The Spirit of Colin McCahon [1 ed.] 9781443875936, 9781443872324

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The Spirit of Colin McCahon

The Spirit of Colin McCahon By

Zoe Alderton

The Spirit of Colin McCahon By Zoe Alderton This book first published 2015 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2015 by Zoe Alderton All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7232-6 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7232-4

No one seems to know what I’m on about, it amazes me; no one seems to know that I am painting Christ. —Colin McCahon in Conversation with Sheridan Keith, 1980.1

 1

Colin McCahon in Sheridan Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter – The Artist in Conversation with Sheridan Keith,” New Zealand Listener, May 17, 1980, 32.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgements and Notes ................................................................... ix Foreword .................................................................................................... xi Christopher Hartney Chapter One ................................................................................................. 1 Introduction Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 10 McCahon and Religion Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 57 McCahon and Genre Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 91 A Foundation of Scripture Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 116 A Foundation of Landscape Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 141 Necessary Protection at Muriwai Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 163 Walks and Numerals Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 188 Moses and MƗori Culture Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 225 Gates and Waterfalls Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 260 The Word Paintings Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 294 The Final Warnings

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Appendices .............................................................................................. 324 Bibliography ............................................................................................ 346

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND NOTES

I would like to thank the many people who have been involved with this particular work in its monograph format. My primary thanks goes to Dr Christopher Hartney for his practical support in the development of my ideas, and the emotional support given during their creation. Thanks are also due to my friends and colleagues who read over these chapters and shared their invaluable ideas: Mischa Andrews, Sarah Balstrup, Stephanie Hart, Sally James, Raphael Lataster, Jenny Lin, Dr Renee Lockwood, Denbigh Morris, Jess Norman, Colin O’Brien, Dr Johanna Petsche, Ray Radford, Rich T, Jessica Warriner, Robb Watson, and Dr Andrew Wearring. Thanks are also due to Dr Matthew Larking for his encouragement and useful advice on this field. This monograph is based on my thesis “Gannets, Moses, and Gates: Colin McCahon as Prophet,” (2013) for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Arts at the University of Sydney. As a postscript to examination, I would like to thank my markers Dr Rod Pattenden, Associate Professor Mike Grimshaw, and Associate Professor Peter Simpson. Your thorough and enthusiastic responses to my work were of great assistance. I very much appreciate your positivity in and your careful analysis of content. Thanks are also due to my supervisor Dr Jay Johnston who was such an influential part of this original project.

As Gordon H. Brown explains, McCahon often gave his paintings temporary titles before ascribing their permanent name. For this reason, any single work can be known by a variety of titles.1 Names may also be ambiguous, and have sometimes been changed by the artist during the exhibition history of the artwork. Marja Bloem and Rudi Fuchs describe the establishment of a definitive list of titles for McCahon’s works as “a task fraught with unforeseen difficulties.”2 This is indeed accurate, and titles employed in this book may vary somewhat from those employed in other literature. Every effort has been made to ensure as much clarity and consistency as possible.

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Acknowledgements and Notes

Notes  1

Gordon H. Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” in Three Paintings by Colin McCahon, ed. Martin Browne (Sydney: Martin Browne Fine Art, 1998), 22. 2 Marja Bloem and Rudi Fuchs, “Acknowledgements,” in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith, eds Marja Bloem and Martin Browne (Amsterdam: Stedelijk Museum, 2002), 6

FOREWORD: RUMINATIONS ON THE DEATHS OF THE ARTIST CHRISTOPHER HARTNEY

To say that Colin McCahon is dead is factually true, but there are many concatenations of death that surround him. His funeral took place in 1987, and since then his continued canonisation as the great artist of New Zealand has slowly proceeded. There are certain problematics arising around his legacy that scholars, arts administrators, and appreciators are still debating. These form a significant part of the background to how any scholarship on McCahon may presently be framed. The most significant complexity surrounding his legacy is the place of his fervent Christianity as a central part of his artistic quest. Here, not only are McCahon’s spiritual attitudes crucial and complex, but we also have to face the Western bias that until recently religion was an invisible topic in so much scholarship. When it was addressed, the likelihood of it being understood competently was rare. And it can be easily demonstrated that art historians and curators have such difficulties in speaking of the religious dimensions of recent art, that, more often than not, mention of the religious is avoided. Dr Alderton’s training in art history is profound, but the reader will discover in this text that the author’s skill lies not in simply producing another art history work on McCahon, but in writing sensitively about the artist from the perspective of one who has spent most of her career studying the religious life of the world. In this way, Dr Alderton has produced a work that conquers this general bias against religious understanding, confronts the uncomfortableness on this topic that we often face, and writes about McCahon’s work with a spiritual frankness that has not yet been attained by the field of art history alone. In a way, this is the most valuable contribution that Dr Alderton has to make to this topic. To conquer this particular bias, and make a fulsome study of McCahon religiously brings into effect a special form of life and death pervading his art project. The form of life, in these pages, refers to the national-religious project McCahon undertakes after World War II to birth a new nation in a

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new ideal; one that takes its place in the world as a domain resolutely not European, yet one that nevertheless rings with a potent spirituality unique, complex, and Christ-centred. This form of death—one of those concatenations of death I just spoke of—is the presence of death in so much of the artist’s work. As important as this world is, and as New Zealand may be, in many instances the artist works so close to death’s presence that in many works it is as if he has indeed tasted of it enough to paint as one who, like his Messiah, is returned from some place supraterrestrial. That is, I would aver that some aspect of Colin McCahon’s uniqueness lies in his ability to depict pain as though he is already dead, or at the very least, that the things of this world at a quotidian level are already dead to him. The final death of McCahon is, ironically, his post-mortem death. I speak here of the preparation for the complete extinguishment of the artist’s post-mortem life, his legacy, and his reputation currently being undertaken by the Colin McCahon Research and Publication Trust. This organisation’s principal goal, it seems, is the mummification of discourse about their charge, the retardation of scholarship concerning him, and the ossification and eventual mortification in the public memory of this man. The reader will note that this book is a book on a visual artist where there is little chance of reproducing even the slightest amount of examples of his work. In this present text, sadly, not only is McCahon dead, but his images must also remain dead to our mind. And this is as the Trust would have it. You might say that my complaint is unexpected and perhaps injudicious in a preface whose tone is (by custom) celebratory, but any reasonable soul travelling through the cultural institutions of New Zealand will find ample evidence in conversations with curators and conservators of the mortifying zealotry of those who presently guard McCahon’s copyrights. For them, the hours of work by any scholar who dedicates him or herself voluntarily and enthusiastically to the study of McCahon, must be met with a paywall that remains insurmountable for many. Scholarship is certainly something they cannot encourage nor countenance. The outrageous costs imposed upon academics working without payment on McCahon is presently the only reward these guardians can offer. I say this firstly as a complaint, but also as an explanation as to why this significant text comes quite unillustrated. But the complaint also goes to the heart of how academics will reflect on McCahon in future years – that is, they shan’t. As Zoe Alderton offers this book to reassess, debate, and keep alive the legacy of a great New Zealand artist, I ask you to consider that she has written this insightful work within an atmosphere of death. As one group strives to kill off the memory of the subject of this

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work, she offers this work to keep that memory alive. This, I believe, doubles the value of what follows. —Dr Christopher Hartney Australian National Delegate to the International Congress of Aesthetics President Australian and New Zealand Association for Literature and Aesthetics Lecturer, The University of Sydney. Auckland, 29 November 2015.

CHAPTER ONE INTRODUCTION

Born in Timaru, New Zealand, Colin McCahon (1919-1987) is celebrated as one of his country’s seminal modern artists in terms of his unique and foundational contribution to national culture. Despite his current popularity, McCahon has always been a polarising figure due to his raw stylisation and evangelical themes. McCahon’s work is redolent with Christian motifs, calling for the landscape of New Zealand to be loved and embraced in a particularly religious manner. He represented himself in the role of prophet, and was genuinely dedicated to the cultural construction of New Zealand under pacifistic Christian values. For the generally secular audience to which he spoke, this was a problematic ask. The disjunction between McCahon’s intent and his audience’s reaction is remarkably apparent. He overtly stated, “I aim at a very direct statement and ask only for a simple and direct response, any other way and the message gets lost.”1 Unfortunately for the artist, most evidence demonstrates that this message was indeed lost. Though McCahon’s audience comprises a divergent and ever-evolving group, no particular facet seems to have embraced the specifics of his theology or participated in the social and environmental change he hoped to bring about through his art. McCahon’s religious content is a major factor in his disappointing reception. Ranging from suggestions that Christianity is an affront to the secular gallery space to the belief that his artworks have transcended commercial value, McCahon’s imagery has sparked a plethora of divergent anxieties in relation to its religious motifs and messages. Nevertheless, none of these reactions were exactly what McCahon had desired. The unintentional obscurity of his message has meant that few respondents satisfy the demanding standards of reception that McCahon expected of his audience. He was distressed by a lack of understanding of his vision, which he perceived to be a failure of his art. In order to understand McCahon’s body of work, it is important to consider the context in which that work was made. When McCahon first met John Caselberg he asked “[w]ho are you? A poet or prophet or what?”

