Art has never been the centre of my world. 

My toalua and I have six kids, so my own artistic practice has had to mature alongside them. I have been involved with art and music since childhood. My pa, Sale (Charles), was a self-taught artist. He would draw on any piece of paper he could find. On his lunch break at the plywood mill, he even produced fine pen drawings on paper towels from the bogs. 

He painted on beautiful brown rubbish sacks and thin veneer offcuts of plywood because they were the largest pieces of unprinted, cost-free and available substrate he could lay his hands on. 

My father’s practice of using just about anything to make art epitomises the irrepressibility of the creative drive. Neither circumstance, lack of funds or space could suppress the urge to create art - even amidst the full-throttle life of eight kids and his aged father-in-law, chronic asthma and working shifts at Kinleith. 

My own life hasn’t been too dissimilar, in that the making of works has had to be filled into every possible space and time where it could be made during the child-rearing years. Anyway … that’s boring to folx without tamariki … but my point is that life’s rigours and toil aren’t barriers to making. 

In saying that - reality’s suckful presence has its place, and needs acknowledging throughout our lives.

Many artists without children have the ability to nurture and treat their art practice with the attention one would their child. This is not to say that an artist without children doesn’t have the responsibility of animals they love or extended whaanau, or extenuating circumstances causing distress. 

Reality is the substrate upon which every artist makes their work. 

In the last year, my poor babies and husband and my extended whaanau faced the loss of my fifth child, Nehemiah (better known as Nino). On Ascension Sunday, 20 May 2023, at age 27, Nino chose to go home to his God. 

Needless to say, this fucked us all up in ways that each of us has to negotiate. 

There are many days when I have a deep desire to leave. But there are more days when I want to live for the beauty in the faces of my five mokopuna, Tremayne, Asher, Frankie, Willow and Mo. My daughters were surprised that I didn’t utterly collapse and not get up … I am surprised too. Nino left us so many of his little characters, a habit that he formed since he was able to draw. Each of my children and I have a Nino drawing or three on our skin by our Borneo whanaunga, Agan Selliman.

Unfortunately, art cannot be a salve for postnatal depression, arguments so loud the neighbours can hear everything, addiction to daytime (and nighttime) soapies, a drug-addicted son and the harrowing chaos, terrible parenting practices … and then getting counselling for all the above. 

It is not easy to say these things so explicitly, but I want there to be no illusion that artistic life is all galleries and openings. For me, surviving - let alone surviving as an artist - has come through toil and the selflessness of my toalua, Craig. 

Not every artist is fortunate enough to have that moral support. I’m certain every artist has their own backstory. 

For years I was closeted with my faith, because it is often scorned in academic and artistic circles due to the predominance of shady history, fascistic fundamentalists and rationalism. Probably rightly so in many cases … I don’t play my faith the conventional way. Mine is deeply immersed in the pragmatic words of Jesus, “Love one another as I have loved you.” 

It is an active, lived faith, problem solving and inquiry regarding things beyond my control. It is steeped in mysticism akin to that of Hildegarde von Bingen (1098–1179), or the kind of spirituality found in the works of Giotto di Bondone (1267–1337) and Byzantine art. 

My aestheticism is directly influenced by the Samoan Catholic animism that my parents, Etevise and Sale, raised us with in childhood. My faith was only enriched by being raised in Tokoroa, where there was no Catholic school and we belonged to the Samoan Catholic Society whereby we attended both Samoan Mass and Maaori Mass, and sometimes with a side serving of Dutch hymns at Midnight Mass. 

It is this rich, creamy community-enriched experience that sustained my creative self. The unending metaphysical tributary of consciousness where much of my art is born. My dreams provide the first drafts of all my creative practice; whether it is a performance work, a painting, a piece of writing, or creating a birthday card for a friend or some design for a cause. 

The way these kinds of experiences inform an artistically leaning mind cannot be understated, because they are reiterating a relationship to the unseen. 

Believing in the unseen is absurd. I am absurd. Whether or not past ‘religious’ experiences develop into a ‘faith practice’ or a secular interest in concept and critical thinking, they are often the spark that ignites the furnace of lifelong artistic inquiry. Just look at the work of Colin McCahon, Ralph Hotere or Hilma af Klint.

My love of the absurd is my most important attribute as an artist. It permits me to feel okay about accessing visions (dreams), unseen aid, and an unbreakable connection to making art. It is part of my physical make-up. 

I have a deep sense of gratitude for my own inner world and the art that emerges from it. To nurture your inner self is to continue adding fuel to the creative inferno that informs your artistic inquiry.

If you’re already bored with what I have written, stop reading. Don’t feel the need to please anyone. My experience is mine alone - so just ignore it all if you find it a stink read. 

Some good things to remember:

One: Document all your work and any exhibitions or launches you might have. 

Photograph it — get photographer mates to take flash photos. This will bode well for when you apply for funding, and it’s actually just good for you to look back at the progression of your work. 

This is the same for actors, poets and performers. Get people to document what you do if you need it for your archive. 

Two: Take some down time from your practice — veer away from conversations or places that force you to discuss work.

Three: Set aside time for professional development whenever you feel the need. 

This might be installing your work in a gallery, or writing about yourself for an artist bio, or it could be going to shows that spark your engine. 

Four: Give to and continue to be part of whichever community you live in or identify with. 

Five: Don’t inflate your prices, get professional advice regarding your work and where your work sits in the landscape based upon how well known you are or not. 

Don’t be a dick and think that you’re more famous than you are. Unless you’re Lisa Reihana or Shane Cotton or at a top-end gallery, then you need to understand this fact in growing your visibility. 

Six: Find the exact kupu (words) or rationale for your mahi. Your work is worth being articulate about. It needn’t be deep or existential. It just needs your own words. 

Seven: If you’re broke, just make art from whatever you can. 

Find other art folk who are in the same boat so you can maybe collaborate or have a couply peeps to maintain an art connection. 

Eight: This is your lifelong job … don’t stop creating or finding avenues or means to give your creativity an out, whether it’s baking, gardening, doing fundraisers, making with anything you find or making art for free to give away. 

There is no separation between being an artist and your general life. Being an artist is your day job, your night job and your va job. 

The HEART TALK Series is brought to you Art Makers Aotearoa and was commissioned and produced by Van Mei, with copy-editing by Marie Shannon and funding support from Creative New Zealand.