna, piʻi i luna a ʻike aku nō i kekahi daguerreotype o Lydia Pākī i kapa hou ʻia i ka inoa ʻo Liliʻuokalani, ma hope mai komo aku mākou i ka mana o ke kūʻauhau lololo. Kū ʻēʻē nā manawa hauʻoli a me nā manawa kaumaha i ka moʻolelo o Hawaiʻi nei a ma ka Waihona Palapala Kahiko o ka Mokuʻāina, he 400,000 nā hunehune one ma ke ana hola pili loa ma nā palapala e hea ana iā kākou e huʻe ma ka Waihona Palapala Kahiko o ka Mokuʻāina o Hawaiʻi. ʻO kēia mau palapala—he mau kūpuna ma nā ʻōlelo like ʻole—he mau kūpuna ia i paʻa pono ka ʻike e like me nā uhi ma nā kino minomino a lahilahi. Aia ma loko o kēia mau paia pōlani, moani ke ʻala o ke au o nā kūpuna i hala iho nei, e hōʻeu ana i ke kāhuli o ka lololo, e ʻume ana iā kākou. Hāpai ko kākou kūpuna i kēia ʻala ʻo ia nō ʻoe ʻo ka lau nehe nona ke aʻa i piha wai ʻeleʻele, e makemake ana e hoʻopaʻa, e liʻa, e pule, a e hoʻomalu iā kākou pākahi a pau.

Launa kēia mau kūpuna me ke kaiāulu ma o kekahi huina pōkole me kekahi poʻe kolohe ma hope o ke pākaukau akewika, e hiala ʻai ana i ka manapua i puhi ʻia a me ka malasada poi, me ke kūkākūkā ʻana e pili ana i ka hoʻomana akua. I kekahi manawa, lohe au i ka uwē hauʻoli o kekahi poʻe noiʻi i ka ʻike maka mua ʻana i ke kiʻi emulsion o kekahi kupuna ponoʻī, a i ka loaʻa ʻana paha o kekahi palapala i pūlima ʻia e kekahi kupuna ona. Inā nō ʻoe noho ma ʻaneʻi i ke alo, e lohe nō paha ʻoe i ke kūamuamu a me ka namunamu a kekahi poʻe e nonoʻo ana i ka poʻe i hoʻokahuli i ka noho aliʻi ʻana o ka Mōʻī Liliʻuokalani ma Ianuali 17, 1893.

Ui aku nei paha ʻoe, i mea aha ka noiʻi ʻana ma nā waihona palapala kahiko?

E like nō me nā kumu lāʻau, he hoʻopaʻa nā waihona palapala kahiko i ka ʻike a hoʻokaʻa ʻia ma o nā aʻa a i nā hanauna e hiki mai ana. He hale ka Waihona Palapala Kahiko o ka Mokuʻāina ʻo Hawaiʻi no nā mea nui me nā mea iki o nā kūpuna o ke au i hala me ka poʻe kūpuna o ke au e hiki mai ana, i ka maikaʻi a me ka hewa, i nā mea

Palace walls, the nightly watch minutes for ʻIolani Palace, and the amount of coffee the night watchmen drank on a typical evening. There are even maps colored by place names and names dusted away in chants.

Archives help us remember the songs composed for the Wilcox Rebellion which recollected the way the land protected the restorationists-turned-political prisoners. They help us recollect that while some brilliant men attempted to create the first draft of the Kūʻē Petitions against annexation, it was the more brilliant women who revised, crossed off, and corrected the petitions, then organized to get more than 20,000 signatures from children, women, and men from all across Hawaiʻi to sign. We now know, because of archived letters sent home from her Royal Majesty the Queen Liliʻuokalani while seeking restoration abroad in Washington D.C. in the tumultuous aftermath of the Overthrow, that she provided money to ensure that the children of multiple schools across Hawaiʻi were well fed.

Archives ensure our relationships outlive us and ardently make refuge for the future. As the Holoʻuhā breezes across the knees of Kaʻau Crater and Pālolo, it becomes a memory of keiki sitting on their parents’ lap during late evenings games played by Aʻa Mākālei, the Hawaiian Language Softball Team, in the 1990s. The Ua Līlīlehua drifting softly down the cheeks of the valley reminds me of Uncle Keala Kawaahau, who taught me how to write my first rap in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi as a student at Ke Kula Kaiapuni ʻo Ānuenue. Here, the Pāʻūpili rain glides off rooftops with the warmth of an aunty whose dress, stained by sour poi and warm squid lūʻau, does as she glides across a room. This crater, where we mix ʻawa for our lāhui at Da Muliwai on Māhealani moons, is simultaneously old and new. These moments reactivate moʻolelo to remind us that archival research weaponizes our stories with knowledge of our past for a better future. To know, diligently, that prior to American Occupation, life in Hawaiʻi was superior. It is no longer an abstract thought—there is documented proof. Archives free us from the shackles of a colonized mind.

 Portrait of Queen Lili‘uokalani. “Occasionally I will hear researchers crying with joy after seeing a photographic emulsion of their ancestor for the first time or holding a document that an ancestor signed,” Mahi writes.

kūikawā i pono ka palapala ʻia ʻana. He mau ʻano ko ia mau kino a me ia mau waihona. ʻO nā palapala kaʻu punahele, wehewehe ia i nā puke wehewehe o nā kānaka oli, nā mana moʻolelo ʻokoʻa, nā lekapī no ka ʻōkolehao, nā kāmua o nā mele, nā mokuna ʻatikala nūpepa, me nā kiʻi i paʻi ʻia. He waihona paʻi kiʻi o nā aka kiʻi aniani i hoʻomanaʻo i nā poʻe kūpuna kānaka me ke kānaka ʻole. Hoʻomalu nā Palapala Aupuni i nā leka hoʻopiʻi, nā kāmua hoʻoholo hoʻolewa o nā aliʻi, nā papa kuhikuhi mea ʻai o ka mea e noho aliʻi ana, ka helu papa o nā paona he 400 o ka paʻi ʻai i ʻai ʻia ma ka pule hoʻokahi ma loko o ka Hale Aliʻi, nā moʻoʻōlelo a ka poʻe kū waki pō no ka Hale Aliʻi ʻo ʻIolani, a me ka nui o ke kope a nā kū waki pō i inu ai i kēlā me kēia pō. Kūhili ʻia nā palapala ʻāina i nā inoa ʻāina pēlā pū nā mea i huʻe ʻia me ka hunalepo ma nā oli.

Kākoʻo nā waihona palapala kahiko iā kākou ma ka hoʻomanaʻo ʻana i nā mele i haku ʻia no ke Kaua Kūloko o Wilikoki nāna i hoʻomanaʻo mai i ka hoʻomaluhia ʻia ʻana o ka ʻāina e ka poʻe hoʻihoʻi kūʻokoʻa i lilo i pio kālaiʻāina na ke aupuni hou. Paipai ia iā kākou ma ka hāliʻaliʻa ʻana i ka hoʻāʻo nani o kekahi mau kāne akamai e haku i ke kāmua o ka Palapala Hoʻopiʻi Kūʻē i ka hoʻohui ʻāina, na nā wāhine i ʻoi aʻe ka ʻeleu nō i hoʻoponopono, i kahakaha, a i hoʻopololei i nā leka hoʻopiʻi, a i alu like nō hoʻi i ka hōʻuluʻulu ʻana i nā pūlima he 20,000 a ʻoi aʻe na nā keiki, na nā wāhine, me nā kāne mai ʻō a ʻō o Hawaiʻi i kākau inoa. Maopopo leʻa kākou, ma o nā leka i hoʻouna ʻia i ka home mai Ka Lani Aliʻi Mōʻī Liliʻuokalani ʻoiai ʻo ia e hoʻihoʻi ana i ke kūʻokoʻa ma Wākinekona D.C. i ka manawa paʻakikī ma ma hope pono o ke kahuli aupuni, makana aku ʻo ia i puʻu kālā i ʻai a hewa nā waha o nā haumāna a me nā keiki a puni ʻo Hawaiʻi. Hōʻoia nā waihona palapala kahiko i ke ola ʻana o nā pilina no nā kau a kau a hoʻokumu ia i puʻuhonua no ke au e hiki mai ana. Ma ke aheahe o ka makani Holoʻuhā i nā kuli o ka Lua Pele ʻo Kaʻau me Pālolo, lilo ia i hāliʻa no nā keiki e noho ʻuhā ana ma ko lākou mākua ma nā pāʻani leʻaleʻa a Ke Aʻa Mākālei, ʻo ia ka Hui Pōhili ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi, ma nā makahiki 1990. ʻO ka ua Līlīlehua e heleleʻi mālie ana ma nā pāpālina o kēlā awāwa, he hāliʻa aloha nō iā ʻAnakala Keala Kawaahau, nāna nō i aʻo mai iaʻu i ka haku pāleoleo ʻana ma ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi ma Ke Kula Kaiapuni ʻo Ānuenue. Ma ʻaneʻi nō e niau ai ka ua Pāʻūpili ma nā kaupoku hale me ka pūmehana lā o kekahi ʻanakē nona ka pāʻū i kāpala ʻia i ka poi ʻawaʻawa me ka lūʻau heʻe, ʻoiai ʻo ia e niau ana ma ka lumi. Ma kēia awāwa, kahi o mākou e hoʻohui ai i ka ʻawa no ka lāhui ma Da Muliwai i nā pō mahina ʻo Māhealani, he mea hou a he mea kahiko pū nō hoʻi. Ola hou nā moʻolelo ma o ia mau manawa, me ka hoʻomanaʻo ʻana mai, i mea ia mau hana e lilo ai ko kākou mau moʻolelo i mea kaua no ka wā e hiki mai ana, i ʻoi aʻe ka maikaʻi ma mua o kēia wā nei. I ʻike paʻa pono, ma mua o ka Noho Hewa ʻAmelika, ʻoi kelakela ka nohona Hawaiʻi. ʻAʻole ia he manaʻo laulā—ua palapala ʻia. Hoʻohemo nā waihona palapala kahiko i ka lolo kolonaio ma o ka haki ʻana i nā kaula hao o ka noʻonoʻo.

Tropic/Rock

Loud/quiet. Fast/slow. Real/kitsch. Two Honolulu photographers, with two contrasting approaches, collaborate on twisting glam rock into an island setting for a joint fashion essay on movement, kitsch, and gender.

IMAGES BY VINCENT BERCASIO AND JASON CHU

MODELED BY MADELYN BIVEN AND NATE SARSONA

MAKEUP BY TAMIKO HOBIN

ASSISTED BY KYLE CAPACIA

VINCENT BERCASIO: Hi, Jason.

JASON CHU: Hey, Vincent. Thanks for meeting me at one of my favorite places in the world: Ala Moana Beach Park.

V: I’ve actually never been here at night before.

J: Really? It’s so magical here at night. I come here a lot at night.

V: I can see why. Okay, well, let’s jump right in then.

J: Let’s do it.

V: why do you shoot what you shoot?

J: Oh, we are really jumping in! [Laughs] Well, I like to shoot my surroundings to show where I live and the things around me. Nothing terribly insightful there. But when it comes to my portraiture work, however, one of my main aims for a while now has been to capture dynamic body movement.