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Caselberg felt that McCahon might have been unconsciously describing himself.2 It is this interweaving of mediums that sets the scene for New Zealand’s modern creative culture, spurred on by the tribal Nationalist Project.3 This creative arts movement permitted a flexibility of text types whilst positioning the artist as a creator of culture and reformer of its ills. McCahon’s prophetic inclinations can be traced back to this notion of the artist as social guide, seeking to usher in the Promised Land on New Zealand soil.4 McCahon also inherited a vocabulary of agony, labour, and failure from this discourse. In the introduction to A Book of New Zealand Verse,5 Matthew Arnold’s bleak statement on the Promised Land is quoted. Already this Promised Land resides in the unreachable future, indicated by Arnold’s statement “it will not be ours to enter, and we shall die in the wilderness.”6 This nationalist paradigm outlined a specific goal, tying its success to the outcome of a distinctly local new culture. McCahon’s unfolding oeuvre can be retrospectively read as a site of optimism for change, then a place of doubt and queries, until, finally, his art becomes a dark void of sorrow. Nevertheless, this is no reason to doubt McCahon’s ongoing commitment to Christian communication. His personal comments on faith (albeit abstruse) reveal a person who was seriously engaged with Christianity. The redemptive light of Christ, and the necessity for humanity to receive this discourse of social salvation, formed the essence of his worldview and self-identity as a prophet. McCahon’s interactions with the styles and conventions of modernism also emphasise the preeminence of didactic and prophetic Christian communication in his art, above all other representational concerns. So too is there a clear schism between McCahon’s chosen styles and the prevailing tastes of his audience. Popular emphasis on McCahon’s ‘ugliness’ or obscurity has clearly distracted from his message. This failure of intended communication is core to the story of McCahon. McCahon’s art can be distilled to two core concerns: Biblical morality and the neglected spiritual potential of the landscape. Although attention will be drawn to McCahon’s developing visual style, the key concepts behind his religious vision remain uniform throughout his oeuvre.7 Indeed, in 1979, the artist claimed “[m]y subject hasn’t changed from when I started painting.”8 McCahon aimed to bring a sense of immediacy and relevance into Biblical narrative via a recontextualisation of these stories into modern New Zealand. In doing so, he hoped to prioritise the spiritual power waiting to be discovered in his homeland, which he saw as a pathway to a peaceful postcolonial identity. This drive towards a better

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reality is exemplified in the paradigm of the Promised Land to which he aspired, reflecting upon his self-perceived duty as a prophet. On the whole, McCahon’s audience were uncomfortable with his overt proselytising and cartoonish stylisation. He was significantly more successful in his portrayal of the natural world. McCahon illuminated the wilds of New Zealand as a generally untapped resource of transcendent spiritual power and national identity. His artworks aimed to unveil this powerful resource, allowing his audience to understand the value of knowing Christ and peace through the land. Although the specifically religious element of this message has been ignored, McCahon’s landscapes have been received in a spiritual manner. Many viewers have seen them as a representation of the ‘true’ New Zealand, which creates and informs the soul of its people. This has influenced the development of a particular New Zealand gaze in terms of how the land is seen and presented. McCahon developed a variety of pedagogical motifs based on images and experiences associated with the New Zealand coastline. In doing so, he hoped to present lessons on faith, nourishment of the soul by the natural world, and the alleviation of spiritual blindness. The peaceful and culturally syncretic nature of McCahon’s vision is evident in his beach walk symbology, which bridges the Christian ‘Stations of the Cross’ with MƗori afterlife mythology. His landscapes of numbers, mist, and crucifixions orient religious narratives within the New Zealand landscape and encourage direct audience participation. Unfortunately, the complexity of McCahon’s interwoven symbols and the depths of his spiritual messages excluded casual viewers and did not result in the broad transformations desired by the artist. McCahon’s engagement with indigenous religiosity was a substantial part of his vision. MƗori belief systems were a major means by which McCahon aimed to construct postcolonial New Zealand culture. He believed that the MƗori worldview was more peaceful and spiritually nourishing than its European counterpart. Despite his integration of this belief system, Christianity remained at the heart of McCahon’s spiritual vision. His use of indigenous history, including colonial aggression in the Taranaki region, was primarily a means of reflecting upon the potential of Christian prophets as advocates for peace and the potential interaction between this belief system and the natural world. McCahon’s cultural appropriation is clearly problematic, despite his intentions. Exemplified in the theft of the Urewera Mural, McCahon’s audience remains polarised over his MƗori content, with some finding it offensive and others

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Chapter One

celebrating it as a means of meaningful spirituality and bicultural negotiation. McCahon was also greatly influenced by the threat and trauma of the Cold War. An associated fear of apocalyptic environmental degradation demonstrates that McCahon’s faith in humanity was in steep decline towards the end of his career. Focusing on his identification with the Biblical figures of Moses and Jesus, the articulation of barriers to the Promised Land is central to McCahon’s message. So too is the negotiation of these blockades, generally associated with violence and the inorganic world. McCahon’s growing anxiety toward the unlikelihood of bringing about the Promised Land is expressed via narratives of uncertainty, confusion, and fear associated with these prophets of the Abrahamic traditions. His underlying suggestion is that the redeeming powers of Christ and nature may purify a corrupted world, although a lack of intended audience response led him to doubt the actual redemptive power of these devices if they are ignored. Further doubt and spiritual negotiation may be observed in McCahon’s final visual style, his Word Paintings. These images hark back to his belief in the intrinsic connection between painters and poets in the construction of New Zealand identity. They also reflect upon McCahon’s constant aim of articulating his message in the clearest possible manner. Here he seems to speak his message aloud. These paintings were not postmodern critiques on the degradation of language. Focusing primarily on quotations from the Bible and Christian-inspired poetry, McCahon explored the difficulties of faith and the frustrating life of the failing prophet. McCahon’s last artworks are best read as the culmination of his faithbased dialogue with New Zealand. His very specific standards of reception had led him to become convinced of his own failure as a prophet due to the disjunction between his dreams of the Promised Land and decades of generally non-compliant audience members. The resulting anxiety is very clear in his final images. Aggravated by a degenerative illness, McCahon’s grim paintings throw doubt on to the purpose of life and the presence of divinity. These last images demonstrate the very genuine nature of McCahon’s Christian faith and his perceived role as a prophet, which led to despair as his audience continued to interpret his artworks in a manner that did not directly correlate with his aims as a painter. The topic of McCahon is far from new in the academic of the New Zealand art world. As a popular and well-known painter, he appears in many texts and has done so for several decades.9 Nevertheless, a comprehensive study of McCahon from the academic discipline of

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Religion has not yet been undertaken.10 Considering the notions of worldbuilding and communal identity contained within his work and its reception, the religious studies paradigm is vastly underrated in this field. Issues of personal versus community faith, postcolonial mythology structures, secularisation, and so on, all have an impact on the way McCahon’s message was both created and received. Mike Grimshaw’s paper ‘Believing in Colin: “A Question of Faith” from “Celestial lavatory graffiti” to “Derridean religious addict”’ introduces possibilities in terms of the specific studies in religion lens.11 In this volume, I answer this lacuna in scholarship, combining an art historical analysis of the visual features in McCahon’s painting with a sociological consideration of his context and audience.

The Visual Rhetoric of McCahon I am also concerned by analyses of artists that do not take into account the visual rhetoric of an image, and focus instead on formalist elements within the text itself. This approach fails to give due attention to the communicative dimensions of artworks, and the important relationship between author, text, and audience. Visual rhetoric prioritises the communicative purposes of a visual artefact, and has come from a more recent expansion of the field to include what Paul Messaris calls “workings of the more implicit or covert forms of persuasion.”12 Sonja K. Foss notes that not all images can fall within this paradigm. To be considered as a piece of visual rhetoric, an image must have symbolic dimensions that aim to portray a particular message; it must be consciously generated by a human author and/or interpreted by others; and it must be “concerned with an appeal to a real or an ideal audience.”13 In adhering to these features, an image can function as a powerful communicative device. John Louis Lucaites and Robert Hariman describe texts containing visual rhetoric as having the power to reflect “social knowledge and dominant ideologies” of a culture, to influence identity, and to mediate an understanding of events and periods in time.14 An image that is in the service of communicating a message to an audience—an image such as those found within the oeuvre of McCahon— is an artefact of visual rhetoric. It is not hard to accept a traditional painted artwork falling within this category of functional visual communication, especially when this artwork is primarily representational rather than abstract. Yet many commentators on McCahon ignore or neglect this vital dimension of audience communication within his artworks and explicitly stated aims as a painter. Without a consideration of visual rhetoric, many

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important details about McCahon’s desires, moods, and social context are lost. Visual rhetoric is also the best way to account for McCahon’s failures. As with any other branch of rhetoric, visual communication can fail to function as an author intends – especially if that author makes decisions that are unsuitable for communicating within their rhetorical situation. Hanno H. J. Ehses’ study of visual rhetoric in poster design reveals the importance of an author’s choices. He believes that visual design and visual rhetoric are successful when they heed to “pragmatic motivations and functional considerations.”15 An author cannot simply wish for a message to be conveyed, or hope that their communication style is the most appropriate way of persuading an audience of an idea. In order to promote a product or an idea, an author needs to accurately interpret the nature of his or her audience, and the best visual conventions for addressing their needs and putting forward an argument that can be understood. In this manner, I also wish to respond to David Morgan’s understanding of ‘Visual Religion.’16 Morgan illuminates the importance of studying both religious images and the society in which they operate, including that society’s perceptual habits, cognitive frameworks, popular aesthetics, and its visual organisation of advertising and design.17 Morgan notes the importance of reception in the study of visual culture. He remarks that the meaning of an image is dictated not by its maker, but by the processes of circulation and application amidst an audience.18 Thus Morgan’s observation, and the visual rhetoric framework more broadly, reflect the core argument of this monograph: McCahon’s intended meaning was by no means the received meaning of his artworks. As Grimshaw claims, it is through the responses to McCahon’s art that we may know the society that surrounds him.19 So too do social structures and perspectives negotiate what McCahon’s work ‘means’ at any given point, as well as the perceived value of his message and means of communication. I hope to use this case study as a way of advocating for a more widespread academic acceptance of the visual rhetoric model within the analysis of ‘high art’ and artist biographies. As Foss notes, the process of a visual rhetorical analysis of a source differs from an aesthetic one, as the latter is concerned with sensory experience such as colour, form, and texture.20 She proposes that an aesthetic response precedes the rhetorical response of a viewer. Aesthetic dimensions of a work must be processed before they can be rendered in the mind of the viewer as symbols of meaning.21 This order of perceptive layers is important. In this volume, I seek to demonstrate the problems of communication that occur when the

