Thursday, May 21, 2015

Where are the mothers' awards?

Last night, after my wife went into hospital to have her gall bladder removed, I became a mother. It was, I must admit, a chastening experience. As my eight month old son pawed and bit at my chest, hysterically searching for his lost supply of milk, the three year old turned our bed into a trampoline, and shouted his demand that I help him test the engines of the fleet of toy cars he keeps in the lounge room. I spent hours rocking the baby in aching arms, feeling a little like a miner panning endlessly and hopelessly for gold. At about two o'clock, when the evening had begun to seem endless, I filled a water bottle with milk from the fridge, stowed it under my shirt, then revealed it to the crying baby. He wasn't fooled.

I realised last night that the rituals I had associated with parenthood - making bacon and eggs for breakfast, kicking a ball in the park, running after a balance bike - call for far less stamina than breastfeeding and lullabying. Thank goodness for relatives, and for the fact that my wife is home today.

How odd it felt to rise this morning from the lounge room floor, where I had eventually coaxed that baby boy to sleep, shamble to the mailbox, and find my photograph inside the latest issue of our local newspaper.

The Western Leader has run an article about my receipt of the inaugural Mayoral Literary Award, and allowed me to describe the book and film I'm making about Auckland's Great South Road. I am grateful to see the paper giving coverage to my writing, but after the experiences of the last eighteen or so hours I have decided belief that the mothers of small boys should permanently be celebrated on the front pages of every newspaper in the world, and allotted awards of their own.

I'm off now to drink a glass of milk and take a nap.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Friday, May 15, 2015

Getting it all arranged

I was grateful to receive the first Auckland Mayoral Literary Award last night, during a ceremony at the Town Hall timed to coincide with the Auckland Writers Festival. In his speech at the Town Hall Auckland mayor Len Brown noted the city's absurdly rich literary heritage, observed that its writers deserve more support, and hoped that the prize he had established would be offered annually for at least a century.

I got the Award after promising to produce an illustrated book about my journeys through space and time along Auckland's Great South Road, and to advance the documentary film about the road on which I've been working intermittently but intensely with auteur Paul Janman and cinematographer Ian Powell. The book will be ready for publication by the middle of next year, and Paul hopes to have our film on the festival circuit by then as well.

The other two finalists for the Award were Renee Liang, who proposed creating a play about a Chinese family living in Ponsonby during the 1940s and '50s, and Courtney Meredith, who promised a book-length sequence of poems that dealt with the history and present of South Auckland. Unlike the one hundred metre dash or tiddlywinks, literature is not a sport that allows the precise and definitive comparison of its competitors' performances, and it would be ridiculous for anyone to suggest that Liang's and Meredith's projects have less importance and potential than my own. My best wishes to them both.

Paul Janman and Ian Powell have already produced thousands of photographs and tens of hours of film footage during their journeys with me along the Great South Road. On the day before the Awards ceremony, Paul brought me to a huge blank room in central Auckland, and poured hundreds of images - discrete photographs, as well as film stills - onto a long table that ran down the middle of the room. For the rest of the day the two of us took turns picking an image and pinning it to one of the room's walls. Juxtapositions were made, and patterns formed and dissolved. Ian Powell and Paul's wife Echo Zeanah-Janman wandered into the room occasionally, chuckled, and wandered out again.
A few months ago Paul and I worked out a reasonably tight structure for a film about the Great South Road, complete with recurring scenes and phrases and a complicated historical argument, but he had become concerned that we were proceeding too intellectually, and not letting our images associate with one another freely, without the rules imposed by narrative and logic. It wasn't a matter of abandoning order, Paul explained, but of giving intuition its due. We needed intutition if we were to finish the film.

On the high walls of that empty room we tried to let the images wander where they wanted. I discovered the visual and emotional parralels between an abandoned railcar at the Otahuhu workshops and a drab war memorial in the lower Waikato; I realised, as well, that Paul's infrared footage of Newmarket caryards was as sinister and obscure as the primitive photographs that pretended to document the wars of the 1860s.