V: I remember you would bring up figures like Pina Bausch and Butoh performance when discussing where you draw some of your references from. It’s interesting to see how movement and gesture play a part in your portraits. I feel like the individuals you capture—taken as a whole—could be members of an elaborate stage play.

J: I like that comparison. Movement has always been a strong creative element throughout my life. I used to dance hula when I was younger. And I still love dancing at parties—prepandemic and hopefully again soon. I’m definitely drawn to the drama of Bausch’s work and of Butoh. I think you can see those influences in a lot of my work. As for you, you mentioned to me earlier that you don’t really shoot a lot of portraiture. As far as our collaboration goes, what do you think opened you FLUX

 Images shot at Ala Moana Beach Park in 2020.

up to trying something that is such a departure from your previous work?

V: It’s true, I don’t usually shoot human subjects, and when I do I tend to avoid capturing the face. The face and also hands are especially powerful conduits of emotion, and it’s rather easy to find yourself falling into the trap of capturing overly contrived gestures and expressions. For our collaboration, I wanted to reconcile my interest in more formal elements of photography with portraiture. I also wanted to explore my love for all things kitsch. What could be kitschier than bringing back glam rock? And then there’s also the queer element that I felt we could explore together. That’s an aspect of my identity that I haven’t really addressed in my work thus far.

J: Queerness has definitely been a prevalent feature in my work. Many of the individuals that I shoot are queer and/or gender nonconforming.

V: You’re shooting your life and your friends. I like that authenticity, even if I think that’s a gross word, but you know.

J: [Laughs] Well, I’d actually like to draw a distinction between my work that involves shooting my friends—the more candid stuff—and my planned/posed work, which is more contrived to use a word you mentioned earlier. The “authenticity” of my candid work does contrast with the more editorial-style shoots that I’ve done.

V: That’s true, but at the same time I feel like staging and direction don’t necessarily make something inauthentic or contrived. Take cinema, for example: the whole craft itself is artificial in nature, but it’s in the service of conveying some sort of truth. That’s always there even in your staged photos.

J: I suppose you’re right. They might just be different approaches to capturing truth.

V: Going back to queerness as a feature

of your work: Would you say that you’re trying to make a point with capturing queerness, or is it just another element of who you are?

J: The latter rings truer, for me. Some of my work is queer, but it’s never to make a political statement or anything. I would never try to tell people that there’s a certain way to be queer. So, no, I don’t think I’m trying to make a point out of it.

V: What about gender roles? Perhaps the way you shoot women is different from the way you shoot men or nonbinary individuals.

J: Well, my gaze is different depending on who I shoot. So, yes, I suppose I do shoot men and women and nonbinary people differently. The process is the result of a different gaze. I mean, if I said I shot everyone in the same way, that’s just like saying that I’m “gender-blind.” And I know that’s not the case.

V: I get that. It’s not something that I consider often, but my attraction to men probably colors my work in ways I’m not even aware of. On another note, I also really admire your nightlife work. As a DJ and a photographer, you have a unique insight into the local queer/party scene.

J: Well, I’ve been partying for a long time! And I’ve been around party photography for many, many years ever since I lived in NYC in the mid-’00s. Engaging myself with that particular genre of photography was hardly a stretch for me. Being surrounded by super interesting people doesn’t hurt either.

V: I know that your primary trade is teaching. Would you consider Jason the Teacher all that different from Jason the Artist?

J: My teaching practice and my photographic practice all come from the same creative place. The creativity that I use as a teacher is the same creativity that I draw from as a photographer or musician or DJ, et cetera. Aside from teaching—which

I must do because it’s my job—I only engage with my creative outlets when I feel like it. I used to want to pursue being an artist or musician or DJ as my livelihood, but that idea doesn’t seem personally appealing to me today. I’ve found my calling as an educator first and foremost. I know you dislike when I call myself a photo hobbyist, but I really do think that I am. I am serious about photography, but it is just a hobby for me. For me, it’s like an itch, and I only scratch if I’ve been bitten. Otherwise, I don’t need to. I can let any of my creative practices become dormant until that itch finally reappears. And that’s what I like about not doing it as a job. It’s not an obligation for me. It’s not something that I must do. It’s something I do because I choose to do it.

V: I guess I have serious itches then [laughs]. I generally agree, though. Doing this for a living sounds appealing on paper, but I really would rather not devote my creative energy into work that doesn’t inspire me. For photography, that itch is wanting to find a quiet moment. There’s all these little grace notes around us that deserve another glance.

J: I definitely get that from your work. The quietness. There’s not a lot of commotion. You’re capturing things that we all see, but it’s very discreet. Almost like you’re capturing a secret.

V: Would you say your work is “loud” in comparison?

J: Sometimes, but I wouldn’t say that’s always the case.

V: Does that energy reflect in your shooting style?

J: Well, I’m definitely a slower shooter than you. One reason is that I primarily shoot film and you primarily shoot digital. I have a limited number of frames, and it’s painful to think that I’m wasting a shot. Usually, I’m trying to think of what’s next or not to panic if I don’t know the answer to that question. Also, I get a rush when

I sense I’m going to get something good, and alternatively, feeling very critical of myself when that doesn’t happen quickly enough. It’s very emotion driven.

V: It’s interesting that you say you’re critical of yourself in the midst of shooting. I don’t think about what I’m doing in the moment. It’s like reviewing your photos while you’re shooting. They break the rhythm.

J: That’s one of the best advantages of film, not being able to look at it.

V: Just doing so for even a second messes up my headspace!

J: I’d like to know where you would like to take your photography? We talked earlier about the purpose of queerness in my work. How about you?

V: I haven’t really been outwardly political in my work. When someone sets out to be political in their work there is that danger of being too didactic, which can have a place in art, but I believe the most interesting connections are made when the viewer is allowed to draw their own conclusions.

J: I feel the same way.

V: One thing that I am interested in is pop/lowbrow culture and kitsch. Growing up in Hawai‘i, we’re surrounded by kitsch. It shapes the way we see our “world” here, this land, Hawaiian culture, et cetera.

J: Oh yeah, definitely. That kitsch is embedded in our surroundings. Any photograph in Hawai‘i doesn’t have to try to evoke a sense of place. It’s already present.

V: I haven’t really tried to create a sense of place in my pictures for that reason. It’s incorrect to conflate Hawai‘i with the Hawai‘i that has been sold to outsiders, but when so much has been commodified

and plasticized, it’s difficult to find a fresh angle. It’s a landscape of kitsch. Taking pictures here can feel as stale as shooting a sunset. At the same time, it’s possible to think about these symbols in a subversive way, which is what I’d like to explore moving forward.

J: Watching you shoot, your direction is very clear on set. It’s really marvelous to watch. You seem to know exactly what to say, and I see you experimenting in real time, but it looks like that process happens in your head quickly and you just try it out in real time.

V: When I’m working with people, what I’m more concerned about, beyond the images, is if the subject is responding to what I’m saying. They don’t want to see a hesitant director. Although, sometimes I can be a little too open about how I’m feeling. I’m like, “Oh, that was shitty,” or, “Ew, nevermind.” And I feel bad because at those times, I’m thinking about the picture more than the subject! But I want to make the subject not think about themselves. How do I make them forget themselves?

J: Such a director’s statement: “You have to be the character; you are not yourself.” [Laughs] I admire the speed at which you shoot and your self-assuredness. I am probably a little hesitant while shooting, unfortunately. I second-guess myself a lot. So, maybe “critical” wasn’t the best word to describe how I feel during shooting. The self-criticism actually comes right when I get my processed film back.

V: Oh, that’s the worst feeling ever. That’s why I like digital because the immediacy is so much more comforting. With film, it’s like I have

to wait three days to be disappointed. J: [Laughs] I can’t count the number of times I’ve shown you a fresh roll and been like, “This is all crap!” But that’s exactly the feeling I often have, for better or for worse.

V: At the same time, the fact that there is a limited number of frames keeps you sharp and considerate. I’ve always admired that aspect of film. This isn’t a new observation, but photography is produced and consumed so quickly now for a media forum that isn’t necessarily designed for thoughtful reflection. Film permits us a little more time to meditate, not only on what we’re creating images of and why, but how we disseminate them.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

 Lava entering the ocean off Hawai‘i Island. Image by Buzz Andersen.

FEATURES

“I hope the younger generation will become as obsessed as some of us older people with the artform, and put the time involved into making something beautiful.”—Patricia Gorelangton

FLUX FEATURE

A Storied Science

Mo‘olelo are stories powered by keen and vigilant observations of the patterns in our natural world. They also possess scientific truths within.

TEXT BY PETER KEALI‘I THOENE

From the moment we’re born, we are influenced by the world around us, collecting ideas, beliefs, and interests that become woven into our sense of self. We are everything we have ever experienced, all at once. As we move though the world, all the identities that define us overlap—sometimes in ways that don’t make sense.

For a few conflicted years, I struggled with two powerful parts of my identity. I am a product of the 21st century, taught to think logically and trust in science as objective truth. I am also a Native Hawaiian, taught that truth comes from your naʻau, your gut, not your mind. On the Venn diagram, I viewed these identities as mutually exclusive.

I found a way to cultivate both of these identities as a naturalist guide working on Hawaiʻi Island, but the Hawaiian and the naturalist in me always remained separate. As part of my job I took thousands of guests every year to some of the most spectacular sites, giving fascinated visitors the ecological and geological facts in addition to the historical and cultural background. To prepare, I poured countless hours into studying the science behind the island’s natural phenomena along with the moʻolelo we as Hawaiians have used to understand these same processes. Although I was passionate about both disciplines, it was hard to view them as truly equal. After all, they came from vastly different sources: academic texts versus books of mythology. Non-fiction versus fiction. It was clear what the world saw as truth, and I admit that I bought into that hierarchy. It wasn’t until I was forced to choose a side that I realized I couldn’t.

In 2016, as lava began to flow once again to an area of Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park that was accessible by foot, I led visitors to flowing lava too many times to count. I picked up guests from their resorts in Kona and drove hours across the island to Kalapana. Along the way, I passionately interpreted our island’s geology, geography, botany, and human history. Giving context to the unfathomable phenomenon my guests were about to witness was critical. The birth of new earth! The experience was almost inconceivable. Before reaching any lava, I recounted the Holo Mai Pele, the myth of Pele’s journey to our islands. Understanding the cultural significance, my guests were always respectful...until that one guy.

At the end of the night the guy looked me in the eyes and asked me, “So does anyone still really believe this crap?”

I’m guessing that because of my white skin, he thought we were on the same team. That I was a nonbeliever. That, maybe with a wink and a nod, we could both have a good chuckle.

I was speechless. I muttered some half-hearted response, dropped the guest off at his hotel, and never saw him again. Yet his comment stayed with me. His words lingered, irritating me like a kiawe thorn through



Mai Pele

sets a stage in time, while

geologic truths. Above, image by Jiaying. Right, by Steve Halama. Opening, by Guille Pozzi.

the slipper. The process of extracting the thorn came with the realization that I was conditioned to agree with him. Academia taught me that mythologies were nothing more than poetic ramblings. However, this disquieted an intuition deep in my na‘au. This intuition told me that these myths were more than mere speculations of uncivilized nature dwellers. Fueled by a new discomfort and increasing anger, I did some research to see if anyone else felt as conflicted as I did.