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aesthetic dimensions of a work are deemed too unpalatable to engage with on the secondary rhetorical level, problems of communication encountered when the rhetorical dimensions of an aesthetic feature are too obscure, or problems caused by a combination of these two dilemmas. Considering McCahon’s overt desire to directly address his audience and subsequently convince them of the merits of social change, it is vital that a study be undertaken that deals with this key area of audience reaction. So far there has been no in-depth analysis of the ways in which McCahon’s art has been received or how his perceptions of his audience specifically determined the pattern of his visual expression.22 In this volume, I expand upon his observations to justify exactly how and why McCahon’s audience eschewed his prophetic message. There is an expectation that McCahon’s audience will care about his inspired vision. I hope to explain why McCahon had this expectation and the social factors that formed it, but also to justify why his audience either missed the intended point of his discourse or chose to ignore it. In doing so, it is possible to justify exactly why McCahon’s body of work turns from optimism to misery, and to explain the many communicative techniques he employed in order to arrest general disinterest in his prophecy. Many published critiques of McCahon engage with the likeability (or otherwise) of his crude forms and rough brushwork. Others praise his intrepid canvas size, or the darkness of his latter-day palette. All valid and worthy approaches, but lacking in a deep consideration of how functional these elements were as rhetorical devices. As this drive to communicate is so clear within McCahon’s biography, it seems a shame to ignore his perceived audience and the ways in which he aimed to speak to them. When audience reception has such power in the received meaning of an image, the maker should not be seen as an isolated force.

Notes 

1 Colin McCahon in Centenary Collection: Contemporary New Zealand Painting (New Zealand: Manawatu Art Gallery, 1971), 11. 2 John Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land,” Art New Zealand (1977), accessed March 9, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/mccahon08jc.htm. 3 Francis Pound provides what he calls a preliminary definition of Nationalist New Zealand art, describing it as “that body of art and letters which, between c. 1930 and c. 1970 set out to uncover the essence of New Zealand, and, in doing so, to invent a specifically New Zealand high culture.” See: Francis Pound, The Invention of New Zealand: Art & National Identity 1930-1970 (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2009), xix; Francis Pound, “Topographies,” in Flight Patterns (California: The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, 2000), 133.

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 Although Pound’s more robust definition of this cultural movement is fleshed out in the entirety of The Invention of New Zealand, this definition adequately summarises the makeup of the Nationalist Project and its aims. 4 This Promised Land is a concept inspired by Deuteronomy in which the Israelites are reminded that God has promised them a land of bounty into which they will be delivered from their years wandering the desert. It is also a term connected with the Nationalist Movement and its goal of cultural discovery/invention. 5 This citation of Arnold, a famous English poet, demonstrates the lingering presence of the British tradition despite efforts to frame the Promised Land in local terms. 6 Matthew Arnold in Allen Curnow, introduction to A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45, comp. Allen Curnow (Christchurch: The Caxton Press, 1945), 15. 7 Marja Bloem, for example, strongly agrees that “the underlying thought and vision behind [McCahon’s] paintings was perfectly consistent and the visual expression of the different themes coherent, notwithstanding that the formal development of his work may lead some to think otherwise.” See: Marja Bloem, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith, eds Marja Bloem and Martin Browne (Amsterdam: Stedelijk Museum, 2002), 15-16. 8 Colin McCahon to Agnes Wood [July 1979] in Agnes Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher (Auckland: David Ling, 1997), 121. 9 Despite this comment, I do not wish to imply that additional scholarship has not been desired, or that the paucity of attention given to McCahon has not been commented upon. Perhaps the most perplexingly thorough example of this desire is the creation of the now defunct (?) Institute for Advancing McCahon. In April of 1993, the Institute for Advancing McCahon conducted ‘A Survey to Establish the Level of Interest in New Zealand in Writing an Article About Colin McCahon’. This undertaking demonstrates the relative poverty of sources on the artist. Although more exist today, the increase has not been substantial. In their 1993 survey, the Institute for Advancing McCahon selected thirty-six respondents who had already published works on McCahon. The results led the institute to conclude “a definite lack on interest in writing articles about Colin McCahon.” However, it is noted that 30.5% of positive respondents “showed a level of enthusiasm in their comments to indicate that future articles on Colin McCahon are to be expected.” Of greatest interest is the lack of enthusiasm found in the academic community, of whom only 25% responded to the survey. Freelance curators and freelance writers returned an 85.7% response, making them the most enthusiastic category. Upon the application of an intensity analysis, it was discovered that many ambivalent respondents were enthusiastic about McCahon. Their lack of interest was determined to be financially motivated, as many comments on the surveys asked if remuneration would be involved. The institute concluded that the lack of interest in writing about McCahon was regrettable, but “there is little we can do about it.” See: A Survey to Establish the Level of Interest in New Zealand in Writing an Article About Colin McCahon (Wellington: Institute for Advancing McCahon, 1993). 10 There are, of course, several sources that do approach McCahon from this angle and many Studies in Religion scholars who have published or presented on the

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 artist. For example, noted Studies in Religion academic Lloyd Geering presented a discussion on “McCahon’s life in the context of the rapid decline of the Christian basis of Western culture” at the Auckland Art Gallery in 2003. 11 He writes, “[w]hile the paintings themselves have often been critiqued, little if any work has been done that reads the critics as articulating wider cultural and societal responses to God, religion and Christianity … I want to make the deliberately audacious claim that it is not the paintings themselves that should be the focus for scholars of religion. This is not because the paintings are unimportant—far from it—but rather that too often ‘we’ step outside our professional ability. The paintings are important texts, but too often scholars of religion concentrate on the primary text of the paintings and ignore the various commentaries. Therefore, I want to argue that the critical responses and writings on the paintings should be evaluated, because it is in the writing, not the painting, that we can track the changing religious culture of New Zealand.” See: Mike Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin: “A Question of Faith” from “Celestial Lavatory Graffiti” to “Derridean Religious Addict”,” Pacifica 18:2 (2005): 175-176. 12 Paul Messaris, “What’s Visual about ‘Visual Rhetoric’?,” Quarterly Journal of Speech 95:2 (2009): 210. 13 Sonja K. Foss, “Theory of Visual Rhetoric,” in Ken Smith, Sandra Moriarty, Gretchen Barbatsis, and Keith Kenney eds, Handbook of Visual Communication: Theory, Methods, and Media (New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2005), 144. When using Foss’ work, I aim to employ both her idea of visual rhetoric as the communicative dimensions of a visual artefact, and visual rhetoric as a theoretic perspective through which the communicative dimensions of visual data may be highlighted. 14 John Louis Lucaites and Robert Hariman, “Visual Rhetoric, Photojournalism, and Democratic Public Culture,” Rhetoric Review 20:1/2 (2001): 37-38. 15 Hanno H. J. Ehses, “Representing Macbeth: A Case Study in Visual Rhetoric,” Design Issues 1:1 (1984): 54. 16 David Morgan, “Visual Religion,” Religion 30 (2000). 17 Morgan, “Visual Religion,” 42. Morgan also expresses the importance of examining images that exist outside of the realm of “‘museum-quality’ fine arts.” This is important to his argument, but has less bearing on the study of McCahon. Despite derision, McCahon’s body of work is reasonably considered to be in the Western category of fine arts. 18 Morgan, “Visual Religion,” 42. 19 Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 176. 20 Foss, “Theory of Visual Rhetoric,” 145. 21 Sonja K. Foss, “Ambiguity as Persuasion: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial,” Communication Quarterly 34:3 (1986): 329. 22 Gordon H. Brown’s Colin McCahon: Artist contains perhaps the most comprehensive consideration of audience reaction. See, for example, Gordon H. Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist [new edition], (Auckland: Reed, 1993), 45 in which he discusses McCahon’s use of speech bubbles and the reactions to this technique.

CHAPTER TWO MCCAHON AND RELIGION

In order to properly understand the content and purpose of McCahon’s visual rhetoric, it is important to consider the context in which his artworks were created. The ‘Nationalist Movement’, which sought to enact a high culture within New Zealand, was central to McCahon’s vision of himself as a painter. This particular brand of nationalism infused his work with a heavy sense of agony and labour.1 Also of importance was McCahon’s religious context, both in terms of the personal beliefs he hoped to express and the perceived acceptability of this content. The question of whether or not McCahon was a Christian is an important one, as it determines the ultimate message of his oeuvre. This chapter considers the critical reaction to McCahon’s religiosity, with a particular focus on his depiction as an artist/prophet. Although this is helpful when considering McCahon’s religious beliefs, it is easy to over simplify his highly personalised and localised vision of Christianity and spiritual social duties. It is vital to turn to primary source documents in order to annunciate the nuances of McCahon’s beliefs and prophetic aims.

Colonial Identity and the Invention of New Zealand In 1945, the seminal nationalist figure Allen Curnow2 remarked: Strictly speaking, New Zealand doesn’t exist yet, though some possible New Zealands glimmer in some poems and on some canvases. It remains to be created—should I say invented—by writers, musicians, artists, architects, publishers; even a politician might help …3

This ‘invention’ of New Zealand is the most useful paradigm through which to view the intentions and output of McCahon, and also the nature of nationalism as he experienced it. Curnow’s proclamation has been proposed as New Zealand’s most important statement about nationalism.4 It is intrinsic to the nationalist culture from which McCahon emerged, and to his long-term goals as an artist/prophet.