During my acceptance speech at the Town Hall I talked about Kendrick Smithyman, whose psychogeographic wanderings around the bleaker suburbs of Auckland and the weedier backblocks of the North Island are one of the inspirations for my travels along the Great South Road. The experiment with Paul in that big blank room reminded me of the wry poem that Smithyman called 'Peter Durey's Story':

A notable social scientist used to teach
in a boarding house not now remembered clearly.
He was brilliant at seminars, his lectures were
off the cuff, publishers sought him,
students ran scared, he was so much in command,
                  One day at his office
he was very proud of himself.
Sleeves rolled, glasses dazzling, he stacked
oh it must have been close on a hundred
biggish flat boxes, the kind which dress shops used.
"Look at that now, years of it! At last,
I’ve got it all arranged." Each box, labelled.

The first said Field Notes, Classified.
The second, Field Notes, Classified.
The ninety-plus others, Field Notes, Unclassified.

That’s how people think
university people work, bringing to order,
all the time collecting, finding out, systematising.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Friday, May 08, 2015

Making monuments

Over at EyeContact I've written about Sione Faletau's attempt to reconstruct the most famous of Tonga's ancient monuments.

While a video camera looked on serenely, Faletau and two of his brothers contorted and strained their bodies until they had made the shape of the Ha'amonga 'a Maui, or the burden of Maui, three coral slabs that stand near the northeastern corner of the island of Tongatapu.

Some of the first palangi visitors to Tonga likened the Ha'amonga 'a Maui to Stonehenge, because its shape echoes the sections of England's most famous ancient monument. Today a few pseudo-historians use the internet to claim that the Ha'amonga was actually built by blokes from Wales or Britanny, rather than by Tongans. Curiously enough, these Celtic irredentists never bring their arguments to the kava circles or seminar rooms of Tonga.

If there is any parallel between the Ha'amonga and Stonehenge, then I think it relates to the place of the two monuments in the consciousness of the descendants of their makers. Stonehenge is one of the most widely disseminated and easily recognisable symbols of Britain. Its pillars and lintels decorate teacups and biscuit tins as effortlessly as Black Sabbath and Hawkwind album covers.

But Stonehenge is mysterious as well as ubiquitous. Its origins, function, and symbolism are the subjects of protracted and sometimes comical debates (the latest attempt at an explication comes from Julian Spalding, who thinks that an enormous altar might have sat on top of those famous stones).

The mysteries that hang about Stonehenge remind us of the depth and oddness of Britain's history, and the arbitrary, improvisational nature of what we noawadays consider British culture.

Like Stonehenge, the Ha'amonga 'a Maui is a famous monument with a contested past. Neither Tongan nor palangi scholars can agree on whether it was a political monument, a tomb, an observatory, or a sculpture. The monument is a reminder of the long pagan history that only recently gave way to Tongan versions of Christianity.

At EyeContact I argue that Sione Faletau's version of the Ha'amonga 'a Maui embodies one of the oldest and most powerful contradictions in Tongan society.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Saturday, May 02, 2015

Andrew Little, my father-in-law, and New Zealand's housing crisis

[Over the past few weeks a series of politicians, media commentators and academics have discussed New Zealand's overheated housing market, and suggested ways of making homes less attractive to speculators and more affordable for families. Fran O'Sullivan has urged John Key and Andrew Little to get together and craft a capital gains tax that might prick the housing bubble; Bernard Hickey has suggested a tax on land, rather than capital gains; and Penny Hulse has called for rent controls and a massive housebuilding programme in Auckland. 

New Labour leader Andrew Little has not played a prominent role in the debate over housing. Little is aware of the intensity of the debate over housing, and the frustration of so many New Zealanders at runaway prices, but he believes that Labour lost the last election partly because the public disliked its proposals for a capital gains tax. He wants to throw away that policy, but has not yet devised anything to take its place. 

Recently my father-in-law, the educationalist Alan Wagstaff, e mailed Andrew Little to outline a policy that he believes might help alleviate New Zealand's housing crisis. I've reproduced Alan's e mail to Little, Little's reply, and I comment that I sent to Alan that tries to put his proposals into an historical context.]

Dear Mr. Andrew Little

Assuming you deal with many hundreds of messages I’ve expressed myself in minimalistic terms. The high cost of land holds many New Zealand families in poverty. There are approximately 1,265,000 families living in New Zealand in 2015. In 2015, about 19,000 NZ families live in poverty. LINZ manages over 1.5 million hectares of pastoral land in the South Island on behalf of the Crown.