I found the answer to my anxieties in a paper published by the prolific volcanologist Don Swanson titled “Hawaiian oral tradition describes 400 years of volcanic activity at Kīlauea.” In just five short pages, Swanson put into words what I felt was true. He described how the moʻolelo of Pele and Hiʻiaka accurately explained “the two largest volcanic events to have taken place in Hawaiʻi since human settlement”: the ʻAilāʻau flow and the formation of Kīlauea’s modern caldera. The stories supported the science, and the science supported the stories.

There are many versions of the Holo Mai Pele, with

The Holo

mo‘olelo

revealing critical

details sometimes varying greatly. Yet the major events remain consistent.

When Pele was a newcomer to the Hawaiian islands, she searched the entire island chain for a home before finding her way to Kīlauea. When she finally settled at Halema‘uma‘u, Pele sent her baby sister, Hiʻiakaikapoliopele, to Kauaʻi to fetch her distant lover, Lohi‘au, a chief of Kaua‘i.

However, Hiʻiaka took so long to return that Pele suspected foul play and broke the one promise she made to Hiʻiaka. She burned down Hiʻiaka’s precious ʻōhiʻa lehua forest in Puna. Upon her return, the faithful Hiʻiaka was so enraged that she marched to the summit of Kīlauea, and in full view of Pele, made love to Lohi‘au. Pele tossed Lohi‘au into the summit crater, Kalua o Pele, and buried his body. Hiʻiaka dug furiously to recover Lohi‘au, tossing boulders skyward as she dug deeper and deeper. As Hiʻiaka continued digging through the strata, groundwater threatened to flood Pele’s crater and extinguish her forever. Ultimately, Hiʻiaka was persuaded by her sisters to give up the dig and reconcile with Pele.

So goes the sensational story of gods and mortals battling on earth. Were Hawaiians really around to witness this, or is the Holo Mai Pele meant to simply provide an explanation for the observed geography? The meticulous journal of a missionary from London, combined with modern science, shows us the tale isn’t as fictitious as some may believe.

In 1823, Reverend William Ellis and his missionary party were the first Europeans to visit the site of the sisters’ alleged confrontation, the summit of Kīlauea. Ellis and his party documented what they saw, but more importantly, what they heard. Ellis’ Hawaiian guides recounted the history of Kīlauea to Ellis and explained that the deep summit caldera before them had existed, “for many kings’ reigns past”.

Thus, the Holo Mai Pele moʻolelo was given an anchor in time, revealing two critical geologic truths: Kīlauea spewed a massive lava flow (called the ʻAilāʻau flow) that blanketed and burned the ʻōhiʻa forests of Puna, and very soon after, there was an explosive and deep caldera collapse, creating a pit at the summit that remains today.

Despite the sequence of events retold in our native myths and recorded by Ellis, it was accepted scientific knowledge that although the ʻAilāʻau flow dates back to the 1400s, the modern caldera was formed much later in 1790 due to a single catastrophic event. However, when the science was reexamined by Swanson in the early 2000s, it became clear that the geologic timeline and chain of events matched those of the mo‘olelo. Kīlauea’s caldera was indeed created over 500 years ago (sometime between 1470 and 1500 C.E.), matching the time period of the ʻAilāʻau flow. Swanson lamented not paying attention to the native

 Our future in Hawai‘i depends on making massive changes to how we interact with its ecosystems. Above, image by Steve Halama. Opposite, Guille Pozzi.

intelligence earlier. “More recent geologic work shows that the oral traditions are broadly consistent with the improved understanding,” he wrote in his conclusion. “We geologists were somewhat sidetracked by not taking the oral traditions into account.”

To be fair, moʻolelo are shrouded in metaphor, layered in double entendre, and can be difficult to decipher. But the reason for these poetic devices is more carefully calculated than you think. Modern science has the benefit of written language and can afford to be dry, methodical, and verbose. Moʻolelo must use every tool to appeal to human nature. Delivered through song, dance, and chant, moʻolelo are designed to be visceral, impactful, and spectacular. Hula, mele, and oli are memorable, shareable, and teachable. They are publication, distribution, and peer review of preserving observations and conclusions for generations to come. Science and Hawaiian storytelling arrive at the same destination, even as they use different vehicles to get there.

On a macro level, both science and myth explain our natural world, thereby making it less frightening to

inhabit. Cracks in the ground oozing out molten lava are not so scary when you know about Pele or magma and the mantle plume. Science and myth also serve as protective measures. Nature is a dangerous place. For a long time in human history, surviving into adulthood was tricky. When discoveries improve lives, they need to be shared with the community and passed on to the next generation to ensure their health and safety. Ideally, in this way, each generation is wiser than the next in perpetuity. When volunteering at a fishpond I learned of a moʻolelo rooted in science that kept generations of Hawaiians fed.

At Heʻeia fishpond on Oʻahu’s east side, the story goes, there is a kiaʻi (guardian) of the pond called Meheanu. A shapeshifter, she travels the coast in many forms, among them a moʻo (reptile) and a puhi (eel). When Meheanu is residing as a moʻo in the area, her urine will turn the foliage of the surrounding hau trees yellow. This is a sign not to fish. When the hau are green, Meheanu is out and about and people may resume fishing. On the surface, this story is pretty straightforward, but looking deeper reveals a profound indigenous understanding of the biogeochemical processes at play.

Nitrogen is a critical nutrient in loko iʻa. The amount of nitrogen in a pond influences the growth of limu and decomposition of dead plants and animals. Ammonia is a nitrogen compound commonly found in urine, especially among aquatic organisms. Increased ammonia means increased nitrogen in the pond, which triggers phytoplankton blooms. The pua (baby fish) feast on phytoplankton, becoming fat and healthy. Meanwhile, the nearby plants are also affected as the excess of nitrogen turns their leaves yellow.

And so, this once simple moʻolelo now reveals a complex understanding of not only the pond’s biological processes but also of responsible ecosystem management. The story warns that when Meheanu is present, when the source of fish food is booming, it is important to steer clear and let the fish grow. When Meheanu departs her sojourn, the hau turns green, the nitrogen levels equalize, and the fattened fish provide the most food for the greatest number of people. In this way the community stays healthy, the ecosystem remains in cyclical harmony, and all beings within the biosphere thrive. Tragically, “thriving” is not a word used by many scientists today to describe Hawaiʻi’s biosphere.

After the Hawaiian archipelago was encountered by the West in 1778, life in the islands changed rapidly. If the last couple centuries were an experiment, the data is rolling in, and it disproves the hypothesis. Modern systems do not always provide a patently better way to live. A future in Hawaiʻi that is enjoyable to inhabit depends on making massive changes to how we interact with our ecosystems. Science can help get us there, but not without the critical

 Hawaiian oral traditions are powered by keen and vigilant observations of the patterns in our natural world. Above, image by Steve Halama. Opposite, Guille Pozzi.

consideration of indigenous ecological knowledge. Thankfully, it seems the world is waking up to the importance of indigenous ʻike.

In 2016, the International Union for the Conservation of Nature’s World Conservation Congress (IUCN’s WCC) was held on Oʻahu. Over 10,000 leaders from over 170 countries gathered to discuss the status of the natural world and the measures needed to safeguard its future.

A major policy outcome of the WCC were the Hawaiʻi Commitments. In it, three critical issues were highlighted for worldwide conservation in the coming decades. The first speaks directly to the unsettled feeling I had as a naturalist and a Hawaiian. The commitment recognizes that humans have a relationship with nature, and indigenous knowledge combined with modern science is vital for the success of future conservation efforts. Progress demands the consideration of Hawaiian intelligence as it calls upon us to examine “the nexus between biological and cultural diversity, and how their conservation and

sustainability requires a combination of traditional wisdom and modern knowledge.” It is fitting that Hawaiʻi has become a focal point in what is now known as biocultural restoration; a place the world turns to for leadership and guidance when incorporating humanity and the indigenous connection to nature into conservation efforts.

I am no longer the conflicted Hawaiian naturalist I was in 2016. Now I see that I can simultaneously be a 21st century student of logic and science as well as a descendant of Hawaiian storytellers, who were the original scientists and ecologists of our islands. If my confused guest asked me that question today, I would have a better answer. “Do people still really believe in this crap?” I would look him confidently in the eyes and calmly answer, “I do”.

Yes, moʻolelo are stories in the poetic sense, but digging deeper uncovers the scientific truths that are contained within. The stories are powered by keen and vigilant observations of the patterns in our natural world. Every story has lessons and consequences that serve to protect the population and improve the lives of future generations, much like the goals of science today. The key difference is that science often starts with a question centering why and then seeks to prove it. Moʻolelo start with no questions at all, resting instead on quiet observations.

There is a place for both of these methodologies within our modern world. We should not prioritize one over the other. And so, I am proud to be a student of science. I am proud to be Hawaiian. And I recognize that these complementary identities put me in a powerful position to affect meaningful change. Through questioning and testing, we end up with a firm understanding of the world around us. Through observation and contextualization, we come to comprehend our role within nature and the importance of conscientious practices designed to maintain ecological equilibrium . For too long, modernity has seen itself as separate from the biosphere, leading to the extractive habits that have damaged our natural world. These practices may potentially eliminate our humble place within the biosphere forever. The indigenous peoples of the world know we are just a piece of the puzzle. We are an integral part of Earth’s processes. Every decision we make must consider our impact on these processes. Weaving that precious knowledge back into our understanding may be our best shot at survival.

 After Hawai‘i was encountered by the West in 1778, life in the islands changed rapidly. If the last couple centuries were an experiment, the data is rolling in, and it disproves the hypothesis. Modern systems do not always provide a patently better way to live. Opposite, image by Steve Halama.

The Gift of Kū

When we see parallels between the events portrayed in mo‘olelo and Hawai‘i’s modern-day issues, it may be wise to listen to what the stories have to say.

TEXT BY JACKIE OSHIRO

IMAGES COURTESY OF HAWAI’I ‘ULU COOPERATIVE

FLUX FEATURE

Before the internet, before books, before libraries, there were oral traditions maintained through storytelling, song, and dance. The knowledge necessary to live a healthy life and build a thriving society was made memorable and transmissible, a sort of mobile library of a society’s knowledge. For Hawaiians, one form of this was mo‘olelo, or oral stories, containing knowledge gained from observing the surrounding environment and learning how to thrive among the elements for over a thousand years.

In The Gift of Kū, a mo‘olelo documented by historian Mary Kawena Pukui, the god Kū decided to live among the people of Hawai‘i. He married a woman, had a family, and lived as a commoner for several years before a terrible famine hit. Unable to bear watching his children suffer, Kū decided to give up his earthly body to feed his family. He sunk into the ground, and his wife wept upon that spot every day until, one day, a shoot came up. It rapidly grew into an ʻulu tree teeming with fruit. The young family then had plenty to eat and plenty to share with neighbors, though the tree would only let the family of Kū pick from it. But soon, sprouts started to appear around the base of the tree, and the family broke them off to share with others. This was how ʻulu spread throughout Hawaiʻi.