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New Zealand in the nineteen-thirties5 was beginning to emerge as an independent nation. This was assisted by, and reflected in, its creative output. As Maurice Shadbolt explains, the “real sprit of the country” was formed by its creative arts as opposed to legislation.6 Under the burgeoning Nationalist Project, New Zealand was presented as a potential centre and homeland, rather than a periphery.7 Artists and writers were inspired by the call for creative minds to construct and define images of place and identity.8 Allen Curnow believes that the poets of this era were “making a new discovery of their country.”9 In the visual realm, artists who emerged in the late nineteen-thirties such as McCahon, Doris Lusk, Rita Angus, and Toss Woollaston were the first generation to feel comfortable in their country and to describe it as a homeland instead of a place of exile.10 The Nationalist Project is an umbrella term under which these creative figures, aiming to construct or discover independent nationhood, may be grouped.11 Summing up the artistic, pseudo-religious, and ‘D.I.Y’ attitude of the Nationalist Project, Diana Wichtel writes, “[a]rmed with pen, paintbrush, a self-conscious, often prophetic sense of mission and some No 8 wire, they created a version of the place that suited their cultural purposes.”12 The creative arts banded together with the notion of delivering a new message of national selfhood.13 Pound explains that poets and painters aimed to create a new nation “in the very act of reading and viewing the new works.”14 So, for artists such as McCahon, painting became a dynamic site of identity formation and nation building that looked towards audience reception as an indicator of success.15 Representations of the land are a substantial part of the creation of a homeland.16 Pound believes that landscape painting has, since the early days of European settlement, been a way of “inventing the land we live in.”17 In this view, a landscape painting has meaning encoded in its generic conventions, instructing an audience on how they are meant to receive it, and allowing nature to exist and be understood through this framework.18 To read McCahon in this manner, one may observe the ‘uninvented’ vista of artworks such as A Poem of Kaipara Flat (1971), notable for its plainness of form with a blank horizon beneath an empty sky.19 Although its title clearly indicates a real locale, this work simultaneously functions as a representation of a generic landscape awaiting its fulfilment of potential. The azure sky is near-fantastic and the earth plays into McCahon’s primal spiritual spaces. His ‘poem’ seems to sing the land into being, giving meaning to empty places and imbuing them with spiritual possibility. This painting also suggests that a poem may be visually expressed, denoting a fluidity of definition.20 An enduring tradition of

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landscape within New Zealand poetry has been noted.21 So too is there poetry in visual depictions of the land. The idea of a new culture or new myth was often expressed via the idea of the Promised Land, signifying a better version of New Zealand to come. This concept referred to an imagined future New Zealand where local landscape was familiar rather than strange, and the nation could be seen as a home rather than a periphery.22 In the case of McCahon, the Promised Land paradigm was foundational to his Christian beliefs. It also, quite clearly, captured the spirit of his times. Referring to the mood of the nineteen-forties, Curnow describes McCahon as an artist “who wanted to save the world, but then so did everyone.”23 Similarly, Brown declares that it is difficult to separate the Biblical vision of the Promised Land from “the political desire for a land that promises hope of security and abundance.”24 These desires were shared by many of the new nationalists, who found a useful metaphor in this increasingly secularised Biblical term. The notion of the Promised Land has also fuelled talk of McCahon as a prophet, drawing on Biblical allusions. For example, Pound explains that “one of the most persistent patterns of New Zealand’s Nationalist high culture” is to “speak of a flight from England—the place of captivity— towards the Promised Land.”25 He argues that the insertion of ‘high culture’ into New Zealand was a task of great suffering, ritually enacted by ‘prophets’ such as McCahon and Allen Curnow.26 There are also subtle allusions to the story of Moses, which is often conflated with McCahon’s own prophethood. Pound writes, “[i]n their every painting or poem, in their every utterance on the perpetual flight, the Nationalist artists are burdened with a responsibility towards this Promised Land to come.”27 This was a burden that McCahon would feel deeply. Although his vision of the Promised Land begins with optimism, McCahon’s prophetic journey did not end with delivery into a greater homeland. This version of New Zealand nationalism, despite seeking a glorious Promised Land, was not a discourse of aggrandisement or aggression.28 It is dissimilar to many other nationalistic philosophies around the globe. As such, Wystan Curnow warns against an unqualified correlation between McCahon’s image of the Promised Land and nationalism in its most commonly understood sense.29 Nationalism is a discourse and mindset that is often engaged in the pursuit of elevating the state, something that generally requires positive language and outlook. In contrast, Paul Williams notes that nationalism in New Zealand “tended to produce selfcritical rather than idolatrous results” by virtue of its references to loss, isolation, and loneliness.30 Thus it is fitting that McCahon often depicted uncomfortable and intense scenes of primal landscape and scripture, and

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implied that cultural construction was a laborious task. McCahon’s early paintings came out of the post-war period and reveal a desire for the establishment of a peaceful nation, largely disconnected from visions of the global.31 In direct contrast to aggressive border disputes, McCahon suggests that the abiding and melancholic love of one’s homeland is the true way of forging a connection to territory. The language of anguish is evident throughout McCahon’s oeuvre. Constructing culture was, for various reasons, described as being wrought with pain. Horrocks employs the emotive phrase “anxiety rituals” to discuss this manufacturing of identity.32 In 1945, Allen Curnow complained that New Zealand lacked the capacity for tragic emotions and laid blame, in part, on a tendency to hide behind “the maternal screen of England.”33 It follows that to move away from this emotionally stunting dependence on colonial origins is to evoke a greater focus on tragedy. Calder explains, perhaps less romantically, “[i]f migration ought to have led to an identity crisis rather than to colonial complacency, then poets of the 1930s or 40s produced those crises as a kind of belated couvade.”34 This sympathetic agony was used as a means of exploring a crisis of selfhood and reconciling the problems of dwelling within an unfamiliar land, such as feelings of homesickness and nostalgia.35 Indeed, Allen Curnow speaks of the shock of migration and the “trap closing behind” the early settlers.36 Pain was also located in the supposed barrenness of the country and its culture.37 In keeping with this, poetic descriptions were not always of a resplendent countryside. Allen Curnow speaks of the “great gloom” that “[s]tands in a land of settlers/With never a soul at home.”38 This is comparable to McCahon’s Northland Panels (1958) lament: “oh yes it can be dark here and manuka in bloom may breed despair.” Various critics, authors, and artists have identified the colonial absence of authenticity as a national marker. Pound writes that the “intolerable silence and emptiness” of colonial New Zealand was due to the absence of an authentically local form of expression. The construction of culture could relieve this “agony.”39 Brasch’s ‘The Silent Land’ (1945) calls out for this kind of authentic communication: “the plains are nameless and the cities cry for meaning/The unproved heart still seeks a vein of speech.”40 Thus pain was located both in the pre-constructed culture of New Zealand and in the process of constructing it. Allen Curnow speaks of creating “the anti-myth about New Zealand,” in contradistinction to the narratives told in the nation’s older days.41 There was struggle in overthrowing the old systems of expression, which were often associated with the centrality of the United Kingdom.

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Notable Omissions of the Nationalist Project The Nationalist Project is an ideology under which some groups were excluded and others represented in a problematic manner. These issues of representation are inherited within McCahon’s work and contribute significantly to his outlook as a participant in constructing the ‘Promised Land’. In calling forth a discernable New Zealand ‘type’, the Nationalist Project tended to conduct a process of erasure.42 Due to the emphasis on self-definition and self-determination, tourists are barred from this inwards-looking body of text and image. Rather than attempting to sell New Zealand to visitors, nationalist texts commonly strove to engage its actual inhabitants in a personal, nationalistic call to admire their homeland and bond with its non-European landforms. Brown illustrates a similar occurrence in his discussion of McCahon’s Plain With Winter Landscape (1949). He states that this view of Canterbury is a “potentially popular, winning, familiar subject. Yet these are hardly the adjectives one would apply to McCahon’s view of the scene.”43 Indeed, McCahon’s rolling Canterbury hills are ghostly and the open plains before them feel more eerie than hospitable. Although his works have sometimes been perceived as beautiful, McCahon did not intend to render the landscape as a postcard or to sell it to an overseas audience. McCahon described the Helensville area as “wild and beautiful; empty and utterly beautiful. This is, after all, the coast the MƗori souls pass over on their way from life to death—to Spirits Bay.” He emphasised that “I do not recommend any of this landscape as a tourist resort.”44 By rejecting the touristic gaze, McCahon was able to focus on a truly local vision for a very specific audience.45 This is also a way in which McCahon contributed to the aforementioned rejection of the nostalgia for the United Kingdom.46 He worried that too many citizens were caught up in a “kind of looking backwards” in which constant comparisons to this supposed ‘homeland’ were made.47 McCahon complained of the popular tendency to compare Dunedin with Scotland. Conversely, he was pleased with the general acceptance of Northland as “uniquely New Zealand.”48 McCahon hoped to inspire a similar understanding of the rest of the country by abandoning this nostalgic drive towards a colonial gaze where ‘home’ was still abroad. A more problematic omission is that of the MƗori history of New Zealand. As Pound demonstrates, nationalist discourse presented New Zealand as “a pastless and voiceless country.”49 The Nationalist Movement often employed the British colonisation of New Zealand as its cultural commencement, privileging PƗkehƗ50 as those who could define the land. The origins of New Zealand as a nation are often tied to the