The idea:
Give 800 square metres of land to 19,000 families. 
This would be 15,200,000 square metres or 1,520 hectares
The Crown would still manage 1,498,480 hectares of land. 
Who gets which parcel of land could be determined by chance. 
What poor families do with their land would be up to them.
Alan Wagstaff

After Andrew Little sent a quick and interested reply, Alan explained his idea in more detail:

Hello Andrew
I’m grateful and amazed you were able to respond so promptly.

To elaborate further:
  1. The land would not need to be accessible – or necessarily/even used by the new owners - it would be an asset that might be sold by them or used as collateral.
  2. The system would not try to be ‘universally fair’; merely 19,000 lots would be given away and thus would impact some struggling families in NZ – but not all.
  3. The system might impact (slow the rise or even lower the cost) the high price of land in this country via reduced demand.
  4. The allocation could be by random lottery type numbers to families only identified by code.
As you are aware young New Zealanders – even those in employment – are finding it increasing difficult to get on the property ladder. I suspect we are in danger of creating a dispirited generation of young families. I suspect that such a bold and unexpected move might inject a wave of hope into young NZers.

Food for thought!
Alan Wagstaff

Here's my message to Alan:

Hi Alan,

thanks for sharing that fascinating exchange with Andrew Little. It is encouraging to see him engaging with a voter who offers some policy advice. I've got my head in the nineteenth century right now, because of a research project, and I can't help but think of some precedents for the scheme you advocate.

I'm sending this message from my parents' place in Drury. A couple of kilometres away, at the edge of a forest, are a few dozen old and untended graves. They are the only visible remains of Peach Hill, one of scores of communities established by soldier-settlers and assisted migrants in the years after the Waikato War. 

After invading and conquering the Waikato in 1863 and '64, the colonial government in Auckland needed to settle its new territories with loyal members of the British Empire. It gave blocks of land away to thousands of soldiers, and offered free passage as well as free land to Australians, Britons, and Irish willing to settle the Waikato.

Peach Hill was the new name for Te Maketu, an ancient pa and village that had been used as a lookout by Maori guerrillas during the early stages of the Waikato War. Te Maketu was part of the two million acres confiscated by the colonial government after the war. Its groves of fruit trees and terraced fields were divided into small plots and handed to a group of assisted emigrants from southwest Ireland. The emigrants raised dozens of houses and a Catholic church, took over the orchards Maori had established, and ran stock in their fields. Without a port or a good road, though, they struggled to find a market for their produce. Their settlement soon declined, as families left for the Coromandel, where gold had been discovered, or Auckland, where jobs could sometimes be found. The departees sold their plots for tiny sums to the Auckland moguls who had fomented the Waikato War.

Peach Hill was only one of a dozen or so settlements that were abandoned in the 1870s and '80s. Some of these settlements have been forgotten; others persist as misleading names on maps. Camerontown, which was named after the elderly British general who reluctantly led the invasion of the Waikato, is a few acres of bush behind Pukekohe; the blocks of nearby Harrisville, which bears the name of one of Cameron's subordinates, are filled with onions and potatoes rather than houses and shops.
You might argue that the Waikato settlements I've been discussing are not really relevant to the scheme you advocate, because you don't foresee the families who receive small pieces of land from the state actually having to occupy that land. These families might lease their plots, or use them as collateral for loans, or sell them outright.

But I think there is a second piece of New Zealand history that shows some of the difficulties involved in handing isolated fragments of land to people with few resources to develop that land. 

In 1906 the Seddon government guided the South Island Landless Natives Act through parliament. The Act gave four thousand members of Kai Tahu, the main iwi of the South Island, ownership of nearly sixty thousand acres of land. These 'native reserves' were supposed to provide an economic base for South Island Maori, who had lost almost all of their land in the nineteenth century. But the land handed over in 1906 was inaccessible and often infertile, and much of it lay unused for decades.

Kai Tahu's reserves included a few pieces of the rainforest in the Caitlins region of Southland. When the iwi announced plans to log its forests, though, environmentalists protested, and the government intervened to protect the trees.

Only when Kai Tahu signed a Treaty settlement in 1998 did it win some genuinely valuable pieces of South Island countryside from the Crown.