The lessons contained within Hawaiian moʻolelo are not generalizations or platitudes. These stories held information so astute that many of their explanations for natural phenomena have been confirmed by science in recent years. Volcanologists attempting to explain an event in Kīlauea’s geologic past, for example, went through several hypotheses before settling on the current theory within the last 30 years. This scientific explanation mirrors the stories told by the Hawaiians recorded 200 years ago, which were disregarded by scientists at the time. These stories also offer rational explanations and actionable advice, honed over countless generations, for the specific conditions of life in the Hawaiian Islands— the same conditions we live in today.

Today, as in the moʻolelo, Hawaiʻi has a critical food problem. Every year, we

spend $3 billion to import as much as 90 percent of our food. According to the Hawai‘i Emergency Management Agency, we are so reliant on imports that there is only a fiveto seven-day supply of food in the state at any time. If anything were to happen to the Port of Honolulu, the only port in Hawaiʻi capable of receiving the large container ships that bring our food, we could very quickly find ourselves with a severe food shortage. The problem has nothing to do with our capacity to grow enough food. According to a 2019 study, precontact Hawaiian agricultural systems were able to grow up to 1.12 million tons of food per year—enough to feed a population of 1.2 million people—using just 6 percent of Hawaiʻi’s land. In comparison, today, 22 percent of Hawaiʻi’s land is actively used for agriculture. Despite that, only 166,450 tons of food are grown for local consumption— enough to feed just 180,000 people. The rest of that land is used to grow export commodities like seed corn and coffee.

The problem is not one of ability but of approach. Dana Shapiro, general manager and founding member of the Hawai‘i ‘Ulu Cooperative, believes we should listen to the lesson of the moʻolelo and look to ‘ulu as a multifaceted solution to our food crisis. “The stark metaphor that the moʻolelo paints of ‘ulu as a savior, as the tree of life, is relevant today in so many different ways,” she says. The most obvious is food production. ʻUlu are extraordinary producers with yields up to 800 pounds of fruit per tree per year for more than 50 years. And because the fruit is extremely versatile, adding ʻulu to our diets wouldn’t require any real change to modern eating habits. At different points in ripeness, ʻulu can be used anywhere you might use potatoes, mashed to make pizza dough or tamale masa, dried and ground to make a gluten-free flour, or eaten raw as a custardy dessert. Theoretically, we could significantly offset our food imports by increasing local ʻulu production.

Equally important, however, is the need to extricate ourselves from the perspectives that got us into this situation in the first place. ʻUlu could also play an important role in ensuring we don’t

Brought to Hawai‘i tied to the hulls of Polynesian voyaging canoes, ‘ulu was the staple crop in areas unable to support water-intensive lo‘i or nutrienthungry ‘uala fields.

 The Hawai‘i ‘Ulu Cooperative aims to make ‘ulu mainstream again by supporting systems similar to those of precontact Hawaiians.

‘Ulu are extraordinary producers with yields up to 800 pounds of fruit per tree per year for more than 50 years. Theoretically, the fruit could significantly offset food imports by increasing local ‘ulu production.

‘Ulu were not grown in monocrop orchards but in complex, multi-species food forests resembling natural forests in their mixture of ground cover, understory, and canopy crops.

continue to make the same mistakes. “Modern life [rests on] the Western complex of us versus nature and us above nature,” Shapiro says. “But in the indigenous perspective, we are part of nature. If we change the way we look at our natural resources, we could have so much more abundance and sustainability than we do now. I think ʻulu really embodies that.”

Brought to the Hawaiian Islands tied to the hulls of Polynesian voyaging canoes, ‘ulu was the staple crop in areas unable to support water-intensive loʻi or nutrienthungry ʻuala fields. While scattered ʻulu trees were common throughout the islands, on the geologically younger islands of Maui and Hawai‘i, ʻulu production was highly systematized and highly productive. One spot on the slopes of Hualālai, for example, is estimated to have produced up to 64,000 tons of ʻulu per year.

To achieve this harvest, Hawaiians followed the rules of nature to build resilient systems that encouraged abundance. ʻUlu were not grown in monocrop orchards but in complex, multi-species food forests resembling natural forests in their mixture of ground cover, understory, and canopy crops. ʻUlu were grown alongside other useful plants such as kukui, ʻōhiʻa ʻai, and dryland kalo, and the diversity within these systems created conditions that could withstand outlier weather events and were largely free from pests and disease.

Today, the Hawai‘i ʻUlu Cooperative aims to make ‘ulu mainstream again by supporting systems similar to those of pre-contact Hawaiians. The co-op buys ʻulu from its member farms, processes it into products such as frozen cubes and flour, and is responsible for marketing and sales. For small farmers, ʻulu can be a tricky crop, as its seasons are fast and abundant, and the fruit ripens quickly once picked; unless a farm has a lot of trees and the means to process the fruit, growing ʻulu can sometimes be more trouble than it’s worth. The shared resources of the co-op enables small, diversified farms with few ‘ulu trees to earn money from them and contribute to the market supply. It also encourages members to remain diversified by reducing the need for farms to scale up production unsustainably just to cover the costs of processing and distribution.

Since its founding in 2016, the co-op has made sizable inroads with this model. Just five years ago, it was difficult to find ʻulu if you didn’t know someone with a tree. Today, ʻulu is on more local restaurant menus than ever before. Frozen ʻulu and flour produced by the co-op are available in numerous grocery stores throughout the islands. Booths sell ready-to-eat products like ʻulu hummus and ‘ulu chips at every farmer’s market. And as the people of Hawaiʻi begin to eat ʻulu again, the increasing demand supports the growth of a fully local industry.

 Dana Shapiro, general manager and founding member of the Hawai‘i ‘Ulu Cooperative, believes we should listen to the lesson of the mo‘olelo of ‘ulu and look to the staple as a multifaceted solution to our food crisis.

With this growth, we begin to move towards the second lesson of the moʻolelo: Rather than only picking from the parent tree, planting the offshoots will ensure more food for all, allow the parent tree to thrive and provide greater resilience in the face of disaster. Our current system relies far too heavily on one tree. By diversifying our food economy, including building up an ‘ulu industry, we can ensure the continued wellbeing of the people of Hawaiʻi.

FLUX FEATURE

A Q uilted Reckoning

The latest controversies by American designers appropriating the distinctly local artform of Hawaiian quilting begs the question: Is there a pono way for a fashion brand to utilize its patterns?

TEXT BY ALEXIS CHEUNG

IMAGES BY JOHN HOOK AND JOSIAH PATTERSON

Locals could spot the pattern from a mile away. With its distinctly rotund center and yawning leaves, it could only have been ‘ulu, or breadfruit, a staple flora in the Hawaiian islands for centuries. The way it was silhouetted, similar to a paper snowflake cut on a four- or eight-fold bias, then placed in a repeating manner, could only have been appliqué, a technique central to Hawaiian quilting. In almost any other setting, like within a neighbor’s home on quilted pillowcases, or in tūtū’s closet adorning her mu‘umu‘u, it wouldn’t have mattered much. But in this instance, something was pilau.

Although the design was clearly Hawaiian, the designer was definitely not: It was REDValentino, the lower-priced, contemporary, ready-to-wear brand of the Italian fashion house Valentino. The offending garment—a black-and-white cotton poplin pleated dress covered in a “Flower Damier print” according to the product copy—reeked of cultural appropriation to many Hawai‘i locals, particularly Native Hawaiians. And they let REDValentino know it on Instagram, where the brand had posted a campaign image of the dress in February 2021.

“Auē,” wrote @aariyoo.

“1195 dollars for a dress of STOLEN designs,” pointed out @ipolani.mae.

“This is definitely a Hawaiian design, nothing new here, except for maybe a colonizer taking what isn’t theirs,” expressed @cheyennekanani.

Many tagged @diet_prada, the fashion account that’s become a clarion call of corrective criticism—or cancel culture, depending on your perspective— and used hashtags like #culturevulture. The brand stayed mum. Four days later, they posted another campaign image. More comments arrived.

“A‘OLE,” said @_jkahue. “Shame on you for stealing from Hawaiian culture and trying to profit off it,” criticized @mikala.designs.

“This print is obviously taken from Kapa Kuiki (Hawaiian Quilt) ‘Ulu (breadfruit). Calling it “flower” print doesn’t make it your own. Will you be giving credit to Hawaiians for their art?” @ajamaile asked.

A full month later, on March 23, REDValentino issued an apology on Instagram, accounting for its mistake. It recognized the Hawaiian art form of kapa kuiki, its improper use of the print, and lack of research. It acknowledged the harm done and committed “to working with local Hawaiian organizations to identify opportunities to further support the community.” Though never publicly announced, it pulled the garments in question from its e-commerce site. In the background, REDValentino reached out to the Office of Hawaiian Affairs, the semi-autonomous state agency responsible for improving the wellbeing of all Native Hawaiians. OHA connected the company with Vicky Holt Takamine, a kumu hula and the executive director of Pa‘i Foundation. Together Holt Takamine and REDValentino selected three Kanaka Maoli designers— Kēhaulani Nielson of Kahulaleʻa; Manaola Yap of Manaola; and Kini Zamora—to show original prints on REDValentino clothing at London’s annual floral art show, Chelsea in Bloom, in September 2021. It was a rare instance of cultural appropriation gone right; one that might have never happened without social media.

While many commenters contributed to that success, only a handful recognized that the print belonged to a specific Hawaiian fashion designer and artist, Allen Akina, who was prominent in the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s. “We could be mad about cultural appropriation, but due credit wasn’t being given to the person who created that print and those fabrics,” said Paige Okamura, a radio host on Hawaii Public Radio, by phone in August 2021. Okamura, whose mother worked for Akina in her twenties, created an Instagram Story of Akina’s work, pointing out that his pattern was being used on the clothing. The whole debacle brought up important questions: Is calling out appropriation enough if the original owner isn’t ultimately attributed? And what could the recent resurgence of the Hawaiian quilt, even if through cultural appropriation, mean for the art form’s future? If part of rectifying cultural appropriation requires “giving credit where credit is due,” as many critics

Recent appropriations of the Hawaiian quilt reinvigorated conversations around the craft and its history, emphasizing the brilliance of the original native artists.

 Quilters with ties to the Poakalani quilting circle carry on an artful tradition.

demanded, then understanding the history of the Hawaiian quilt—and how every designers’ specific pattern is intrinsic to the art—is a fundamental place to start.

Although now taught by a community of tūtū and aunties, quilting came to the islands by way of Protestant missionaries. Along with their Bibles and beliefs, they carried their quilts across the Pacific in the 1820s. The large, bold, and sentimental textiles were done in one of two styles: either patchwork (small pieces of geometric fabric pieced together into a vibrant tapestry) or album (numerous blocks appliquéd with meaningful designs). Woven fabric was new to Hawai‘i then. Hawaiians still used kapa, a cloth made from the stripped inner bark of paper mulberry trees that was pounded into paper-thin sheets. Occasionally this cloth was stitched together using twine into a blanket called kapa moe. The earliest iterations of Hawaiian quilts featured red or indigo freehand or snowflake designs that were cut from colored kapa and pounded into the kapa moe. Hawaiian women created this pinkish kapa by deconstructing colored woven fabric they traded from missionary women, which they then pounded (using a technique called pau‘i‘ula, meaning “to beat in red”) into kapa fibers.