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moment of ‘landfall’.51 This term refers to sighting or reaching land after a journey at sea, epitomising the pre-eminence of a coloniser’s mindset.52 Although pioneering MƗori also arrived by sea, ‘landfall’ in this context is used to describe European arrival in New Zealand. In addition to its favoured terminology, the employment of nationalistic poetry as a defining feature of New Zealand identity is exclusive in and of itself. Because MƗori history was recorded orally, New Zealand was considered to be a land without a literary tradition due to a dominant Western taxonomy that privileges written sources.53 This narrow vision of what constitutes the commencement and the nature of New Zealand culture is heavily grounded in a Western paradigm that excludes traditional indigenous modes of expression.54 This does not mean that MƗori were ignored in the construction of PƗkehƗ culture. Rather, they were often presented in a Romanticised manner for PƗkehƗ benefit.55 Indigenous words and motifs have frequently been employed as a point of difference between New Zealand and British culture.56 In the poem ‘Forerunners’, for example, Brasch pays tribute to the idea of a people in New Zealand before the PƗkehƗ. “Offering soil for our rootless behaviour,”57 these ancestors are romanticised as having a deeper and more organic relationship with the land. Leonhard Emmerling believes that McCahon’s tributes to the indigenous population represented a desire to construct a New Zealand that was “cured of the pain, rifts, and injustices which the process of colonisation brought in its wake.”58 Despite good intentions, this is substantially problematic. Expressing just one way in which romanticisation of the MƗori past is controversial, Calder writes that “[i]n New Zealand, forms of nationalism would continue to operate under this double injunction: to forget the past even as we seek to remember its wrongs.”59 In this mindset, injustices are forgiven and utilised by the colonisers who caused them. The overarching problem is a lack of agency ascribed to the MƗori voice, with PƗkehƗ free to pick and choose from indigenous culture as they see fit. Women of all ethnicities are also largely absent from the rhetoric of the Nationalist Project. Calder notes that the quest for identity is often constructed in gendered terms with the land as female and the explorer as male.60 In this paradigm, women are represented as object and men as subject. A prime example is ‘The Silent Land’ in which “So relenting, earth will tame her tamer” after he lies with the hills “like a lover.”61 While some artists such as Rita Angus and Doris Lusk, and poets such as Robin Hyde and Miss Duggan,62 were able to contribute a unique voice, this was still done so in an approach to regionalism that stems from a patriarchal model. Pound calls it a “phallic rhetoric, a rhetoric of hard men

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in hard light on hard land.”63 This seems to leave a very limited place for the female, existing either as conquered landscape or ingénue without voice. The Nationalist Project was mainly a discourse of Caucasian males, often aligned with a masculine deity. McCahon assisted in making New Zealand a centre and a home as opposed to a mere British periphery. He also interacted with a discourse of ownership in which identity is formed via an emotional possession of New Zealand to mirror its actual colonisation.64 What this identity is founded upon is deeply revealing of McCahon’s artistic and social context. From the Nationalist Project he inherited a tendency to discuss the pain that came from colonial guilt, disconnection, and the frustrations of trying to create a culture. Most importantly, he found the socio-spiritual project of the Promised Land, the anxiety of its failure, and its exclusion of certain voices. McCahon’s messages of peace, pain, and construction all emerge from this wave of cultural autonomy, which is central to his output and his vision.

Religion in New Zealand To understand the context of McCahon’s beliefs and their categorisation, it is important to examine the history of Christianity and its reception in New Zealand.65 Christianity is the country’s nominal religion; descriptions of belief in New Zealand, which pre-date the era of the New Age and secularisation, read as a history of Christian denominations.66 Despite this, actual participation rates have always been remarkably low.67 Although Christianity is the largest faith in New Zealand today, and unites communities of different ethnicities, Paul Morris argues “national life has always been lived outside and apart from the Christian institutions” that would ensure its cultural dominance.68 Christianity, as expressed through organised institutions, sits uncomfortably with the long-term religious attitude of New Zealand.69 This does not mean, however, that Christianity is absent from New Zealand culture.70 Nor should it imply that the perceptions of this faith have been static over time. Morris, Harry Ricketts and Grimshaw ask that we “expand the notion of religion beyond a narrow doctrinal frame and the portals of the Church” in order to reveal its true presence in this nation. They feel that New Zealand is not necessarily a secular country, but rather one with unique expressions of spirituality that are often lost through strict definitions of faith.71 This is because Christianity has often manifested in non-institutionalised contexts. One of these is the realm of literature. Morris, Ricketts, and Grimshaw note that—despite New Zealand’s apparent secularity—poetry in this

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region betrays a “recurrent concern with religion.”72 Morris feels that poetry, art, and spirituality are interwoven. He describes the momentary (as opposed to linear) logic that experiences with each of these transformative sources may produce. He also claims that spiritual and poetic communication often takes on a liturgical, rhythmic tone.73 One could add to this the visual liturgies of McCahon’s Word Paintings. There is a certain amount of creative mutability in this form of religiosity. Therefore, it is important to view McCahon’s expression of Christianity as something that lies within his artworks and his interaction with the Nationalist Project, as opposed to public declarations of faith or regular church attendance. The overt Christian themes in McCahon’s paintings74 have always been problematic in terms of mainstream acceptance. Nevertheless, specific reactions to McCahon’s work are reflective of changing religious attitudes and cultures.75 For example, the debut of the Early Religious Works in the mid-nineteen-forties is highly revealing of the attitudes towards religion in this timeframe. James K. Baxter suggests that viewers of this era were only looking for a colour photograph and “distrust all symbolism.”76 He defended McCahon, quipping that his work is only unfamiliar to those who reject artistic heritage “for a norm founded on the chocolate box.”77 Despite Baxter’s support, there is clear evidence that McCahon’s religious content was poorly received by his audience. O’Reilly describes a 1947 exhibition of McCahon’s works as “tossing a stone into a swarm of bees.” The event was a culture shock that led to moral indignation.78 A remarkably different attitude towards religion developed by the nineteen-seventies, which had a tangible impact on the way in which McCahon’s art was received.79 In this era of increasing secularisation, puritanical culture gave way to a more experimental world of New Religious Movements and a focus on ‘spirituality’.80 McCahon tangibly benefited from a local art culture in which spirituality became a sign of the contemporary.81 His ideas could be read as ‘bohemian’ rather than ‘stuffy’. In this era, Keith believes that McCahon emerged as “a major thing.”82 In keeping with this observation, Edmond describes the 1972 opening of ‘Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition’ as an “epochal event” where, almost overnight, the stature of McCahon’s importance and the gravitas of his message became apparent.83 Since McCahon’s death, New Zealand citizens professing no religion have only increased in number.84 The presentation of McCahon’s art has reflected this ongoing secularisation, often at the cost of his explicitly Christian message.85 In the present era, McCahon’s religious content is

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often made acceptable through the lens of spiritual dialogue and exploration.86 This has not gone without criticism, as it may diminish his openly evangelical content and desire to cause radical social change along Christian lines.87 There is a generally secular mood within New Zealand art culture, which conflicts with McCahon’s clear desire to convert his viewers.88 Scholarly material is also often reflective of this social atmosphere. The notion of ‘embarrassment’ is prominent when discussing McCahon’s imposing religious themes.89 Grimshaw agrees that some facets of academia are uncomfortable with such overt religiosity and prefer to “domesticate grace.”90 There are clear and ongoing tensions in regard to the categorisation of McCahon’s religious position and the spiritual nature of his art objects.

Popular Categorisation of McCahon’s Faith Despite his attempts to engage with various Christian institutions, there is no specific denomination with which one can decisively link McCahon.91 He was thus free to construct a very personal theology, influenced more by his experiences and values as opposed to those of an external body.92 In 1976, McCahon was asked “[w]hat did you gain, spiritually, from the Bible?” He responded, “[i]t’s all a matter of faith. That’s about all you can say, isn’t it?”93 This neatly epitomises McCahon’s core spiritual concerns: the balance between faith and doubt. This emerges in many forms throughout his body of work. For example, the artist has faith in the spiritual powers of the earth and doubt in the ability of humankind to preserve this resource. He has faith in the Promised Land but doubts that he will ever live to see it. McCahon pins his hopes on communicating with humanity and despairs that they have not heard his call. Many commentators have remarked upon this display of wavering certainty.94 Nevertheless, this presence of doubt does not entirely disqualify McCahon from categorisation as a Christian.95 Morris, Ricketts, and Grimshaw explain McCahon’s religious views as rebellious and subversive, reacting against social status quo and conformity. They connect this to the modern history of religion in New Zealand, which has often seen faith used as a means of rebellion against authority. This is traced back to the PƗkehƗ desire to separate from Britain, and the development of MƗori Christianity as a way of coping with aggressive colonialism.96 Thus the voice of doubt and dissent in McCahon’s body of work does not necessarily negate his position as a genuine Christian artist, particularly when viewed within the context of de-institutionalised religion in New Zealand.

