Talanoa with a Tusitala is our our bi-monthly series produced in partnership with Tagata Atamai. In this instalment, Danielle Kionasina Dilys Thomson talks to Melissa Gilbert, or Mel, a queer brown baddie and artist.

All photos by Warren Paea.

Melissa Gilbert is the living embodiment of the authenticity, duality, and fluid expression that overflow in communities where I feel truly safe. As a queer Indigenous artist, she represents the complex wholeness that I hope for whenever I think of our collective future. A speaker of divine and layered truths, Mel is literally a conduit between our spiritual homes and our (often) jarring realities. She is as powerful as she is tender; someone I would gladly stand with in times of harmony or conflict.

Needless to say, I was stoked when Mel agreed to sit down with me for a yarn. She strode into my fale wearing black leather platform boots and a grin that could disarm the steeliest authorities. Mel’s fluorescent magenta hair, gold tooth, and whale bone atua resting on her chest were more than stylistic choices. They were tohu (signs) that she straddled time and space in a way that most have not yet recalled is possible.

Dani Kionasina: Who are you?

Melissa Gilbert: I’m Mel. I am the youngest of six children. I was born in Palmerston North. My mum is from Tonga, Samoa, Fiji. In Tonga, we’re from Leimatu’a, Vavau, and Pelehake, Tongatapu. In Samoa, Upolu, Moata’a, Apia. And then, in Fiji, I’m from Naroro and Nandrogna.

I’m gender fluid: fefine mo tagata, which means male and female. I kind of view it as an existential situation where it’s kind of like wairua in terms of two rivers. Both masc and fem, and I float between the two. When you’re floating between the two, labels are useless ‘cause I’ll start the day feeling feminine and I’ll start the sentence feeling feminine. I’ll end the sentence feeling masculine. I think the fluidity of it all is really important. I take all pronouns, even king or queen!

I’m an artist. I grew up in a really creative family. My mum was just a Tongan queen. She was just constantly sewing, making her own things. My dad did photography. He’s from Invercargill originally. His background is English, Irish, Scottish, and German.

I have ADHD.

Dani: Tell me about your creative practice.

Mel: Some of my earliest memories are of drawing with my siblings to stay quiet in church. I finished high school and did painting and all that kind of stuff. I loved business. I loved art. I went to go get a “real job” – my soul was dying. I even went to Australia to get that real money. But, my soul was dying and I was like, you know what, f*** it.

I came back to New Zealand, came to Auckland, and literally found my people. I was introduced to FAFSWAG through an art school lecture. I think it’s just really important to see people who look like you and think like you, and see the possibilities. And I was like, “Ok, cool. We’re good.”

I was able to do pop-up stores on K' Road. I had a friend who was already entrenched in this community, and she kind of gave me a lay of the land. She’s like, “Your art is gonna do really well on K' Road. Don’t go to Ponsonby, here, here, here, here. They won’t understand you.”

Now, I am lucky enough to work on K' Road, which is crazy! But I really enjoy it because it’s like the island of lost toys a little bit, which I feel akin to. I love the weirdos. I love the people who will just come and talk to you. I really love that.

I’m a Capricorn.

Dani: How did you start making art?

Mel: My art practice started with uni. Honestly, my art practice is a way to quell the diaspora for me. Academia is a really soft cushion to land upon when you are so nervous about entering into cultural norms and things like that – especially when you're so alternative… looking.

Dani: Why do you make art? Who do you make art for?

Mel: My mum passed away when I was 19. I’m 29. She had cancer, and she had time to write us letters. We were able to record her stories and say goodbye in a lot of ways.

She grew up in Tonga. She grew up Mormon. I grew up Mormon as well. She moved to South Auckland in the ‘80s and met my dad in church. She would tell us stories when we were recording her about how she didn’t wear Tongan clothes – she wore American clothes. She moved here, got a job, had kids; did everything right. She didn’t really have the time to teach us her culture. Being an immigrant, she was more focused on earning, taking care of us kids, and assimilating.

Because she passed away early on in my life, I had a lot of unanswered questions. Questions you only have as an adult. Questions that don’t necessarily always get answered within Polynesian families. I had the privilege of going to Tonga with them on my mind. The trip settled a lot of things for, and in me.

I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about being half-caste. In Aotearoa, I’m seen as white in a negative way. In Tonga, I was seen as white in a positive way. If one side demonises you, and the other glorifies you for something you can’t control, in my opinion – they cancel each other out. What do I think of myself at the end of the day?

I went to uni, and I had the lecture that changed my life. I learnt about colonialism. It all clicked into place. That’s everything I’ve been thinking, but not knowing how to say it. The initial epiphany of that burst through in my art practice. I primarily started with painting, but for me, if the message is the most effective in a different medium, I will change it.

My practice definitely relates to connecting back to my culture and ultimately, my mum.

It’s all cyclical, and it’s all for my mum.

Dani: Who do you share your art for?

Mel: Putting my stuff out online, I’ve been able to find the queer brown baddies. I was able to do a queer Pasifika live drawing class. The people who came, I was like, “Oh! Awesome.” ‘Cause I’m just really weird. Within the subgroups that I’m in, I am in those subgroups of subgroups. But the internet has been really helpful. Those who get it, get it. And it’s usually brown baddies who are academics. I made a t-shirt of Hikule’o (the Tongan god of Pulotu) and even Samoan girls were wearing it. When I make a sale, I make a friend.

Dani: Tell me more about the atua who you paint.

Mel: It’s teaching myself and feeling them out in real time. I don’t draw plans, which makes my paintings like six months long. But, I move with where the paint goes and move with it. I think having physical representations is so important. The research going into the composition teaches me about these atua in terms of their personalities – especially lesser known gods. Recognising their likeness is really important.

I think the basis of the education I’m trying to learn and teach myself and other people is like, ok, the starting point is our gods. With going to Tonga and Fiji, the romanticism of those places has left me, and I’m able to paint realities. So now, moving into a new space in my art practice, I’m going to be talking about family – not gods. Realities and cultural slippage. As I download and live life, I think it’s gonna be changing.

Dani: How has your role as an arts administrator impacted your creative practice?

Mel: It’s been really good to learn the other side of the industry and understand industry standards, finances, and applying for things. It is a privilege to make art and to have the space to be creative, because, ultimately being creative is being playful… And you can’t be playful when you’re worried about rent.

I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by people who are like, “What are you doing with your art?” Sometimes, your community will keep you in line and motivated.

You can find Mel’s mahi toi at @melissaaluesi on Instagram. In May 2026, you will be able to experience her paintings in the flesh at Studio One Toi Tū.