Around the 1830s, missionary women taught Hawaiians how to sew. “They said, ‘We came here to save souls, not to be seamstresses,’” explained Linda B. Arthur, author of The Hawaiian Quilt: A Unique American Art Form, by phone. “They got really tired of the Queens expecting them to do all their sewing for them.” Stitchery was taught in missionary schools, and Hawaiian women learned patchwork quilting (called “kapa pohopoho”) first. One of the earliest kapa pohopoho quilts was made by Princess Bernice Pauahi between 1839 and 1843, but the style never really stuck. Instead, Hawaiian women slowly adapted traditional appliqué quilt patterns, eventually enlarging them to the substantial size that’s so distinctive today. (One longstanding story about the origins of the Hawaiian quilt claims that a local woman was drawing her sheets out to dry when a shadow from a nearby tree shaded it, inspiring her to make a quilt pattern.) The artistry gave Hawaiian women autonomy during a time of rapid westernization in the 19th century. As Arthur wrote in The Hawaiian Quilt, “Hawaiians had lost their religion,

 Hawaiian quilting is defined by a typically all-over floral pattern, that is cut on a quarter- or eighth-inch bias and hand-stitched to a white backing with echo quilting.

their language, and traditions, but retained artistic expression in the quilts.”

Today, Hawaiian quilting is defined by a bright piece of cloth featuring a pattern, typically an all-over floral, that is cut on a quarter- or eighth-inch bias and handstitched to a white backing with kukui lau, or echo quilting. (Kukui lau is a contouring style that uses small stitches to outline the motif in rows that radiate outward, “like waves in the ocean,” Arthur wrote.) The first clearly dated Hawaiian quilt to follow this style was made for Prince Albert’s birth in 1858, with four diaper pins incorporated into its center design; it currently lives at Queen Emma’s Summer Palace.

“Because of the kapa-making tradition where individuals have their own patterns, people developed their own ones in different areas of different islands,” explained Tory Laitila, Honolulu Museum of Art’s curator of textiles and historic arts of Hawai’i, by phone. “According to tradition, somebody gave you, or allowed you to copy, a pattern before making it.” Patterns were beholden to kapu, or ancient codes of law. Black fabric was kapu. So were representations of living things. People looked to local flowers and plants for inspiration—including ‘ulu, which continues to be the first pattern novice quilters learn both for its simplicity and significance. “It’s not just the technique of sewing it [that you learn], but the symbols of the pattern,” said Laitila. “By sewing this plant, it will grow, foster, and nurture you— and that helps the skill or the craftsmanship of making quilts to grow.”

Inherent to every pattern is deep symbolism, and some were so private that only the quilter would know. (One such pattern Arthur referenced in her book was “Press Gently,” which “when kept on the marital bed, was intended to remind the new husband to be gentle when making love.”) Quilts were presented at significant events like births and weddings; they were passed down between families for generations. Later, with statehood, kapu went kaput and the era of the contemporary Hawaiian quilt arrived. Hawaiian flags advocating for sovereignty became more prominent, and more patterns incorporated living beings. The aesthetic became eclectic: Numerous kinds of fabrics and colors (versus the traditional white background with one

colored pattern) were incorporated, and machine embroidery and appliqué (versus hand stitching) became de rigeur.

By the 1970s, quilting patterns migrated from bedspreads to aloha wear. They reached a fever pitch in the ’80s. Local designers like Barbara Maldonado placed quilt appliqués on chambray shirts. Puamana Crabbe stitch-quilted Hawaiian florals on her shirts. Mamo Howell colorblocked sections of appliqué patterns to dresses and business wear. Reyn Spooner used, and continues to use, small, muted quilt patterns on his reverse-print aloha shirts. Nake‘u Awae created jackets for The Brothers Cazimero using a pua kenikeni quilt of his own design. Then, of course, there’s Allen Akina, who created quiltprinted fabric—which brings us back to REDValentino.

What fashion houses like REDValentino and Sea New York—which was also accused of appropriating the Hawaiian quilting patterns of Hannah Ku‘umililani Cummings Baker and Rebecca Mahoe Haalou Medeiros for its Henrietta styles in its pre-fall 2021 collection—failed to grasp was both the deep symbolic meaning of patterns and the spiritual significance of quilting. For instance, one of Sea New York’s styles features the kahili, combs, and fan of Queen Emma, and thus should be reserved for royalty. “So much of the Hawaiian quilt’s importance is the meaning of the symbols and how the quilter’s mana is in the quilt,” Arthur explained. “They’re not just picking up the design and stealing, they’re trading on people’s mana.”

It also continues a long history of Hawaiian culture—from “poké” to hula— being exploited for profit. “It’s a big deal because it represents a microcosm of the larger conflict that Hawai‘i is something to be extracted and enjoyed, and it removes Hawaiians from the equation of Hawai‘i,” said Nicole Naone, an O‘ahu-based artist and film producer, who publicly pointed out Sea New York’s patterns on Instagram. After some internet sleuthing, she found the original quilts and their makers. She later posted an Instagram story with screenshots of her research. As social media comments piled up on their original image, posted on June 5, Sea New York started turning off

 The debacle brought up an important question: Is calling out appropriation enough if the original artist isn’t attributed?

comments and blocking individuals like Naone. On June 10, Sea New York issued a statement that fell short of an apology. “We never claimed these techniques as our own or intended to appropriate a culture and are sorry if some believe that to be the case,” read part of the statement, which was added to the caption of the original June 5 image. They decided to donate an undisclosed amount to the organization Mana Maoli, a Hawai‘i nonprofit organization with a public charter school in Honolulu. On June 12, Sea New York posted a carousel, saying, “It has come to our attention that the Sea quilting group has caused a great deal of anger and hurt amongst members of the indigenous people of Hawai‘i.” This time, they clearly apologized: “We take responsibility and we are deeply sorry for the pain that we’ve caused.” They acknowledged that the “patterns used in these styles can most closely be attributed to the work of Hannah Ku‘umililani Cummings Baker and Rebecca Mahoe Haalou Medeiros,” but then wrote “The original quilt and iterations of the original work have been made by other native Hawaiian quilters,” which—when read cynically—almost sounds like a justification for their use of the print. After all, if native Hawaiians also quilted it, why couldn’t they? Only Sea New York was profiting from the use of the patterns.

In response to an interview request for this story, Sea New York shared the following statement through a representative: “We discovered the beauty and distinct vibrancy of Hawaiian quilting through quilts sold at vintage shows and online. We donated to Mana Maoli because we appreciate their mission and engagement with education. We have spoken with others in Hawaii and they have requested that Sea not publicize the discussions. We understand and respect those requests and will move forward privately.” As of September 2021, all pieces are still for sale on Sea New York’s website; they range from $395 to $600.

Whereas REDValentino had slightly altered Akina’s pattern, Sea New York’s were virtually carbon copies of the originals—bringing up the question of when appropriation is simply plagiarisation. Still where there’s conflict, there’s opportunity for ho‘oponopono, the Hawaiian practice of reconciliation. REDValentino exemplified how an apology can and should be handled. “Usually with these big companies, the best-case scenario is they take everything

 Hawaiian breadfruit design by an unidentified artist, ca. 1930-1949.

down as if it never happened and not acknowledge it, but Valentino really wanted to acknowledge the wrong done,” said Olan Leimomi Fisher, a public policy advocate at OHA.

So, what is a pono way for continental and foreign designers to use Hawaiian quilting in fashion? As an example, Laitila mentioned Bode, the New York-based menswear brand which has arguably singlehandedly created the demand for quilted clothing: Their Hawaiian Quilt Jacket was derivative but not an exact replica. (As with all of its pieces, Bode also included background on the quilting design and its origins.) Loewe, the Spanish luxury house helmed by creative director Jonathan Anderson, contacted quilters from the Poakalani quilting circle to show original textiles at the brand’s annual showcase at Salone del Mobile in Milan in 2019. One of the members, master quilter Patricia Gorelangton, displayed four quilts—three previously made and one specially commissioned that featured a koi fish design by John Serrao, the founder of Poakalani and a master patternmaker. Some smaller wall hangings were purchased then cut and turned into purses, “which was like a knife to my heart,” said Gorelangton. “But

it turned out they looked pretty neat.”

If anything, the recent appropriation of the Hawaiian quilt reinvigorated conversations around the craft and its history, emphasizing its importance in Hawaiian culture. “We could say it’s almost a national symbol,” said Laitila because the large applique style doesn’t exist anywhere else. Yet its survival requires a new generation to carry it on. As master quilter Gorelantan said of the Hawaiian quilt, “I do hope that the younger generation will become as obsessed as some of us older people with the artform, with the ability to make something with their hands, and want to put the time involved into making something beautiful.”

 Hawaiians have a long history of having their cultural ingenuity exploited. There is a dangerous misconception “that Hawai‘i is something to be extracted and enjoyed,” said artist Nicole Naone, “and it removes Hawaiians from the equation of Hawai‘i.”

FLUX PORTFOLIO

Brendan George Ko

The Maui-based visual storyteller and photographer documents the islands and its peoples with a deep sense of feeling and grace.

IMAGES BY BRENDAN GEORGE KO

 Floral materials gathered by Renko Floral. Image by Josiah Patterson.

LIVING WELL

“It does feel like I’m living with a prompt in some way because I understand that this period of time, this transition, fits into a larger narrative I’m trying to write.”—Mitchell

Kuga

Artists in Residence

Contending with a pandemic that uprooted their livelihoods, partners Mitchell Kuga and Adam J. Kurtz settle in for a conversation on art, work-life balance, and creating a new island home.

IMAGES BY JOHN HOOK

Before moving to O‘ahu from New York in 2020, Mitchell Kuga and Adam J. Kurtz discussed what transitioning to Kuga’s birthplace could look like, but neither imagined living with parents for nine months in the house that Kuga grew up in. Still, the scenario proved to be a welcome respite with moments of a surprising reconnections and newness that informed their solo projects. Both with books in the works, the creative couple aired their struggles and epiphanies about the creative process and artmaking in a pandemic.

MITCHELL KUGA There have been challenging moments to me about moving back. But I also think this time is really special in a lot of ways.

ADAM J. KURTZ This is how I feel. What’s the most surprising thing about coming back here as an adult?

M How comfortable I feel being myself in ways I didn’t before. Just how gay I can be, by which I mean just being myself. Part of that is having you here in my childhood home, where I often struggled to be myself in so many ways.

A It’s hard to be in the closet when your 6’2” white husband is following you around the island. All bets are off. And I feel like you dress a little differently. You act a little differently. But, actually, it feels more like you than ever. You’re just older.

M I’m just older. Before moving, we’ve come to Hawai‘i for the holidays every year for the past eight years. What do you remember about those first trips? I feel like you are not someone who came with many preconceived ideas about this place as a tropical paradise.

A [Laughs] I think when we met it was very important for you to teach me that Hawai‘i is not a postcard version. One of the early lessons was you making sure that I know Hawai‘i is not “pineapple surfboard.”

M Is that a type of surfboard?

