Matariki didn’t know what the repercussions would be. There was a meeting today, but not about that. Since it happened a week ago, Matariki had taken her breaks outside. Calling a colleague racist wasn’t nothing. But it needed calling out. When she had to be at her desk, like now, she made a point of going in with Kaia, the Ngāi Tahu intern who was living with her, or another colleague. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of Anton, parking his car or through the gap in the computers that lined the office to his door. One morning, arriving at work after a doctor’s appointment, she ran into him as he was parking his car. It was hard to walk past, eyes straight ahead, without wavering, much harder than it used to be, but she managed it. It was a good plan. And it worked, for about a week.
‘You can’t avoid him forever,’ Kaia said. ‘You've got this.’ She was at the next desk. On top of the meeting, Matariki was increasing her mental health medication, and it made her feel ropey. Kaia said the symptoms sounded like vertigo.
‘What was the last thing that made you really happy?’ Kaia said.
‘Random pātai.’ It was a dumb question, but Matariki liked Kaia. ‘Made me happy? I keep being really sad. Probably before Nu died.’
But then she remembered something and laughed.
‘Ok, I was down at Huriawa Pā a year or so ago, with my bro. We collected some kōkōwai for his wānaka course.’
‘You’ve got this,’ Kaia repeated, nodding their head up and down like it was important Matariki understood. When it gets tough in there, visualise Huriawa with your bro.’
Nu had smeared some kōkōwai on his face, being crack up, like always. Matariki had taken a photo. They hadn’t known about the cancer then. She remembered that day with physical clarity. They sat on the grass, eating salt and vinegar crisps and talking about their old man, how young he was when he died. Nu reckoned his anger killed him. It had been raining and the light was coppery and the kōkōwai had a freshness to it, as though it had brought everything into focus.
‘K, I’m meant to be your mentor, remember?’ Matariki said.
‘Tuakana teina,’ Kaia reminded her. ‘Two-way street, kare.’ It was true, Matariki was learning a lot from the younger woman.
Matariki glanced at the time on her screen. It was 9:55 am. The meeting was about the upcoming show, which was Kaia’s show, and Kaia needed Matariki there. In order to fulfil the requirements of the internship, it needed to go well. Anton was part of the assessment panel, and as Head of Collections and Kaia’s mentor, Matariki was too.
‘We better go.’ It was unlikely Anton would be there on time, but they might as well get a head start.
They walked through the office, turned and walked down the long ramp flanked by a concrete colonnade, with the ceiling three floors above and daylight filtering in from the street because the blackout screens were open. They walked against the flow of other staff coming up, opening out into the main gallery. The sculptures in this gallery were made of metal and were turned on at set times during the day. Whenever they were turned on, Matariki imagined them storing up energy all day to wind up, making one big push at the end, the kinetic energy giving way again to stillness.
At the top was the Large Works Gallery, where Matariki called Anton out last week. The install team had been hanging a painting in an elaborate gold frame.
‘The sheer quality is astounding,’ Matariki had heard Anton saying. ‘Under the microscope, you can see all the detail.’ She was on her way to Collections and stopped to look at the artwork.
The condition of the painting was good, but the quality of the artwork wasn't what caught Matariki’s attention. A group of Māori were herding cattle. They were dressed in a combination of traditional and European clothing adorned with huia feathers, pounamu and mako ear pendants, and armed with rifles and taiaha.
Matariki tried to remember the courageous spirit of her tūpuna. If she needed to shake things up, so be it.
‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘White British artist, painted decades ago. That ship has sailed, Anton. And there’s a strong implication by the artist that they're stealing those cattle.’
He ignored her. ‘The viewer is crouching with the Māori, which I think can invite empathy.’
Matariki doubted Anton knew much about empathy. Recently she’d begun leaving herself notes, goals achieved. Sometimes she wrote down all the ways they’d broken the gallery’s regulations since she started here five years previously. You don’t have to do everything, the kaumātua said, you don’t need to be everything to everyone. You don’t need to be reckless, but there are ways around these rules.
‘Take it to the Kaumātua Kaunihera hui and ask what they think,’ she said. Anton avoided dealing with iwi at all costs.
‘Art doesn't have to be controversial, but it often is one of the only things that can be,’ he said.
She contemplated her answer for what felt like minutes. She could hear the sound of herself breathing, so tired of walking on eggshells.
‘It’s racist, Anton. And if you’re the person recommending showing it, that makes you a racist.’
He laughed. Anton was one of a kind at the gallery. Matariki wished she could set him in stone.
A ramp on the other side of the building led to a second gallery, with a bridge crossing the gap to the upper storey of the boutique gallery. The sculptures were motionless, and they said mōrena to Veechi, or Vida; Matariki wasn’t sure. She was stationed at her chair, ready to greet the first visitors. The hosts were all on casual contracts so there was no sick pay or holiday pay. Nobody lasted very long at that job. Most of the regular staff didn't even try to learn their names. Matariki was guilty of that. They walked up another ramp, turning left into Collections.