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Admittedly, McCahon’s particular faith is difficult to place in a preexisting category. His associations with formal religious institutions were brief and marred by disagreement. The dynamic nature of faith is also problematic when attempting to define one person’s entire spiritual life from childhood to death. This prevents any timeless or overarching statements about the specificities of his belief or religious participation. Despite this, some conclusions may still be reached. McCahon’s experiences of Christianity within his local context are of significance. In New Zealand, national identity has, primarily, been experienced outside of the Church. New Zealand Christianity operates in a post-Enlightenment minimalist system, and Christian church attendance is low. A definition of Christianity—and religiosity more broadly—which stretches beyond these limiting confines is necessary when examining McCahon’s expressions of faith. Academics and friends of McCahon who write about his faith are affected by the perceptions of religion, both in their era and their disciplines. It is also important to remember that individual commentators may have problematic definitions of religion to begin with. For some, unwavering faith is the sine qua non of religion. For others, the necessary factor is denominational affiliation.97 Reflecting these differences in perception are vast differences of opinion. One of the main readings of McCahon is a Christian without affiliation.98 McCahon’s religious content has also been seen as a means of communication, or a rhetorical device, as opposed to a confession of faith.99 The idea of McCahon’s religiosity as divorced from mainstream establishments has been met with celebration.100 In addition to a churchless Christian, McCahon has also been read as a nullifidian of varying degrees.101 The label of ‘agnostic’ has often been applied.102 Some appraisals of McCahon’s message avoid a specific discussion of the Abrahamic god altogether.103 Connections with William Blake have been recurrent.104 McCahon’s work has also been described as being in tune with the New Age,105 paganism,106 and Buddhist philosophy.107 These comparisons are likely to be a result of the strong association between enlightenment and the New Age milieu. Despite this, McCahon’s version of enlightenment was strongly linked to the figure of Christ in a manner influenced primarily by his presentation by the mainstream Christian church. Blake resembles McCahon as a producer of Christian cultural products who was visionary in terms of his inspiration, a resemblance that seems more accurate and useful than comparisons to the New Age or nonChristian belief systems.108

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Many commentators, however, affirm McCahon’s Christian faith as a personal belief, not just a rhetorical device. This is especially true of those who share his belief system, although not unique to this group.109 As a result, there have been substantial reactions against the rejection of McCahon from the category of Christian artmaking.110 To ignore this aim is indeed to ignore the religiously motivated social message put forward by the artist.111 There is ongoing debate between those who see McCahon as unquestionably a Christian, those who see him as an unaffiliated member of the faith, and those who hesitate to associate him with mainstream Western religiosity. Although McCahon’s religious viewpoint was not always certain or static, it is misleading to cast him as vaguely spiritual or an uncommitted atheist. McCahon’s commitment to bettering humanity resulted in a genuine desire to direct New Zealanders under a system of values that was primarily Christian. The fundamental concept in the discussion of McCahon’s religious position and function is that of prophecy. The notion of McCahon as prophet is so common that Tony Green expresses an exasperated weariness of its frequency.112 Nevertheless, there are divergent opinions and some debate over what a prophetic reading of McCahon entails.113 ‘Prophet’ is often employed to denote McCahon as a person who speaks of religious matters in a didactic or oracular fashion.114 Phraseology reminiscent of prophecy or spiritual figures is frequently employed. Unsurprisingly, spiritual vision is commonly mentioned.115 McCahon and his art have been called Messianic116 and saint-like.117 He has been compared to the Biblical and hagiographic figures Jeremiah,118 John the Baptist,119 and Saint Sebastian.120 Connections with Christ and his evangelism are recurrent.121 As part of this Christian discourse, Phyllis Mossman epitomises a common perception of McCahon’s prophetic nature and his relation to Biblical figures: God does still seem to raise up people who breathe the spirit of the Old Testament prophets, and who challenge and reapply the ancient truths in our own day. And like the Old Testament prophets, these people can come from unlikely directions and places. Some are artists, who make us look afresh at the world, sometimes uncomfortably. One such uncomfortable artist in our own country was Colin McCahon, who responded with a questioning prophet’s soul to the global currents and the darker depths of New Zealand in the last half century.122

Here she stresses the intense and uncomfortable nature of the prophet’s message, citing the Biblical prophets as a precursor to McCahon and his stern message of salvation.

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McCahon’s prophetic vision seeks to reveal a dualistic universe of good and evil, black and white, illumination and void. Divergent opinions exist as to the reason why McCahon would employ this dualism, and how any guidance between these polarities relates to the role of the prophet.123 The most useful line of reasoning in regard to McCahon’s apparent dualism is that which Brown employs to argue against McCahon’s prophesy as a precognisant device. He sees it instead as a speculative aptitude sustained across McCahon’s body of work, which explores the contest between good and evil that underlies the human predicament. Brown argues that “prophetic mood” seeks to delve beneath surface appearances and present a vision based upon such findings.124 Indeed, McCahon seeks to uncover hidden realities in order to ask his audience to enact them, making the invisible visible for the sake of social change. His dualism is revelatory and aims to represent the crises of humanity in a way that encourages problem solving and striving for goodness along Christian lines.125 Clearly the perception of McCahon as prophet is highly important when examining the way in which his work has been received. Historically, prophets have spread messages outside of hegemonic theological discourse and denied affiliations with mainstream religious bodies. The role of a prophet allows for a certain amount of reconciliation between the view of McCahon as a strong Christian and his apparent lack of support for Christian institutions. One may indeed ask why McCahon appeals as a prophet considering his recurrent doubt. The answer may lie in the fact that many people who label him as such do so from an academic viewpoint, not a rigorously theological one. Secular and historical considerations of his artworks reveal a man who felt a connection to the Christian god and aimed to reveal his message through art. Christian commentators generally locate McCahon as a figure who is comparable to the Biblical prophets as opposed to being on their level. Human fragility or doubt is permissible in this context.

McCahon, Museums, and Money Due to the prophetic content of McCahon’s artworks, numerous problems pertaining to ‘correct’ contextualisation arise. Some audience members are uncomfortable with McCahon’s religious content. Presentation of confessional Christian imagery within the public art gallery has been a concern. Although contemporary art galleries have often contained a significant amount of religiously inspired work, including that which is inspired by Christianity, McCahon’s art is often criticised for being overtly

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proselytising. Revealingly, Turner believes that the McCahon exhibition ‘A Question of Faith’ (2002) was asking: How do we deal with an artist whose concerns—traditional issues of religion, morality and humanism, as well as the brooding concepts of resurrection and salvation—are uncomfortable and out-of-mode, yet whose imagery remains appealing and relevant?126

His question suggests that McCahon is popular in the gallery despite his Christian themes.127 Although McCahon intended to initiate a Christian dialogue through his visual rhetoric, the inherently secular culture of New Zealand remains averse to this perceived misuse of the art museum context.128 Brown points out the obvious fallacy in McCahon’s desire to impart his social idealism onto ordinary citizens: audiences did not necessarily feel the same emotions when confronted with images of Christ or Biblical texts as McCahon had desired.129 Other members of McCahon’s audience find the gallery a useful space for contemplating religious ideas without having to engage with formal faith bodies. Illuminating these possibilities, Carol Duncan describes the art gallery as a locale for “secular ritual.”130 She refers to the gallery as a liminal zone where exultation, and potentially communion, can be reached via engagement with the art objects.131 In this sense, those who view McCahon’s art as uplifting or mentally expansive may find the gallery an excellent space for contemplation or transformative engagement with his imagery. For example, Robert Nelson believes that a secret appeal of McCahon’s paintings is “in the opportunity to profess a religion without the institutional scenography of church and ceremony.”132 Comparatively, Pound feels that the ‘art object’ context actually improves McCahon’s religious content. He confesses, I personally find the Christianity distasteful. All that Christian ranting—if I heard it on the street I’d run. I feel a bit the same with the paintings. But the paintings are so sort of powerful, fine as paintings.133

There are also some who seek to embrace and explore McCahon’s contribution to public religious discourses. For example, the Australian exhibition ‘Three Paintings by Colin McCahon’ specifically aimed to chart his Christian development.134 Jonathan Evens, an English vicar and secretary of the contemporary art for churches commissioning service ‘commission4mission’, employs McCahon as an example of religion in modern art. He complains that “[a]rt histories rarely focus on modern sacred or religious art, giving the impression that the visual arts in the

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twentieth century were predominantly secular.” Evens believes that McCahon is a prominent counter-example to this presumed secularity.135 There is an interesting category of respondents who see McCahon’s artworks as important religious/spiritual objects in their own right as opposed to objects that are simply reflections of religious or spiritual values. Reflecting this mindset, Edmond describes McCahon’s paintings as acheiropoieta (icons made by divine forces, not human hands), or objects that aspire to be as such.136 Obviously a McCahon painting cannot be an acheiropoieton as it is clearly made by the painter’s hand as opposed to any miraculous intervention. Despite this, his works have sometimes been treated as though they reveal something authoritative of religious truth and are imbued with a special meaning and power.137 The presentation and reception of McCahon’s art as sacred objects helps them to function as tools by which viewers may experience a very direct and immediate relationship with the divine. Instead of merely encouraging religious contemplation, McCahon’s art can cause an actual religious experience if approached in this manner. Of course, keeping in mind the considerable amount of doubt and panic in McCahon’s artworks, this is not always an edifying experience. Edmond writes, true icon is a category more complex than we might wish: the search for truth might also uncover falsity, doubt is the mirror of faith, and in McCahon’s work these ambiguities double and redouble until we wander into a labyrinth where ghostly voices resound, uttering warnings, posing unanswerable questions.138

This may explain why some respondents find McCahon’s work confronting and spiritually unsettling. Another revealing text is Tony Beyer’s ode to Jane Pountney, Jane's Paintings (2004), which demonstrates the way in which Pountney employed McCahon as a pseudo-spiritual figure whose works were of profound value. Beyer writes: … in the absence of a God she could believe in McCahon was her god a flawed and stumbling exemplar who wrote his name on dark with light

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24 for a long time all she owned of value was the McCahon she eventually sold to buy a house to paint in139

This text was published alongside his self-explanatory poem Colin McCahon Was an Elvis Impersonator, and The Acolyte, which deals with Elvis’ apotheosis and subsequent manifestation as a spiritual being who shall resurrect the dead artists of New Zealand. These poems are all concerned with the semi-facetious mingling of religious and pop culture icons.140 More seriously, they employ McCahon as a figure who functions in the place of spiritual icons for those who struggle to believe in traditional spiritual figures. Interestingly, the sale of his paintings is given particular attention. McCahon’s artworks are currently expensive commercial goods,141 and have always been displayed in dealer galleries as well as public institutions.142 By viewing McCahon’s works as religious objects in their own right, the issue of commerce becomes highly problematic for some of his devotees. In 1959, Woollaston suggested that McCahon’s works do not belong to the world of commerce at all. He lamented: It strikes me as strange that these pictures, which themselves condemn the whole system of traffic in things of taste for which people will commonly part with their money, should themselves be offered as articles for sale. It is a curious and somewhat sad commentary on the whole human problem of how priesthoods of any kind can live without corruption.143