A No, that’s shorthand for what most ha oles think Hawai‘i is: pineapple, surfboard. Now they know about poke—eight years ago they didn’t know. Sometimes I do

a full stop and I’m like: I. Live. In. Honolulu. And that’s insane. I laugh because I would never have come here if I didn’t meet you. It wasn’t on my radar. Actually, I’m glad to be here this way. I think it’s more meaningful to come here for the reason of love versus ‘Oh, it’s beautiful and I fell in love with the ocean, so I had to move here and I opened, you know, like a little shop in Kailua where I sell native style crafts but I’m white.’

M I mean, there’s still time for you.

A I would say, too, that your perception of what Hawai‘i is like, Honolulu specifically, is really different than what we’re experiencing. Your perception as a teenager was, ‘Oh this isn’t a place where like I can be gay. I want to go to the mainland and find my own footing and be my own person.’

And, listen, this is not Brooklyn, but it’s actually pretty gay here. We see queer people everywhere. Not en masse and they’re not wearing Doc Martin boots and shorts like they would in Williamsburg. But they’re here at the Safeway

 Mitchell Kuga and Adam J. Kurtz at their parents’ home in Moanalua, O‘ahu.

deli counter and, you know, queer weirdos at the mall. We’re out here. I think what I am really learning is that a lot of my understanding of Hawai‘i is through what I’ve heard from you. And what I’ve had to unlearn is that your perception of Hawai‘i is rooted in being a teenager here.

M Absolutely.

A And being a teenager anywhere is going to have a very specific lens and worldview. And through annual visits I’ve glimpsed more and more of Hawai‘i and have come to my own understanding. It’s more inclusive, it’s more inviting. There’s more here than I think I realized. I’m also very excited because clearly the creative community here exists and is layered.

M From Toronto to Baltimore, you’ve lived in many different places throughout your life. How does this feel different from other transitions?

A Yeah, my family moved from Toronto to the U.S. But moving to New York was a choice. I wanted that, to be someone in the city. I really thought I was going to live and die in New York. And there’s a version of me that would be that person. But there’s also a very core version of myself, it’s the quiet voice at the end of the night in your head. That version of me knows that it’s good timing to be here. When I look back, I know I will be grateful it happened. It’s already been a catalyst for a lot of change. Moving here is encouraging me to do different kinds of changes. My work has shifted. My mental health has shifted. I’m feeling a calm I’ve never felt in my life. And that’s not necessarily Hawai‘i specific. It’s just like a simpler life, fewer distractions.

M Does that feel like it’s more about getting out of New York than it is about Hawai‘i specifically?

A It’s not even about getting out of New York. Sometimes you just need to change your place to change your luck. That is a Jewish saying that I think about a lot. It’s not about the city—a city doesn’t define you. But you often define yourself against the backdrop of where you are, and what you do, and who you know. When you take away those distractions, you’re left with who you actually are. Covid did that for so many of us; you couldn’t go outside. So, you were stuck inside, AKA stuck in your brain, AKA who are you? And what do you want? How much did Covid impact your decision to move home?

M It wasn’t everything, but it was a big part of it. Covid was the thing that sped it up, this inevitable thing that suddenly felt more urgent. It was a gut check for me. It raised a lot of big questions about what I was doing in New York and why I was doing it, and then weighing that against these other questions around my family and being here for my parents.

A Right, like what really matters.

M I knew in my heart of hearts I would have a hard time living with myself if something ever happened and I was not here. The pandemic put into perspective just time in general, how it’s not infinite. It forced me to think about it more wisely. Mortality and shit. I think a lot of the things I moved to New York for felt like they didn’t exist. But also those things weren’t making me happy anymore either. That kind of striving, the careerism, the game I feel like you learn to play in New York—it wasn’t super exciting anymore.

A What I always loved about you is you seem to be the rare New Yorker who enjoyed the parts that you liked about being there: the community and proximity to things. But it seemed like you were never doing anything that you didn’t want to do.

M I think there were a lot of projections when we met about who I was, things that you needed at the time.

A I really fell for your trick. That’s what a relationship is, yeah? We’re looking for people that complete us so that as a shared unit we can build and grow. I do think that you represent—objectively, big picture— a slowing down and I represent a speeding up. And we meet in the middle in this beautiful way. Both of us have grown our work and ourselves in different ways.

M How do you think living here has changed your work?

A In some ways, I don’t know the answer to that yet. But it has been a trip. It’s been interesting working from Mom and Dad’s house. I used to have a a cool studio space. And now, I basically made a book, a planner, merch and products in your sister’s childhood bedroom at her desk that I barely fit in.

M Inches from where we sleep.

A Exactly, at the foot of our bed. It’s almost like I’ve gone back to age 22 in my first New York apartment where I was working from a tiny desk next to my bed. And that’s a testament to the fact that it doesn’t take fancy stuff to work. You don’t need an artist studio to make art. You don’t need expensive tools. That’s very much at the ethos of what I believe anyway, but I had to live that again.

M To your point about creating work anywhere, in the beginning was there a sense that you couldn’t?

A Yeah, I just had to wrap my head around it. My work has always been pencil and paper. It started that way because that’s what I had and I couldn’t afford shit. You remember me in my little Brooklyn apartment? I was hand stapling my zines. My work started this way because that’s what I had access to. My parents aren’t rich. I didn’t go to art school. I relearned that you can just make anything out of anything, wherever. I wrote the rest of the book, You Are Here for Now, sitting around the house. All the artwork was photographed on the folding table that I set up in this room. I’ve given several conference keynotes remotely by moving the bed over so I can stand in front of the wall. You just adapt. In a lot of ways it’s been very nice working small and working loose. The book is intentionally looser from a visual perspective, like the handwriting is less tight. The way that I scanned and even cleaned up the handwriting is more raw.

M Because of working in this space?

A I wanted it to feel really, really real. I wanted it to be like I am talking to you from as far as we’re sitting right now and I wanted it to be like I wrote you a note. I wanted it to be viscerally human. For the last year, you’ve been working on a book that is about you as a person born and raised in Hawai‘i. You as a queer person, as a queer Japanese person. It’s centered around this place, and in the midst of working on it you’ve moved home. Does that change the book’s trajectory?

M It feels like it completes the book in a lot of ways. Beforehand, it was a collection of essays about leaving Hawai‘i and figuring out who I was in New York. Even then, the idea was always that I would move back. But the book definitely wasn’t proposed as a return home because that wasn’t really in the cards, I thought, until at least the next five years. So, moving home now changes a lot. It basically changes the whole last section of the book because now it’s about what it means to return. There’s a proposed chapter about pickleball and a chapter about starting a garden, both of which wouldn’t have been there previously. A lot of it is about the present, what we’re going through now. Before, it was a lot of looking back. I wouldn’t say it’s given my life here purpose, but it makes it feel like I am in the process of writing and ideating stories as I’m living my life, which I don’t think is how I live my life typically. I don’t usually go through my day thinking of myself as having main character energy—the narrator of a story. It does feel like I’m living with a prompt in some way because I understand that this period of time, this transition, fits into a larger narrative I’m trying to write.

A What about being here is a reminder you absolutely made the right choice?

M Moments with my parents that feel really casual and nice. That don’t feel heightened by a sense of being on vacation, or of our imminent departure. Seeing them and their lives change as a result of us being here. And seeing your relationship with them, how that’s evolved, is really touching as well. It’s these really quiet moments, right?

A One really, very sweet thing is when they ask me questions about work. I was doing the photography for You are Here for Now in a little pop-up photo tent I bought online. Mom and Dad came to see what I was doing. That was cool and it meant a lot to me. I don’t know, I want to make them proud. I want them to be part of the process. My life is that I am this weirdo little artist who makes things, and it’s nice for them to see that firsthand.

M In some ways, this book feels kind of like a product of our move because—speaking to the actual production of it and having to make those changes—in New York, prepandemic, you probably would have hired a photographer. But beyond the constraints of Covid, there’s the actual transition as it relates to the content and the emotional core of the book. In what ways has living here changed the book?

A It became a book about not waiting for permission, but just making the things that you needed. That happened because of our move. My editor and I talked about changing it just a few days before we left New York and just had this moment of: I think the book is not the same book anymore. I’m leaving and life is different. The urgency came as a product of this move and realizing I need to take my own advice. In the time since getting here, I wrote the second half of the book in the house. The clarity of being here helped inform a lot of the more hopeful parts of the book, but also made me feel finally comfortable enough to be extremely vulnerable. I don’t think I was planning on talking about wanting to kill myself. It was not originally a book about suicidal

ideation. Then, to feel so safe and comfortable—I am far enough away from that scary time that I can talk about it in service of helping others. Being in Hawai‘i, extracted from what my was life in 2019 and sort of plopped down in a new life, gives me a lot of comfort. And feel the most connected to you I’ve ever felt. I’m not alone, I have this family and they support me.

M Living here has really brought that concept of family and love to the forefront. I feel like we both understood it as a philosophy, but I think living here together really feels like a new rung of that idea because of the level of dependence in some ways.

A And trust.

M I think anyone familiar with your work will notice throughout the book there are these mantras you previously printed on mugs or T-shirts. It feels like you’re taking these broad themes, picking them apart, and diving into what they mean exactly.

A Fans of my work who are really in on it with me sort of understood the connection between it all, but

there’s also thousands of people who bought a popular keychain for me, and they don’t have a context for how it fits into who I actually am as a person. This book really ties it all together. This is the hopeful, flawed, mentally ill person that this all comes from, who is really coping and communicating in any way that they can. That’s what’s scary about making this book but that’s also what’s so exciting—to say, that thing that you love that’s in your home, this is where it came from. This was the intention. I feel like the book that you’re working on is sort of your own breadcrumb trail that forced you to really dig into your previous understanding of what you thought being a gay Asian American person in Hawai‘i is, and then brought you back to it. It’s this tether between who you were, who you are, and who you could be next.

M I feel like every good essay is always trying to show that distance between who you thought you were versus who you actually are or who you’ve become. I moved to New York 14 years ago for college because I didn’t think I could live in Hawai’i anymore. A decade later this place I left felt bigger and bigger in my life in a way that became unavoidable.

There’s such a clear arc there between who I was and who I’ve become. The things that happened along the way that allowed me to feel like home was not about a city so much as living in my body, creating a home in my own body.

A We’re both these artists-types that process our lives through the creation of work, translating our emotional reality into something tactile. Each of our books that we’re working on during this time helped us deal with this big life change.

M Something that we talk about a lot is work-life balance...

A [Laughs] Why are you attacking me like this?

M Well, I think we are both people who tend to over-identify with their work in some ways. Do you think your work-life balance has changed?

A One thing I’m excited about is the show at Bās Bookshop launching at First Friday on November 5th and will be up through February. I’m very excited about it because it is creative work that I’m doing but it’s not really for sale. I’m just making art to make art and it feels like it is entwined with my life in a new way. It’s basically me introducing myself to Hawai‘i’s creative community in a very literal way. It’s cool to have that opportunity because I’m new here. I want to find my way in this creative community. I want to connect, and I want to make things. I want those things to be an extension of me, as an opportunity to introduce myself as a person who now lives here too. It’s not like I’m a special guest from New York just here for Christmas doing a pop-up shop. This is like no, I’m here and hello.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Pretty Wild

Eerie, avant-garde expressions of nature, the alien arrangements from Renko Floral are marvelous to behold.