Collections felt like Matariki’s dream space, everything so clean and in its place. This morning they were going over the work for Kaia’s show. Two weeks ago, Anton passed the show to Kaia, a strategic move. It was hard to tell what he'd been doing the whole time. Kaia told Matariki she basically had to start from scratch. It was Kaia’s show now, but Anton still had a seat at the table.
Questions arose organically between Matariki and Kaia. They huddled together, flipping through the many pages of acquisition notes. Lots of the early work by Māori artists still felt on point. There were works Kaia said she’d had never seen before and lots by artists she loved. There was one particular artwork they wanted to discuss with the panel. Matariki had rehearsed it.
‘We definitely want the tuna in the show,’ Kaia said. ‘Big mana energy. And the morehu are survivors, just like us.’
Matariki walked down one of the aisles to locate the artwork in the big drawers. The artwork was alphabetised, but the aisles were narrow and dimly lit. She normally loved the feeling of having chosen many fragile things, beautiful in their dependence. Often she’d catch herself daydreaming about when Māori still had kaitiakitaka over the whenua. She found the right drawer and slid it open.
‘Oh, annoying. They're missing.’ Today of all days. ‘Have a look at the notes,’ she called.
She heard Kaia flipping through the folder again.
‘I'm not sure they're here. Oh, hold on. Due to the nature of the content of these artworks, they have been put in the Director's office, where they are available to view by appointment,’ Kaia read out.
The door opened, and the sound of Anton’s voice rushed in. Matariki bit the inside of her cheek and tried to stay present.
‘My wife, Stella, was frustrated at how cold New Zealand houses are when we have a relatively warm climate. You heard of passive housing? They’re high-performing. A lot of the materials came from Europe.’
Matariki thought of the mould growing in her laundry. She thought about his wife, blonde and petite, an architect from Sweden.
‘Do you get over to Europe much?’ It was his PA, Lou, a note of envy in her voice.
‘The Venice Biennale most years’, he said, dismissively. ‘Some school holidays. Stella is there now, with the children. Let's make a start, shall we? Kaia, do you have a karakia?'
Matariki walked back up the aisle, trying to get her game face on. It wasn’t the intern's job to do a karakia. It wasn’t even a Māori space, despite Anton saying they always came from a place of te ao Māori. Confident words, for someone who had lived most of his life outside Aotearoa.
In an effort to distract herself, Matariki launched into a karakia. She thought about her tūpuna and she stood close to Kaia, hoping for some of those mana vibes. Anton was across the table. This close, she could smell a mixture of aftershave and mouthwash. She didn't look at his face.
‘Where are the tuna?’ Matariki said.
The air moved between them. Anton waved a manuscript.
‘Let's get to the agenda.’
The tone—managerial, efficient—was the same. Part of Matariki had wondered how he’d act around her, but she realised now he was proficient at this. No cracks. She noted his jacket, new and expensive-looking, and saw how effortless this was.
‘Hold on,’ she fired back. It wasn't a conversation. ‘Why are the tuna missing?'
‘We’re just not sure about the tuna,’ Anton said. ‘Not everyone loves the tuna.’
Matariki raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that why the works are hidden in your office?’
‘We’re not MOMA,’ he said. ‘Part of my role is to…’
‘Come off it, Anton.’ Everyone knew the main criteria for his role: white public school male. Old money, a second home in Canterbury. Probably grew up on the North Shore.
Her head felt light. Suddenly, the world was different: concepts like shape and colour and weight and texture blurring together until seeing felt like holding, like vertigo hit all at once. Matariki held onto the side of the table. She tried to gesture towards Kaia, but she didn't have the energy to move her arms.
‘Have you looked at the revised table of contents?’ Kaia said, looking at Anton.
Anton shuffled the papers again before vigorously waving them at her.
‘Too many emerging artists, too few established,’ he said. He was baiting her.
‘It's Kaia’s show now,’ Matariki said. She tugged at the waistband of her skirt, which felt tighter than usual. Lately, she’d been too tired to cook, picking up takeaways on the way home. She remembered what Kaia had told her and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture her bro at Huriawa, his forehead and cheeks striped with kōkōwai.
‘Sure,’ Anton told Kaia. ‘It’s absolutely your show.’
‘We want to get rid of any hierarchy,’ Kaia said. ‘Just whanaukataka.’
‘What I was going to say, Matariki, was that I attended the kaumātua hui and asked for their input on that painting.’
‘And?’ She kept her eyes closed.
‘The old guy tore up the copy and scattered it on the table!’ He was referring to Matua Mouat, highly respected by the iwi and someone he’d met numerous times. ‘Then he brought up the America’s Cup and Hone Heke and the flagpole. Disappointingly, they’re set on stifling open debate and taming political art.’
As the meeting broke up, Matariki rose unsteadily, reaching for Kaia’s arm as she walked to the lunch room. A headache was starting at the base of her skull. For a moment, she hated herself as much as she hated Anton.
‘You ok, e hoa?’
There was no way of knowing. Yes. No. Maybe. She would have to be. The rage was there, continually, like background music. It wouldn’t let go of her.
Photo credit: Ebony Lamb