His comments on priesthood and corruption suggest that the use of McCahon’s art for profit is similar to the spiritual mismanagement that causes clergy to concern themselves too deeply with the mundane world. Woollaston is not alone in his belief that McCahon’s paintings do not belong in the mainstream art world. McCahon himself once remarked that his work was the same as what one would find outside the Salvation Army Citadel.144 He also purposefully borrowed from the “art of the churches,” that is, Giotto and Michelangelo.145 Garrity agrees that McCahon’s paintings have the quality of altarpieces, and are in galleries rather than cathedrals simply because this was all McCahon had available.146 In 1962, Maurice Askew introduced a similar line of thought. He argued that McCahon’s works don’t belong on either “the walls of bourgeoisie houses” or “hanging in great cathedrals.”147 More obscurely, he advocates

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their presence in “many corners of our world where they would live and pass on their message, and grow in strength.”148 Askew describes the artworks as cognitive beings that should reside in our consciousness rather than simply being displayed on a wall. McCahon’s art is interpreted by these audience members as something greater than simply pictures on canvas; they locate his images as items of spiritual magnitude.149

Towards a Primary Source Analysis of Faith Descriptions of—and reactions to—McCahon’s religious position are dependent on the cultural position of those who make them. As a result, these viewpoints can be misleading when considering McCahon’s actual religious position and aims. For this reason it is vital to examine primary source documents detailing the way in which McCahon described his own viewpoints and intentions. These statements, while often ambiguous, reveal McCahon as someone who hoped for Christian transformation via his art and who was serious about the benefits a Christ-based worldview could provide. Even his artworks that contain pre-colonial MƗori influences or speak of the mystical potency of the land still contain Christian motifs, Biblical quotes, and prophets. McCahon’s Christianity was informal yet serious in nature, connected to the construction of culture, connected to nature, and connected to peace and fraternity.150 These are the pillars of his individualistic belief system and the core values espoused by his body of work. Although his conclusions concerning Christianity were not always positive, this belief system remained the core concern of McCahon’s art and the essence of his spiritual worldview. McCahon was born into a Presbyterian family and raised within the Church.151 He became disengaged from this denomination at an early age due to the Church’s unwillingness to engage with the questioning of beliefs, even for the sake of clarification.152 McCahon’s spiritual beliefs as an adult were informed by his research and personal engagement with various Christian traditions, in part with his family. His wife, Anne, was the daughter of the Anglican Archdeacon W.A. Hamblett,153 and McCahon’s children attended an interdenominational Sunday School every week.154 Although McCahon does not mention these Christian communities as particular influences in terms of his specific beliefs or practices, they demonstrate his lifelong connections to a Christian worldview. During the nineteen-forties and nineteen-fifties, McCahon became increasingly interested in the Quakers. His friend and patron, the pacifist art critic Rodney Kennedy, assisted in this burgeoning relationship.155 The

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Quaker approach to concepts such as pacificism and simplicity had a tangible impact on McCahon’s body of work.156 His son, William McCahon, believes that the Quakers’ tendency to honour individual revelation was important to his father.157 Nevertheless, he was caught up in an intellectual feud over whether or not the defeat of Fascism justified participation in World War II. Despite the Quaker endorsement of peace, McCahon attempted to enlist in military service to reluctantly fight for what he perceived as the greater good. McCahon was rejected from combat due to an enlarged heart, but the relationship between he and the Quakers seems to have been irreparably damaged.158 In his wartime service for the state, McCahon came across fellow labourers who were exempt from fighting on religious grounds. Through this group he was introduced to the idea of Christian Witnessing, which was to assist in his painterly observations of humanity.159 Even more influential was McCahon’s engagement with the Catholic Church. He began instruction in this institution in 1959. William McCahon believes his father found “answers and challenges, friends and intellectual companionship” within Catholicism.160 Indeed, McCahon’s creative imagination was stimulated by this denomination.161 In terms of actual community involvement he was less successful and never formally entered the Church. His main engagement with Catholicism involved a series of commissions undertaken in the nineteen-sixties.162 While painting for the Covenant Chapel in Remuera, McCahon purchased a Catholic children’s colouring book so as to become accustomed to the symbolism.163 Despite his unfamiliarity with the Church, he found the institution compelling and was eager to engage in deeper knowledge. Around the time that he painted the Remuera Chapel, McCahon became increasingly involved in discussing Catholicism with priests. His daughter Victoria Carr reports, “[a]t one stage we were quite sure that he was going to be converted.”164 Despite this, Carr feels that some beliefs were too much for her father such as the bodily assumption of Mary.165 Her brother provides a similar account.166 McCahon also had difficulty committing to formal rites of worship.167 He is reported as having upset the priests with his questions.168 He had trouble synchronising his worship with the regulated chronological structure of the Church, and craved discussion, fellowship, and inspirational conversation at all hours.169 William claims that his father left “partly by exclusion, partly by choice.”170 McCahon felt that Catholicism fitted in with his “emotional philosophy,” but believed the Church did not consider him “a suitable person.”171 He left with an attitude of personal rejection. As late as 1981,

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McCahon felt as though no churches were interested in his work, despite the commissions he had previously completed.172 Interestingly, McCahon’s explanations of faith usually contain qualifications that deny participation or belief in mainstream Christian concepts.173 Of particular notoriety is his comment “I believe, but don’t believe.”174 McCahon considered himself a religious man, “but not necessarily Christian.”175 He described religion as “an attitude,” one of many ambiguous statements.176 McCahon also provided the perplexing declaration that “I think I am a Christian—perhaps I am. I think I am a good guy, but I'm not.”177 His spiritual claims are often dense and baffling. In a letter to C.K. Stead McCahon wrote: The Lord, Or God is found in the end only—and reality. Tough tough hard and beautiful—all the time. As the body dies God is discovered. I find I can take it all really. Finally.178

This comment suggests that McCahon was, at least at that point in time, engaged with a version of faith that affirmed the existence of God through struggle and mortality.179 McCahon admitted that he often thought about death, but did not fear it. He was fascinated by the cessation of life but felt that what happened to a person after death was “irrelevant.”180 This does not, however, mean that a complex or non-eschatological definition of faith suggests McCahon did not consider himself a Christian.181 Leading to further abstruseness, McCahon saw his paintings as his site of communication and was reluctant to discuss religion in person. In an unpublished draft of his ‘Beginnings’ essay, McCahon explained: The things that happen in the brief period of time between late childhood and adulthood are very private experiences. They inevitably concern man’s struggle with his god, his definition of his god and his beliefs. Perhaps here one should begin, but a personal reticence in such discussion must be both expected and respected.182

As well as revealing his wilful obscurity when discussing religious matters, McCahon also implies that faith is a personal feeling rather than a universal truth. One may try to define McCahon’s faith by his willingness to call himself Christian or his tendency to avoid this phrase. But it is through his art that his journey of faith is most vividly revealed. Within McCahon’s paintings we can glimpse his spiritual questions, doubts, experimentations, and track his journey of understanding and disappointment. McCahon’s is a very particular theology, peppered with unique revelations and language such as his notion of ‘order’. On a childhood

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drive with his family, McCahon witnessed a profound mystical vision that came to inform his creative practice.183 He recalls: I first became aware of my own particular God, perhaps an Egyptian God, but standing far from the sun of Egypt in the Otago cold. Big Hills stood in front of the little hills, which rose up distantly across the plain from the flat land: there was a landscape of splendour, and order and peace. (The Crucifixion hadn’t yet come: perhaps this landscape was of the time before Jesus. I saw an angel in this land. Angels can herald beginnings.) I saw something logical, orderly and beautiful belonging to the land and yet not to its people. Not yet understood or communicated, not even fully yet invented. My work has largely been to communicate this vision and to invent the way to see it.184

This recollection reveals major themes within his body of work. McCahon mentions the primacy of the landscape and a personal yet Christianinspired mythology. He also paints New Zealand as a primal locale, waiting to be unveiled. This was, for McCahon, a deeply spiritual calling. Pound believes that McCahon’s “something logical, orderly and beautiful” refers to a culture: “a high culture peculiar to New Zealand, in which the real and pre-existent New Zealand might come properly to be seen.”185 This is indeed what McCahon aimed to achieve when he claimed to be inventing a way of seeing and communicating his vision of New Zealand. McCahon’s art is perhaps a bridge to this perception, or, to employ his own terminology, a gateway. It is interesting to contrast McCahon’s vision with Brasch’s ‘The Silent Land’, a poem in which he describes a compatible vision of the future. Brasch’s idea of a New Zealand where citizens loved their land was epitomised as follows: He will walk with his shadow across the bleaching plain No longer solitary, and hear the sea talking Dark in the rocks, O and the angel will visit, Singing life’s air with indefinable mark.186

Not only did McCahon receive an angelic vision, but his later work also alludes to the voices of the dead whilst walking on the beaches of New Zealand. Such discourse intertwines McCahon’s theology and body of work with the Nationalist Project. McCahon’s reference to ‘order’, exemplified in his prophetic vision discussed above, is an important, albeit obscure, aspect of his religious beliefs. In 1952, just prior to embarking on a less figurative approach to