TEXT BY EUNICA ESCALANTE

IMAGES BY JOSIAH PATTERSON

Viewing Ren MacDonald-Balasia’s work prompts fantastical musing. What seems like a crimson tentacle emerges from the darkness. Then the light shifts, transforming it from a writhing mass of limbs into a bramble of thorns. No, wait, it’s a lizard’s curving spine. Or something else—is it unnatural, fabricated by man? I step forward to better understand. Yet closer observation does not yield clarity. Somehow, it is none and all of them at the same time.

“They’re flowers,” says a voice behind me, ending my rumination. MacDonald-Balasia steps forward. We’re in her oba-chan’s (grandmother’s) home, where the part-time LA-based floral arranger stays when working in Honolulu. She gestures towards the arrangement and dissects it for me. What I mistook for tentacles are seeds of palm trees hanging from heaving stalks, which she manipulated to look like barbed wire. They envelop a pile of rambutan, a ruby-colored fruit native to Southeast Asia known for its prickly exterior. The tangled heap is balanced, rather precipitously, on a short ceramic vase. I marvel at how it seemingly defies the laws of physics. MacDonald-Balasia confesses she often feels the same. “Whenever I make an arrangement, I’m always holding my breath,” she says, “especially for the more complicated ones.”

A quick perusal through MacDonald-Balasia’s Instagram, which doubles as a portfolio for her company, Renko Floral, defines what she means by “more complicated.” One post shows an explosion of verdant foliage interwoven with the tendrils of palm tree flowers and hands of unripe bananas still attached to the stalk,

 The “living sculptures” of Renko Floral capture a natural air of beautiful intensity.

complete with a banana heart at the end. In another, handfuls of rambutan and longan are piled loosely among budding mink protea. Starfruit, bitter melon, and strings of long bean peek out from under the mountain of vegetation.

A lot of MacdonaldBalasia’s “living sculptures,” as she likes to call them, have an air of wild intensity, as if they were plucked right out of nature. “My arrangements, they replicate an impression that nature has left on me,” she says. “I’m inspired by what the material looks like growing in nature. It’s about bringing the natural world into our unnatural world.”

She traces this fascination back to her formative years in Hawai‘i, where she was born. Though she moved to Los Angeles when she was 9 years old, MacDonaldBalasia returned to O‘ahu every summer, staying at her oba-chan’s house in the upper reaches of Mānoa Valley. She recalls afternoons spent running up and down the house’s

 MacDonald-Balasia was intrigued by ethnobotany, studying flowers’ prominence in cultures throughout history.

shared driveway, a winding road along Woodlawn Drive flanked by an overgrowth of wildflowers. She foraged bouquets, stripped bark off trees, and created arrangements with which she peppered the corners of the home.

“It was this amazing treehouse,” MacDonald-Balasia says. “Growing up in that house, being surrounded by the umbrella trees and the guava trees, completely immersed in the natural world, influenced my curiosity and enchantment with nature.”

At 19 years old, MacDonald-Balasia began working for a flower shop in L.A. She was drawn in through the rabbit hold of ethnobotany, intrigued by flowers’ prominence in cultures throughout history. The daily proximity to flowers satiated her yearning to know more. Yet she was young, unsure of the practicality of a career in flowers. At one point she made a complete shift, moving back to Hawai‘i and taking a

position with a state representative. But the job merely heartened her appetite to work with nature. “I loved it, but it was a desk job,“ she says. “I missed touching nature, and grappling with branches and leaves. That was a turning point for me.“

When she moved to New York to be with her now husband, filmmaker Andrew Theodore Balasia, she applied to work for renowned floral arranger Emily Thompson on a whim. Thompson’s artistry would ultimately color MacDonald-Balasia’s own. “Emily taught me that it’s more than just putting flowers in a vase,” she says. After three years under Thompson, she moved back to L.A. in 2018 and started her own business. Since she started Renko Floral, her unique approach to the craft has attracted artists and brands, including editorial work for Cult Classic magazine in which MacDonald-Balasia integrated whole octupuses and crabs with tropical flowers,

 Her oba-chan’s house in the upper reaches of Mānoa Valley are a constant source of inspiration.

and designed an arrangement for fashion brand Cult Gaia consisting of moth orchids, slices of lotus root, and baby potatoes strung together like a lei.

“I definitely focus more on material selection,” she says. She confesses flower markets don’t offer much inspiration. “Everyone’s getting the same stuff and making variations that look similar,” she says. “It’s just not exciting.” Foraging has remained crucial to her work. Instead of flower markets, she scours neighbor’s yards, parking lots, and the wet markets of her local Chinatown, all of which proffer a diverse, unique range of materials.

She designs with items that are “beyond simply beautiful or rare or expensive,” gravitating towards materials that are conventionally considered too unattractive or commonplace to be in a special arrangement, like baby eggplants or coral vine weeds.

Her ethos of finding the beauty in strange things is what makes her creations so intriguing. Their eerie beauty proves that nature is often most mesmerizing when it is at its wildest. In her arrangments, anything from a simple daikon to fleshy cephalopods can warrant the center of attention. “It’s not necessarily about it being beautiful,” she says. “It’s opening your eyes to seeing it in a different way.”

 Learn more about the artist at renkofloral.com

AERIE | JOHNNY WAS

L’OCCITANE

MORPHE

PATISSERIE LA PALME D’OR

VANS

ZARA

 A mōlī (Laysan albatross) takes flight on O‘ahu. Image by Josiah Patterson.

EXPLORE

“Sustainability and preservation go hand in glove. I personally think saving a building is sustainable.”—Glenn

Masonn

A Restorative Task

Historic preservation work requires attention to detail, problem-solving skills, and respect for the work done before. Glenn Mason heeds the call.

TEXT BY MICHELLE BRODER VAN DYKE

IMAGES BY CHRISTIAN NAVARRO AND CHRIS ROHRER

Growing up in Honolulu and watching it change over the past 35 years, there are few built environments that have stayed the same. ʻIolani Palace, its grounds and surrounding buildings are different.

For a walk through this area, I may start at Washington Place, a sleek white residence with a large lānai, where Queen Liliʻuokalani was arrested in 1893. I’ll stroll towards the palace, passing the iron fence and gates to enter its expansive lawn, where I see ʻIolani Barracks, built in 1871, and Keliʻiponi Hale, built in 1883 for the coronation of King Kalākaua. I exit the palace grounds, cross King Street, and walk past Aliʻiōlani Hale and the King Kamehameha statue. Across Punchbowl Street, Kawaiahaʻo Church stands tall with fitted coral blocks, and on its grounds sits Lunalilo’s tomb, a concrete mausoleum with a gothic archway at its entrance.

All of these structures were completed in the 1800s, and while I may see signs that it is 2021—pedestrians wearing N95 masks and carrying iPhones—I am transported to scenes from the past: It’s 1864 and Kamehameha V is debating the constitution at Kawaiahaʻo; 10 years later, the legislature and judiciary are setting up at Aliʻiōlani Hale; King Kalākaua’s 1886 jubilee is being celebrated with hula on the lawn; the Hawaiian flag is lowered during the 1893 Overthrow, which is reenacted by Hawaiian activists at the palace every Fourth of July.

“These are actual, physical connections to our history,” says Glenn Mason, the president of Mason Architects, which focuses on historic preservation. Mason, who was born and raised in Hawaiʻi, graduated with a Master of Architecture from the University of Michigan in 1974. He first started working in 1975 as a drafter with architect Geoffrey Fairfax, who had just three years earlier developed the architectural guide for the ʻIolani Palace restoration. Mason then worked for Vladimir Ossipoff for almost two years, although not on restoration work. In 1978, he started working for architect Charles “Ty” Sutton, who took over the preliminary work done by Fairfax on many historic buildings after he retired in 1976. While at Sutton’s office, Mason was tasked with restoring the ʻIolani Barracks and Huliheʻe Palace on Hawaiʻi Island.

“That kind of work fits my mentality,” says Mason. In late 1980, Mason left Sutton and started working with Spencer Leineweber, who also worked on historic

restoration. They became partners in 1984, and he eventually took over, renaming the firm Mason Architects. Since then, he has had his hands on all these monarchy buildings.

There is a difference between saving a building and historic restoration. While there is nothing wrong with the former, Mason says, his work tells a specific story about a place and a time. This might require removing parts of a building that were added at some point after it was completed or adding back things that were removed.

ʻIolani Palace was finished in 1882, during the reign of King Kalākaua. But it didn’t remain static. In 1886, Kalākaua converted the palace from gas lamps to electric lights. In 1891, it became the home of Queen Liliʻuokalani, and after the Overthrow, it was where she was imprisoned. The Provisional Government moved in and the palace continued to be used as the seat of government—by the territory and state—until 1969. Throughout that time, rooms were rearranged,

 “I’m successful when you can’t tell I’ve been there,” Mason says. “If you have respect for the work that was done before, you want to have that work show up—not your work.”

furnishings were sold, wooden structures were added to the palace’s sides to expand the space, and it was severely neglected. When restoration efforts began upon relocation of the government to a new capitol building in 1969, it had been decided to restore the palace back to what it would have looked like between 1886 to 1893. ʻIolani Palace would once again tell the story of the last two monarchs of the Hawaiian Kingdom.

It would have been logistically difficult to restore the palace back to its original 1882 state, says Mason, because that would have required converting it to gas lamps, but it also would have excluded Liliʻuokalani’s era. Mason said he is relieved the architects working before him removed the obtrusive wooden structures added to the side of the palace, making it look as it did when the queen reigned.

After the first phases of restoration on the palace were complete, it sat empty. Using historic photos, Mason completed drawings in 1978 of furniture, like the settee that sat in the middle of the Throne Room, which aided in repairing or reconstructing items.

 Along with restoring old buildings, Mason also makes old structures more appropriate for modern use.

“The palace is more than just that building, it is the entire site,” Mason says. The 10-acre site is surrounded on all four sides by a low wall topped with a greenpainted fence with two layers of gilded gold spearheads, which was completed in 1892. At each of the four main entrances are four pillars and ornate gates that display the coat of arms of the Hawaiian Kingdom. In 1918, the Territorial government removed the inner pillars and gates to widen the road to accommodate cars, so in 1982 Mason reconstructed the pillars and returned the gates to how they looked in the 1800s, when horse-drawn carriages were often used by the Hawaiian royalty.

Preservation work requires attention to detail, problem-solving skills, and respect for the work done before, says Mason. Before restoration begins, a historic structures report must be completed. This involves researching every available record: photos, letters, plans, taxes, property documents, and fire maps. Mason has worked on buildings that were completed

before the 1830s, when photography was invented, which he says makes things extremely difficult to determine.

With his calm demeanor, Mason doesn’t express his passion for historic restoration in the tone of his voice, but in his excitement when he talks about the individual challenges that each project presents, the nuanced philosophies behind the choices he makes, and how he figured out how to fix a building or a part of it.