I suspect that families who were gifted small pieces of land in remote parts of New Zealand would suffer some of the same frustrations as twentieth century Kai Tahu. If a family's plot of land could not be reached by a road, then it would surely be useless for most purposes. Even if it could be connected to a road, then zoning laws and environmental regulations would make its economic exploitation difficult, and make it impossible to use as collateral. An acre or so of scrubland on the side of a Fiordland mountain is not likely to fund the purchase of a house in Auckland.

I think that the examples of the postwar Waikato settlements an the Kai Tahu reserves show that the gifting of land is not the same, in New Zealand, as the gifting of economic security. (I could use other, and more recent, examples to try to make my point - the famous ohu scheme that saw Norm Kirk and Matiu Rata handing remote scraps of land to hippies who wanted to found communes, for example - but I'm sure I've gone on long enough already.)

I think that the housebuilding and buying schemes run by the Massey government after World War One and the first Labour government in the 1930s and '40s offer better models for a government serious about dealing with the housing crisis in Auckland and other New Zealand cities.
Although William Massey was a very conservative leader, he was afraid of the industrial conflict that poverty and poor housing conditions helped create in pre-war New Zealand. The Housing Act he introduced in 1919 saw local governments being paid to build low-cost houses that could be acquired without deposits. The first Labour government softened the pressure of market forces on the housing sector by building tens of thousands of state homes. Even the Key government seems belatedly and reluctantly to have admitted that it needs to intervene in the housing market: this week it offered two hundred million dollars to build low-income homes in East Auckland.

New Zealand history suggests to me that building in the cities, rather than gifting remote pieces of land, is the way to help families into homes. 


[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Friday, April 24, 2015

The other von Sturmer

Since the early nineties, when I found a copy of Moments of Invention, Gregory O'Brien and Robert Cross' big, magical book about New Zealand writers, in my school library, I've known the name Richard von Sturmer. In Moments of Invention Richard was shown feeding ducks on the edge of Lake Pupuke and talking about the book of surreal prose poems he called We Xerox Your Zebras. His short yet spiky hair made him look like a punk, which he had been for a decade, and a Zen teacher, which he was becoming.

For the last twenty years I've followed Richard's career as a writer, actor, film maker, musician, and proponent of Zen, collecting small books with the exotic and resonant surname von Sturmer on their spines. Recently, though, I encountered a new von Sturmer.

Spencer William von Sturmer emigrated from Britain to New Zealand in 1855, and was soon performing a variety of administrative duties for the rickety colonial state. By the end of the 1860s von Sturmer was one of a small set of white men living beside Northland's Hokianga harbour. The government in faraway Wellington had appointed him the district's magistrate, coroner, customs officer, inspector of native schools, and chemist.

Von Sturmer was soon sharing drinks and books with Frederick Maning, a pioneer turned respectable gentleman and Native Land Court judge who is remembered today as the author of the memoir Old New Zealand, and John Webster, a survivor of Ben Boyd's psychotic attempt to build an empire in the tropical Pacific who had become improbably rich by milling the Hokianga's kauri forests.

I encountered Spencer von Sturmer during my research into the schoonerload of ni-Vanuatu who were, in 1870, removed from their homes on the island of Efate, brought to New Zealand, and put to work in the colony's flax mills. By 1871 at least twelve of these ni-Vanuatu were working at a mill in Waiarohia, near the southern head of the Hokianga harbour. As keeper of the district's drugs and inspector of its dead, Spencer was responsible for supplying an ailing ni-Vanuatu worker nicknamed Kuri with medicines, and for recording the man's eventual demise from consumption. Von Sturmer's services are mentioned in a report by the Auckland policeman John Thomson, who was sent to the Hokianga to investigate the welfare of the islanders after newspapers and the Governor of New Zealand had complained about the arrival of 'slavery' in the colony.

Von Sturmer, Maning, and Webster were all prolific epistolarists, and over the past few weeks I've been holing up in the Auckland's museum and its public library, and searching their texts for references to the ni-Vanuatu toiling at Waiarohia. Surely, I thought, John Webster, a man who once tried to conquer the Solomon Islands, would take an interest in the Melanesians who had arrived in his neighbourhood? Wouldn't Frederick Maning, who had a fascination with Maori culture, have been keen to report on the dances that the ni-Vanuatu apparently performed for their hosts? And wasn't it likely that Spencer von Sturmer, a man with a fondness for gossip, would have been intrigued and worried about the investigation that the colonial government launched into affairs at Waiarohia?

