Masters of Art

For anyone who knows me well, you’ll know I love art. And when it comes to Māori and Indigenous art? I’m a bit of a fanatic. My bank balance tells me this. I’ve told Louie that the investment will pay itself off tenfold, though if I’m honest, the joy it brings me is the real reward. 

So I’m like a kid in a lolly shop in cities like Rome,Athens, Florence, and Barcelona. These are the places where art lives loud. Where masters are etched into stone, ceilings, and collective memory: Da Vinci. Michelangelo. Raphael. My first real introduction to these three of them was via the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I have since become acquainted with Botticelli and Gaudí, who somehow dodged the sewer-to-street pipeline.

These men weren’t just artists. They were philosophers, engineers, architects, political operators. They were hired not just to paint a ceiling or carve a statue but to inspire, to resolve, to lead. It reminded me: don’t judge a person by what you first see. Often the deepest thinkers, the most gifted creators, don’t show their whole selves at once. That’s true of our own artists at home.

So I walked. And walked. And walked some more. I dragged the whānau through plazas and museums, bribing them with gelato and Wifi. At times I thought I should have left them behind. Even if I had to dodge the elbows and selfie sticks of a thousand others also trying to get the perfect shot.

One thing stood out, though. Among all the masters celebrated across these great cities, there were so few women. Their voices, their brush strokes, their perspectives are largely missing. And I felt that. Still feel that. It made the passing of our own master artist Robyn Kahukiwa earlier in the year all the more stark.

Robyn was a giant. A trailblazer. She carved space where there was none, held stories that had long been silenced, and made Māori women visible, vibrant, divine. Her legacy reminds me that being a master of art isn’t just about skill. It’s about story. It’s about heart. And it’s about having the guts to do something. Kei te ringa toi, ko koe tērā e hura mai i ngā kura huna o te ao Māori. Takoto. Takoto. E oki e.

Note:  I have resisted the urge to purchase any new pieces of art whilst here in Europe, despite many temptations, much to Louie's relief.

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Food is a Connector

One of my favourite things to do when travelling is to visit supermarkets and food markets. Maybe it’s because I love to eat. Sweet, sour, spicy – there are very few foods I won’t give a go. (Though kānga pīrau remains firmly on my no-go list.)

There’s something comforting and endlessly fascinating about roaming the aisles of a foreign supermarket. I can spend hours just looking. Studying the packaging, trying to guess ingredients, buying things even when I’m not entirely sure what I’m buying. I’m constantly grumpy about how much cheaper some things are than back home, and amazed at the sheer range – things we never see in our New Zealand supermarkets.

Food tells stories. It carries whakapapa. Experiencing kai in different parts of the world has helped us understand people better. It’s one thing to eat something; it’s another to know where it came from, how it’s made, and why it matters. That’s where connection begins.

At home, for us, it’s tuna – eel. A taonga species. We currently have a group from home spending six weeks in Japan studying eels. Six weeks off mahi, unpaid, travelling the country to learn how the Japanese manage stocks, grow and harvest eel, and, of course, how they cook it. That’s dedication. That’s kaupapa.

Here in Europe, we’ve indulged. We’ve made tourist mistakes, yes – ended up at a few overpriced spots with average meals. But we’ve also found absolute gems: hole-in-the-wall places with food that takes your breath away. The kind of meals that make you sit back, close your eyes, and just take it in.

Food, in the end, is always a connector.

Finding Space

We’re six weeks into what has been an incredible journey. Recently, we had a whānau sit-down – a check-in to see how everyone was really feeling.

The boys miss home. Their routines, their friends, their space. Being with Māmā and Pāpā 24/7, with nowhere to escape, is hitting. It means that all the amazing things we’re seeing and doing can start to lose their shine. The environments we’re in aren’t familiar. And I think they are feeling it.

While Louie and I are soaking it all in, the boys swing between wonder and weariness. Some days they’re into it. Some days they’re not.And they need space to reset – time away from the schedule, away from us, just to be.

That was hard for me at first. I had expected that they would see this journey the way we did. That they’d feel how rare and special this opportunity is and grab it with both hands. I even tried to bring the Māmā hype:

“He mīharo tēnei!”

“Ei... i tūmeke pai au ki te...”

“Auē, he mea manomano tau tēnei te tawhito!”

“I mōhio rānei kōrua i...?”

“Son, i kite rānei koe i te...?”

 But the words didn’t land. They bounced off closed taringa,energy-zapped young men. No matter how enthusiastic I was, they weren’t in the headspace to absorb it. And that’s when I remembered one of Pāpā Tīmoti’s favourite teachings about language learning: "Whāngaia te hiakai – feed those who are hungry."

Maybe immersion does work best… in bite-sized chunks.

So I changed my approach. I stopped pushing. I gave them space. Took guidance from them on what was needed and on energy levels. Personal space – done. Volleyball court time – done (but not without its challenges). A ball pump – done. (Imagine  you us trying to communicate our request for a ball pump in hand actions to very bewildered shop owners.) 

And the balance of feeding, and then digesting, absorbing, resetting seems to be working better for everyone.

The biggest lessons haven’t been theirs. They’ve been mine. Because the hardest – and most important – part of teaching, is knowing when to stop talking.