For instance, before prefabrication became widespread, it wasn’t possible to just go to the store and buy light fixtures or railings off the shelf; everything was individually made. In order to figure out how to restore anything, Mason must first dissect it, which allows him to determine how it was originally constructed. Each project is a puzzle presenting unique challenges that can’t be fixed with modern materials. This is where Mason’s creativity comes into play, as he solves each individual problem.

Despite his indisputable skill, Mason is extremely humble, and he is definitely

 There is a difference between saving a building and historic restoration. While there is nothing wrong with the former, Mason says, his work tells a specific story about a place and a time.

bashful about the idea that this story is being written about him. But as we talk, I realize this humility is foundational for his job, as respect for the work that came before is paramount. If he has done his job well, he says, then his work will be invisible to the eye.

“I’m successful when you can’t tell I’ve been there,” he says. “If you have respect for the work that was done before, you want to have that work show up—not your work.”

Along with restoring old buildings, Mason also makes old structures more appropriate for modern use, which may involve adding fire sprinklers or air conditioning. At the Bishop Museum, Mason added these features to Pauahi Hall, which was built in 1889, and the Pacific Hall, built in 1893. For the palace, it has been debated whether a fire suppression system should be added, but it would be very hard, if not impossible, to hide the lines.

Many old places were inefficiently designed, and some people say they

should be demolished to make room for environmentally friendly structures, but Mason argues historic preservation is sustainable.

“I think sustainability and preservation go hand in glove,” says Mason. “I personally think saving a building is sustainable. Let’s just figure out how to make it work a little better from an environmental point of view.”

It’s also important to save the buildings, he says, as they hold the memories of Hawaiʻi. “They tell a story of what it was like here,” Mason says. “There’s so much new stuff is easy to lose sight of our history.”

 Learn more about the field of preservation and Mason at masonarch.com.

Hawaiian Culture Thrives at Outrigger Hotels and Resorts

Culture is king at Outrigger Hotels and Resorts, where age-old traditions are embraced with a modern twist.

MODERN CULTURE at Waikiki Beachcomber by Outrigger: Experience a modern take on Hawaiian culture through sights and sounds unique to Hawai’i. An inspiring group of local artists and influencers, called Beachcomber Originals helped curate Waikīkī’s first and only craft hotel, including world-renown surf photographer, Zak Noyle, who splashed his signature underwater photography on an entire wall of every guest room, and musician Makana, whose ultra-chill soundtrack, “The New Sound of Waikīkī,” greets guests in Beachcomber’s public spaces.

VOYAGING CULTURE at Outrigger Reef Waikiki Beach Resort: Following an $80 million full-property transformation, the contemporary resort is rooted in Hawaiian culture. Its rich tradition of celebrating the voyaging canoe permeates brilliantly throughout the physical spaces and comes to life in family friendly programming. Outrigger’s decades-long connection to the Polynesian Voyaging Society, as well as the Friends of Hōkūle‘a and Hawai‘iloa, are highlighted throughout the resort alongside museum-quality artwork, including original pieces by Hawaiian historian, Herb Kāne. The resort’s Navigator Floor links a collection of luxury suites atop the Pacific Tower that are named in honor of Hawai‘i’s esteemed Pwo Navigators.

SURF CULTURE at Outrigger Waikiki Beach Resort: Fronting world-famous Canoes surf break, this property

is renowned for honoring the sport of surfing year-round with related guest activations, artwork and even dining at the iconic Duke’s Waikiki and surf-inspired Sunrise Shack. In partnership with Faith Surf School, it has a monthly Surfers in Residence platform featuring famed watermen like Billy Kemper, Kelly Slater and Kelia Moniz. New art experiences include Eduardo Bolioli’s “Golden Dreams” showcasing hand-painted surfboards of Duke Kahanamoku alongside U.S. Olympic Surf Team members including Hawai‘i’s gold medalist, Carissa Moore. The resort is also home to “Love & Aloha: Surfing in Waikīkī,” an art experience curated by Michael Wilson of Bishop Museum that perpetuates surf history and modern surf culture, born in Waikīkī.

TRADITIONAL CULTURE at Outrigger Kona Resort and Spa: Outrigger’s newest acquisition on Hawai‘i Island is steeped in traditional Hawaiian culture. Signature Experiences on the property include a 90-minute cultural tour that takes guests to the birthplace of King Kamehameha III and the resort’s ‘Feast and Fire’ lū‘au that celebrates the historic Keauhou region through song and dance. Plans are in motion to carry the culture forward in design, artwork and authentic guest programming showcasing the land’s illustrious past.

outrigger.com

Mōlī Rising

In spite of setbacks throughout the past century, island albatross colonies, including the rookery at Ka‘ena Point, are growing once again.

TEXT BY TRAVIS HANCOCK

IMAGES BY JOSIAH PATTERSON

Whether you walk it from Keawa‘ula Beach on O‘ahu’s west side or Mokulē‘ia on the North Shore, the shadeless path to Ka‘ena Point Natural Area Reserve is likely to feel long and hot. Ka‘ena, after all, means “the heat.” But you have to go all the way to the end and through the protective fencing if you want to see the area’s preeminent drawcard—the mōlī, or Laysan albatrosses, that nest there. Standing knee-high, the native, snow-white birds with ashy wings are known for their elaborate courtship dances, in which they repeatedly bob, bow, click their beaks, and jab them skyward, squawking with shrill vibratos. All mōlī that start their lives at Ka‘ena—one of the species’ 16 known breeding colonies in the world—reliably return here from the furthest reaches of the North Pacific each November to dance, breed, and lay a single egg that will hatch in February and, should the chick survive, fledge by July. So if you get tired along the hike, if your legs ache and you feel parched, consider the fact that the average mōlī has traveled at least a thousand miles to reach this protected place. Some of the adolescent birds setting their webbed feet down on Ka‘ena’s sandy soil may have been away from dry land, having rested only at sea, for up to five years.

As a species, mōlī have figuratively come even further to cross paths with you. Listed as “near threatened” by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, Phoebastria immutabilis only recently ascended from

 Arriving amid the Makahiki season that celebrates the god Lono, the eggs carried a healing symbolism for Hawaiians who view mōlī as Lono’s kino lau, or physical manifestation.

a century of devastating turbulence bookended by two remarkably similar atrocities, both of which became international causes célèbres.

The first tragedy befell the birds at the start of the 20th century. In late 1909, the American cutter Thetis was sent to the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands to enforce President Roosevelt’s new executive order protecting the area’s indigenous birds. Their target was Kauō, or Laysan Island, the 2-square-mile home of many native species and a mining operation established in the 1890s to source fertilizer ingredients from seabirds’ solidified manure, or guano. Upon arrival at Kauō, the crew discovered a group of Japanese workers using the island’s few wooden buildings not for guano processing, but for the packaging of albatross feathers destined for international millinery markets. The island was peppered with the spoils of the poachers’ harvest—thousands of piles of albatross carcasses, the breasts of which had been plucked clean. In most cases, the birds’ wings had been cut off, too. Thetis’ crew rounded up 15 of the poachers on Kauō and eight on nearby Papa‘āpoho and brought them to Honolulu. They also brought evidence, reported by one newspaper to be 259,000 bird skins and wings, two and a half tons of baled feathers, and several large cases and boxes of stuffed birds. A follow-up biological survey conducted by the U.S. Department of Agriculture in 1911 counted 180,000 mōlī on Kauō, and estimated that the poachers had killed at least 200,000 in less than one year.

For months, Honolulu newspapers filled columns with stories born in the wake of the crew’s mission. But nothing came of the spectacle. The poachers faced up to six months in prison, a $500 fine (worth about $12,000 today), and a grand jury trial, but were completely cleared for being mere “instruments” of higher powers, namely their Tokyo employer, Genkichi Yamanouchi, and the “King of Laysan,” Max Schlemmer. A naturalized American citizen from Germany, Schlemmer had started the guano company, brokered the labor deal with Yamanouchi, and pretended not to know they had forgone guano for feathers. Schlemmer was indicted, but the charges were dropped on a technicality. The Thetis returned to the leeward islands to pursue Yamanouchi’s ships, but returned empty-handed. All told, the Hawaiian Star reported, the only punishment that any of the involved parties faced was served by the poachers: “twenty-four hours in jail with costs remitted.”

Laysan Island is the English namesake of the Laysan albatross, but its current colony of about 150,000 breeding pairs is actually second in size to the rookery at Midway

 Mōlī are known for their elaborate courtship dances, in which they repeatedly bob, bow, click their beaks, and jab them skyward, squawking with shrill vibratos.

Atoll, which boasts more than 500,000 pairs. By contrast, Ka‘ena Point’s colony, with about 100 nests, is tiny. Because it is so small, the senseless loss of 15 adults and 17 eggs to a savage teenage romp in 2015 sent an acute and sustained sting through island communities. Following the arrest of three local high school students, waves of residents blared their outrage, while—just as in 1910—the news media had a field day. Two of the offenders were minors, tried privately in family court, while the one 18-year-old perpetrator was handed a 45day prison sentence, a $1,000 fine, and 200 hours of community service.

In December 2017, exactly two years after the Ka‘ena incident, conservationists relocated 21 eggs from a Kaua‘i military training area to Ka‘ena Point. Arriving amid the Makahiki season that celebrates the god Lono, the eggs carried a healing symbolism for Hawaiians who view mōlī as Lono’s kino lau, or physical manifestation. At the end of the season, many a breeding pair hatched ashy brown puffballs, that by late summer,

will fledge into white-breasted giants with characteristic streaks of gray around their large eyes. If you can, try to make the hike in time. You just might see one spread its freshly feathered wings to a full six feet, catch the warm breeze, and ride the heat beyond the blue horizon.

 All mōlī that start their lives at Ka‘ena—one of the species’ 16 known breeding colonies in the world—reliably return here from the furthest reaches of the North Pacific each November to dance, breed, and lay a single egg.

 Learn about these birds in Holy Moli: Albatross and Other Ancestors by writer Hob Osterlund carried by Nā Mea Hawai‘i or Arts & Letters Nu‘uanu.

Vida Mia

PRIVATE YACHT

Built in 1929 and recently restored to her original elegance, the Vida Mia has been host to family gatherings and celebrations for decades.

IMAGES BY ASIA BRYNNE

SPECIAL KAMA’AINA RATES ALL SEASON

Certified to Carry up to 36 Guests. Full Bar Service.

Catering Options Galore.

 Book your next event at thevidamia.com or by phone at 1-808-746-VIDA (8432).

 Departs From Waikiki Next To Hilton Lagoon.

(Left) Dragon Berry Lemonday, (Right) Old School Fashioned

Dragon Berry Lemonade; Fire-roasted Golden BBQ Sauce Double-cut Pork Chop; Auction Fresh Fish (lemongrass risotto); New York Steak.

On Emptiness

POEM BY MUDRA LOVE

ART BY MITCHELL FONG

emptiness somehow fills us even though there’s nothing there it reaches into our being and swallows us up whole worse than feeling wounded is feeling nothing at all numb to the world and nothing to live for we have no reason to exist but if nothing has this effect on our demeanor then there must be something there every seed grows in darkness before rising to the light

Mudra Love enjoys exploring the minds of Hawai‘i’s creative community through @thehawaiicreative. She recently published her first book, Monk’s Daughter