Unfortunately, though, I haven't found, in all those letterbooks, the briefest reference to the mill at Waiarohia, let alone an account of its inhabitants.

I e mailed Richard von Sturmer recently, and asked him whether he acknowledged Spencer as an ancestor; Richard explained that Spencer was his great-grandfather.

I'm not sure whether I'd want a famous great grandfather. Ancestors can, after all, be troublesome. Like small children, they make us feel responsible for their errors, even when we know we cannot correct their behaviour. Faced with the follies of their forebears - with bar brawls or wars started by a bout of pedantry or a drunken boast, and fortunes gambled and lost on a flax mill or stump farm - genealogists must learn the patient but critical manner familiar to parents and kindergarten teachers. It is easier to study someone else's ancestors.

I hope Richard won't mind too much if I post my favourite text from the oeuvre of Spencer von Sturmer. It was sent in 1871 to William Fox, the Premier of New Zealand.

My dear Sir,

I take the liberty of again troubling you -

The fact is that the inhabitants of this place, with very few exceptions, are given to excessive drinking, and of course all sorts of evils follow in its train. So bad has it become, that unless some change takes place in the habits of the people, I shall be compelled to leave the District, even though my living depends upon my remaining here, as my family are subject to every sort of annoyance from drunken people; as, though they never leave my own premises, still, it is impossible to drown the shouts and noise of thirty or forty, and sometimes more, drunken natives and Europeans, wrangling and fighting together.

The enclosed letter, from Mohi Tawhai, is just to hand. He requests me to caution - J.R. Clenden, J.P.; Capt. Rowntree, J.P.; and John Eryson, and other sellers of spirits, not to sell in large quantities to the natives, naming one in particular) belonging to his settlement.

Could not a J.P. be removed from the Commision of the Peace when he takes to selling spirits? or something be done to shame him? Capt. Rowntree does not himself hold a Licence, but the spirits are sold in his house by his brother-in-law.

Can nothing be done to alter the state of things here? I have spoken to Mr. Webster, and other J.P.'s in the District; and they would gladly assist in anything to prevent spirits coming into Hokianga, were it possible. Perhaps it would be in your power to assist us in some way, to bring about a better state of things here.

Should you think it possible that anything can be done to improve matters, would you kindly, when you have the opportunity, give me some appointment elsewhere, (keeping a Lighthouse would be better than staying here). I am not ambitious. Any situation in any Office that you think I could perform - anything to get away from this place; not so much on my own account, as on that of my wife and family.

I have no right to complain of the people here, either white or black. All are very kind - in fact, more so than I have a right to expect. The shocking dissipation is what I complain of. The Websters and Manings will, I am satisfied, corroborate all I say. They themselves live in isolated spots, so are not so much troubled. I should not have written to you, as I imagined you would have visited this place, in company with Mr. McLean; but Mr. Maning, (just returned) tells me you will not come, and so will not be able to see this delightful spot for yourself.

Please excuse this, and hoping that Mrs. Fox and yourself are well,

Believe me, dear Sir, 
Yours very faithfully (Signed) 
Spencer von Sturmer.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Facing south with Andrew Dean

[My spies tell me that Andrew Dean, who has been studying literature in Oxford since winning a Rhodes Scholarship in 2012, recently returned to his native South Canterbury, where he is once again wondering at the wide skies and contemplating the work of great southern scribblers like Charles Brasch and Kames K Baxter.

Dean has returned to New Zealand to launch his first book, Roger, Ruth and Me, which promises to examine the impact of the neo-liberal 'reforms' of the 1980s and '90s on a generation of young Kiwis.

I thought it was about time that I excavated and digitised an interview I did with Andrew in 2012, when I was guest editing an issue of the literary journal brief. I'd given my issue of brief the theme of Oceania, and I wanted to see how Andrew, as a son of the south, would respond to a word so often associated with lagoons and palm trees. The interview appeared in brief alongside Andrew's essay 'The Seeing Men: Paul Theroux and William Pember Reeves'.]

SH: You’re probably best known as the main contributor to keaandcattle, a Canterbury-based blog that features original literary work as well as some interesting analyses of New Zealand culture, but recently you’ve also distinguished yourself academically, by winning a Rhodes Scholarship and a major American scholarship on the strength of your researches into Kiwi literary history. How easy is it to reconcile academic work with blogging?

AD: At the moment, unfortunately, the scales are tipped in one direction – I last updated keaandcattle a month ago. Recently I’ve been holed up editing papers and working as a Business Analyst for the Digital Humanities project, UC CEISMIC (, which is the digital earthquake archive at the University of Canterbury.

I find it hard to write well on literary and political topics when I’m not involved in direct research. It’s out of close reading that I find the material for blogging. Yet blogging does have a special place for me: it’s engaged with a community, in a way that sitting in my office carefully unmixing my metaphors just isn’t. If research is at home in the office, blogging is at home in the pub: research and blogging, for me anyway, are part of the same academic and literary ecosystem.

It’s more than that, though. Academics in the humanities have a duty to be public intellectuals. We’ve been asleep at the wheel, I think, for a long time, while the society we thought we were responsible to has been dismantled around us. Publicly discussing history, literature and history – speaking back to Mark Sainsbury, in other words - admits at least one dark, fusty corner where considered analysis is still possible, where the possibility of change is still considered.
SH: You’ve written often from a distinctly South Island perspective, expressing an affinity for southern landscapes and for the work of southern writers like Charles Brasch. In one particularly interesting blog post you described holing up in a high country hut and reading through a pile of early issues of Landfall. Do you identify as a regionalist writer, and for that matter reader? Kendrick Smithyman once said that, for him, the South Island was a “foreign country”. Do you feel that way about the north?

AD: You’re using your (north-of-the-bombays) imagination – I couldn’t carry all those Landfalls up to a country hut! I’d break my (already fragile) shoulders!

To answer your question, I definitely identify as a southern reader. How can I not? When I was a child I never read New Zealand literature, and I was worse off for it: I didn’t have the literature bowling into a nor’wester at the close of play; I didn’t have the language to describe the oncoming front in July. What I was lacking was a literature of loneliness and isolation – the South Island Myth, in other words, however problematic its ideological operations.
As a writer – well that’s very much a work-in-progress. Inevitably, I am influenced by what I’ve been reading – everything from Pynchon to Curnow, Carver to Frame. Now all I’ve got to do is learn to write. And as for the North Island? It has a lot to answer for. People up that way eat in cafes rather than tearooms. I find it hard to orientate myself up there. Where are the mountains, which normally stare down at you from the end of the main road? Where are the soggy out-of-season asparagus rolls? It’s a different place alright, and I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable up there.

SH: How does the notion of the Pacific, or Oceania, look from the south of New Zealand? Can an alternative version of the notion perhaps found in a place like Christchurch, which has historic connections, through sea and air ports, with Antarctica and the sub-Antarctic islands? Do southern writers like Graham Billing advance a different understanding of the Pacific, when they describe the sub-Antarctic seas, and visits to Antarctica?

AD: How does it look? We don’t look north from here. That’s why our cities are built facing south. I mean how else can you explain Invercargill? Our understanding of the Pacific is very different. I remember reading a truly bizarre narrative by John Caselberg, which won the Landfall prose prize, in which he followed a water molecule from creation into eternity. The water headed south, into the wind and cold; it was swallowed by a skua; it turned into ice. It’s this constant troping of the environment as inimical to human habitation that marks southern literature, and, inevitably, that marks southern representations of the Pacific.
Of course, this aesthetic is deeply political. Heading south entails heading away from human habitation. Moving away from the Pacific, in which Pakeha are implicated in the history of colonialism, allows us to fantasize about a great southern terra nullius where these problems seemingly evaporate. If the South Island won’t do (those pesky Ngai Tahu keep getting in the way), then look at Antarctica instead, where the only indigenes are penguins.

The anxieties of settlement are pervasive in the south, and our literary energies are displaced upon the landscape – Allen Curnow, no less, commented upon the ‘Awareness of what great gloom / Stands in a land of settlers / With never a soul at home.’ The northern Pacific, in the end, doesn’t get much of a look in as we busily produce our myths about the south.

SH: You’re off to Oxford later this year, to take up your Rhodes scholarship. What lines of research do you hope to pursue there? Do you feel an affinity with some of the Rhodes scholars of the past, like the group of young men whose fateful lives were described in James McNeish’s Dance of the Peacocks?

AD: At Oxford I have applied to undertake an M. St. in English (1900-present), which is a one year taught masters. This is a preparation course for the D. Phil., which I intend to undertake immediately upon completing the M. St. I plan to focus upon the life-writing of women writers, such as Janet Frame, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath. My interest is in the way that writers with such a high autobiographical quotient to their fiction work through experience; I’m not an essentialist seeking to locate the ‘skeleton in the oedipal closet’, rather I want to find sensitive ways to read and write about writing subjectivities.
I actually read Dance of the Peacocks when I was preparing to fly to Wellington for the Rhodes interview. Jim Bertram, Geoffrey Cox, Dan Davin and Ian Milner went over Rhodes Scholars, while Charles Brasch and John Mulgan went over separately. They were all very influential in New Zealand letters. They are an inspiration. In getting such an incredible opportunity I feel that I have a responsibility, not only to New Zealand but those who have gone before and who, with the exception of Milner, achieved so much of value, and who, again with the exception of Milner, showed such integrity.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Monday, April 13, 2015

A gun turret, an airplane, and an imaginary obelisk

My mates Paul Janman and Ian Powell will be appearing on a panel between six and eight o'clock tomorrow evening at Papakura Art Gallery, as they help Martin Langdon and Jonathan Jones discuss an exhibition called Shared Endeavour. Paul and Ian shot some of the film that accompanies Shared Endeavour along the Papakura stretch of the Great South Road, and Paul will apparently talk tomorrow night about some of the studies of the road and its history that he and Ian and I have been doing over the past couple of years.

Paul sent me some of Ian's marvellous photographs of the Great South Road and its environs this morning, and told me he was thinking of showing them tomorrow night. Here are three of the photographs (click to enlarge them), along with my annotations.

The Mercer memorial
The Pioneer was a paddlesteamer that spent parts of 1863 and '64 shelled the fortresses of Meremere and Rangiriri from the Waikato River, and supplying the British and colonial troops who had invaded the realm of the Maori king Tawhiao. The ship was wrecked shortly after the end of the Waikato War, but its turrets were preserved, and one of them was eventually planted in the middle of Mercer, a settler town built close to the border that Pakeha forces had crossed at the beginning of the conflict. The names of local men who fought in the First World War were carved into a plaque, and the plaque was welded to the turret. A badly carved and unhealthily pale soldier, clad in the functional khaki of twentieth century warfare, slouches over the turret like some exhausted sentry. 
The Mercer memorial embodies some of the contradictions of New Zealand history. It was made from a relic of the Waikato War, yet it names and celebrates the veterans of another, distant war. 
This country's contributions to the global wars of the twentieth century are remembered with ever-increasing piety on Anzac Day. Like Papuan storekeepers and loggers donning old masks for a festival or tourist ship, accountants and Kiwis who have never handled rifles stand to attention in their grandfathers' medals. 
But New Zealand would never have joined the famous battles of the twentieth century if it were not for the skirmishes and sieges that were fought on half-forgotten ridges and riverbanks in regions like the Waikato. The first Anzacs died not at Gallipoli but at Mauku, a settler village near the mouth of the Waikato where Australian volunteers joined colonial troops in a shootout with one of Tawhiao's guerrilla units. The New Zaland army was built during the New Zealand Wars, and the men who joined its ranks in the twentieth century were often sons and grandsons of the soldier-settlers who founded towns like Mercer on land they took from Maori. 
Just as the struggle between Pakeha and Maori is the half-acknowledged foundation of modern New Zealand, so the gun turret at Mercer is the barely acknowledged foundation on which one of the sacred events of modern New Zealand history is recorded. 
Paul Janman, Ian Powell and I had gone to Mercer looking for the Railway Hotel, where the prophet and guerrilla warrior Te Kooti spent a night in 1889, during his police-supervised journey between Auckland and the backblocks of Te Ika a Maui. Te Kooti, who had just been released from Mount Eden prison, was old and sick; as he left Mercer local Pakeha children chased his carriage, gawking at his heaving chest. 
We soon learned that the Railway Hotel had been removed across the Koheroa Hills to a former farm - a flat, treeless place - where parachutists like to land. Backpackers recovering from skydives have inherited the room where Te Kooti tried to sleep. 
After the departure of the hotel, Mercer's drinkers resorted to the Last Post Tavern, which seems to have been less a tavern than a few bar stools propped against the back of a liquor shop. When we visited, the Last Post had just been renamed Podge's Place after its new owner, a fat and joyless migrant from the somewhere south of the Waikato. Paul asked whether we could photograph of the signboards of the old pub, before Podge repainted them; Podge sneered and shrugged. 
Ian Powell's photograph makes Mercer's war memorial suddenly strange. He ignores the list of war veterans and the khaki soldier, and instead shows us the metal of that forgotten gun-turret curving away towards those soon-to-erased words Last Post. Powell makes us wonder whether the name of Mercer's boozer referred to the old British tune that buglers play beside war memorials every Anzac Day, or whether it might have held a memory of Mercer's history as a settlement on the borderlands of the British Empire. 
The grounded airplane at Ardmore 
Whenever I see Ian Powell's photograph of this air freighter, which was born too late for the greatest conflagrations of the twentieth century and had to content itself with carrying diplomats and politicians between the occupied cities of Japan, I think, a little sadly, of the Italian Futurist Marinetti, and his belief that modern engineers and aviators had created mechanised and aerodynamic incarnations of the angels described in the Bible. 
Ian, Paul and I found this obsolete angel in an unkempt paddock near the main runway of Ardmore airport. Kendrick Smithyman arrived at Ardmore in 1942, shortly after that runway had been laid. The young poet was supposed to learn how to shoot down planes, but after watching a silent, savage film in the base's rec room he converted, and requested a transfer to the air force. In a poem written four decades later, near the end of his life, Smithyman remembered that the film had been made by pilot who strapped a camera to his plane and then flew into a dogfight. As the camera jumped excitedly and the sky filled with flak and falling planes, beauty and horror suddenly fused, and Smithyman, like Marinetti before him, imagined war as a new and superior form of art. 
Smithyman would soon witness a series of deadly crashes, and develop a lifelong fear of the air. After retirement, the freighter was apparently used for the meetings of a group of Air Scouts, but was eventually abandoned. Ian's photograph contrasts the stolidly rusting metal of the grounded angel with a sky where clouds are performing manoeuvres. On internet fora, the sort of folks who show off microlight spitfires and mosquitoes at air shows have sometimes discussed the logistics of restoring and relaunching the plane. 
Today it is antiquarians rather than Futurists who enthuse about flight. 
The 'Bombay Obelisk'
Using the infinitely flexible unit of measurement he calls a 'geomancer's mile', Mormon missionary turned 'archaeoastronomer' Martin Doutre discovered that the 'Bombay Obelisk', a pile of volcanic rocks that adorn a hill on the southern edge of Auckland, was part of a chain of ancient and supersophisticated solar observatories that covered the length of New Zealand and extended to Easter Island and South America. The 'obelisk' was raised, Doutre insists, by the whitefolk who were New Zealand's true tangata whenua, and who were later driven from their cities and farms by a few vakaloads of Polynesians. Doutre's ancient and erudite New Zealanders supposedly gouged and scratched the sides of the 'obelisk' with the letters and words of their inscrutable language. 
Ian Powell's photograph deflates Doutre's speculations as surely as any archaeological report. Where Doutre's photographs of his 'obelisk' tend to remove it from its surroundings, and make it appear impressively tall and wide, Powell takes several long steps backwards and shows the object in its context. Instead of the monument of a lost civilisation Powell gives us a few stones on a low hill. The 'obelisk' is scarcely more impressive than the telephone poles that stride down the hill toward a shard of motorway. 
Powell's photograph has a pathos that reminds me of Laurence Aberhart's portraits of the decaying halls and churches of New Zealand's countryside. Like the colonial architects who gave mock pillars and miniature gothic spires to their modest wooden buildings, Doutre is desperate to see Europe in New Zealand. With their age and scale and white authors, the monuments of Europe comfort him, especially when they are imagined against the strange hinterland of New Zealand, with its razorback hills and silent bush and brown swamps and inscrutable, rain-eroded earthworks. But colonial replicas of the Old World only emphasise the colonial's distance from that world. They are as sad and fragile as the diorama villages of museums. 
[Posted by Scott Hamilton]