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painting, McCahon wrote to Brasch that he wanted to move “[a]way from hysteria into order & value & reality … Cézanne rather than Van Gogh.”187 Order reflects the desire for neat and logical symbology, and means pertinent and pure statements. It denotes an intense reflection of the world as opposed to that which is flighty or unclear. Order thus reflects upon McCahon’s desire for coherent and direct communication. McCahon saw “the formal order of good architecture” in the Moutere hills, and believed that he could have been an architect himself had he passed matriculation. He felt as though architecture would have given him more authority and utility than painting. McCahon remarked, “I am now painting the architecture and the order of the world, things which are real but which people won’t believe.”188 Thus, McCahon’s definition of order can be expanded to an essential reality that is obscured for most people.189 He also believed that the “contrasts found in disorder can be built on for good.”190 As well as implying that order is a positive, this statement helps to explain McCahon’s fascination for the contrasts of night and day, and dark and light, as rhetorical devices.191 By connecting order to the landscape, McCahon suggests that this is a medium by which we may view ultimate realities and construct a spiritually inspired culture. McCahon makes it clear that his childhood vision is fundamental to an understanding of his art and its religious communication. He presents the landscape of Otago as something ancient and spiritual.192 McCahon also suggests a schism between human and land, a theme that he often expanded upon with religious connotations. His revealed landscape has an element of magic, allowing him an impossible glimpse of smaller hills behind large ones. This vision shows that Otago already has the gravitas and majesty to house an angel. McCahon’s account may seem to speak of gods traditionally associated with Egypt, but he is most likely referring to the Hebrew god of the Old Testament. McCahon was fixated upon the narrative of Exodus, the liberation of the Israelites, and the dream of a Promised Land.193 His vision suggests that the people of New Zealand did not yet understand the sacred nature of their homeland. McCahon wished to find the emotive imagery necessary to liberate them from this blindness and bring them into the Promised Land. His Promised Land was not a new location, but rather a more spiritual and appreciative outlook upon what was already owned. McCahon’s ideology is fundamentally concerned with peace and fraternity, based on the concept of nature as a spiritual and redeeming force. Even in his very early painting Harbour Cone From Peggy’s Hill (1939), McCahon aimed to educate his audience as to the true spiritual value of the land. In a letter to Woollaston he wrote:

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Chapter Two I imagined people looking at it then looking at the landscape and for once really seeing it & being happier for it & believing in God & then the brotherhood of men & the futility of war.194

While this painting may seem to be no more than rolling green hills of Otago looking out to the sea, it is a deeply evangelical statement that is designed to reveal the glory of God and creation.195 McCahon makes a very overt connection between spiritual belief and peace. He felt that “[o]ne person with real faith could stop the war.”196 The dichotomy between violence and destruction versus nature and peace is fundamental to McCahon’s oeuvre. He believed, “the force of painting as propaganda for social reform is immense if properly wielded.”197 McCahon’s religiosity was tied to the spiritual value of the land, which was connected to notions of peace, which were in turn directly informed by his construction of a national culture. This aim of interconnectivity can be viewed as a truly religious one. Morris believes that the heart of the New Zealand spiritual identity is “our relationship to this land and each other.”198 It is the ground upon which lives are enacted and connections are made between communities and the future. He believes that the conceptual transition between owning the land and belonging to the land is inherently spiritual. Morris articulates the orientation of New Zealand as ‘home’ as part of this process.199 In seeking to make New Zealand a site of happiness, respect, and fraternity, McCahon did indeed produce an enduring and meaningful spirit of identity as evidenced in the reception of his landscape paintings.200 In a revealing letter from 1944, McCahon criticises land ownership and states that “true Communism means true Christianity and I believe that by my painting I help to bring it about.”201 There is surprisingly little said about this comment, although hints of a left-wing ideology can be found in his statements and influences. For example, R.A.K. Mason, whose lifestyle McCahon admired and modelled himself on, was a socialist.202 McCahon described art societies of the nineteen-twenties, such as the Canterbury Society of Arts,203 as “rigid,” catering to popular taste and established artists rather than seeking out the new. McCahon was associated with The Group, formed as a reaction to this culture.204 He believes that “the rot started” in The Group due to a “strange insurgence of the wealthy” and a change in spirit from a gathering of working friends to a top-heavy conglomeration.205 It is easy to view this statement within a Marxist framework as McCahon valorises the workers and laments the wealthy. McCahon was not, however, entirely convinced by this ideology. In a discussion with O’Reilly he explained that the goals of Communism struck

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him “as a stage and not a final state.” He felt that the goals of Christianity were the more comprehensive objective, although he was not entirely convinced by these either.206 Curnow believes that the post-war period pushed McCahon towards “radical Christian thinkers and activists on both the left and the right.”207 As shall be demonstrated, his Gate series was a reaction to the Cuban Missile Crisis, indicating disappointment with the way in which Communism was enacted in practice. McCahon was more concerned with the welfare of his audience than the propagation of any specific political ideology. When asked what he most cared about, McCahon nominated his painting and cherishing others.208 His deep concern for other humans is recognised by many.209 McCahon’s need to teach and reform was clearly interwoven with his vocational beliefs. He explains: As a painter I may often be more worried about you than you are about me and if I wasn’t concerned I’d not be doing my work properly as a painter. Painting can be a potent way of talking.210

McCahon’s pedagogical desire was intense and sustained throughout his career, as can be observed in many of his artworks.211 In keeping with this, McCahon considers his work as a duty rather than a choice.212 The artist viewed his vocation as predestination. When asked if he wanted to be an artist, McCahon replied, “I couldn’t have been anything else.”213 With such primary source material in mind, one may reach a reliable definition of McCahon’s religious beliefs. His commitment to, or standing with, various churches was not at the heart of his vision. Instead, he used Christianity as a discourse through which to critique and construct culture, and through which to join pacifism with nationalism. His longed-for Promised Land was one of peace and fraternity, where the spiritual powers of nature were respected. McCahon’s belief system was imbued with various Christian traditions and philosophical ideas. Indeed, McCahon employs Christian texts to describe both despair and salvation. His theology is personalised and parochial, but should not be seen as false or invalid because of this. McCahon’s failure to attach himself to a church should not mean that he misses out on classification as a Christian. McCahon’s belief in God was mutable, and is better described by the journey depicted in his oeuvre than via any overarching statement of faith. Engagement with McCahon’s art proves the very real presence of Christianity in his thoughts and in his creative vision.

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Conclusion The nationalist vision is a large part of what McCahon aimed to communicate and actualise through visual rhetoric. When considering his religious beliefs, the nationalistic Promised Land is central. When considering his genre, the broad artistic drive to ‘invent’ New Zealand is where his ultimate allegiance lies. McCahon’s spirituality is inextricable from the construction of local identity and the promotion of the value of the landscape. The artist was concerned with the construction of a Biblically-inspired Promised Land, spiritually oriented towards peace and compassion. Because of this, the welfare of his audience was a vital spiritual motivation. McCahon’s religious viewpoints were multifarious and often abstruse, meaning that his reception as a religious figure has been similarly complex. McCahon’s entire body of work shows an explicit desire to change social attitudes and behaviours along religious lines. His inability to do so is, in part, a reflection of the way religion and the role of the art object have been perceived within New Zealand. Descriptions of McCahon’s religious standing include Christian without affiliation, a man with deep personal faith, and an agnostic. The most popular convention in a description of McCahon’s religiosity is the idea of the artist as prophet. There are many examples of this phraseology, coupled with variant motivations for its usage. In order to work towards the most sustainable description of McCahon’s religious beliefs, it is vital to examine his personal statements on the topic. The artist phrased his faith in a highly ambiguous and equivocal manner, considering the topic to be private and personal. Nevertheless, it is clear that McCahon was a Christian who was concerned primarily with the development of his nation and the proliferation of peace through engagement with the land. When examining McCahon’s didactic intentions, it is important that this very particular version of Christianity be a guiding tool of interpretation.

Notes  1

Most commentators read McCahon in light of a nationalist agenda, however scholars such as Rex Butler specifically reject this paradigm in analysis of the artist. See, for example, Rex Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia (Wellington: Victoria University of Wellington, 2010), 10, 48. 2 For the sake of clarity, Allen Curnow will be consistently referred to by his full name, whilst Wystan Curnow, who appears more frequently throughout this book, will be abbreviated to surname only. This same convention will apply to other

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 family members who are frequently quoted, such as the artist’s son William McCahon. 3 Allen Curnow [1945] in Look Back Harder: Critical Writings 1935-1984, ed. Peter Simpson (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1987), 77. Representing the eventual abandonment of the Nationalist Movement, Curnow stated in 1974 that “a few of us poets – and almost nobody else” contributed to this ‘invention’. See: Allen Curnow, author’s note to Collected Poems: 1933-1973 (Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1974), xiii. This same source includes Curnow’s specification of “inventions, that we call by the name of poetry.” 4 Alex Calder, “Unsettling Settlement: Poetry and Nationalism in Aotearoa/New Zealand,” in The Yearbook of Research into English and American Literature (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998), 169. 5 Allen Curnow believes that New Zealand’s first “wholly original” poet was R.A.K. Mason who published The Beggar in 1924. This may be seen as the absolute beginnings of a discernibly original national tradition. This anthology was commercially unsuccessful at the time. Mason is rumoured to have thrown two hundred copies into the ocean. See: Allen Curnow, introduction to R.A.K. Mason: Collected Poems [1962], by R.A.K. Mason (Christchurch: Pegasus Press, 1971), 910. This is the same decade in which Jonathan Mane-Wheoki notes the emergence of “a consciousness of New Zealand’s distinctiveness as an art culture.” See: Jonathan Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” Journal of Art Historiography 4 (2011): 2. 6 Maurice Shadbolt, ed., The Shell Guide to New Zealand (Christchurch: Whitcomb and Tombs, 1968), 33. 7 Much early New Zealand poetry was phrased as the literature of dispossessed people, focusing heavily on Britain. See: Ralph J. Crane, “Out of the Centre: Thoughts on the Post-colonial Literatures of Australia and New Zealand,” in Postcolonial Discourses: An Anthology, ed. Gregory Castle (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 390. This was rejected in the nineteen-thirties when nationalism shifted focus towards internal discourses under which New Zealand was reinterpreted as a Pacific Island. See: Crane, “Out of the Centre,” 392. This is in keeping with a general pattern observed in Commonwealth nations by Flemming Brahms who argues that the cultural history of these nations needs to be viewed in terms of “a dependence on the imperial centre and a later movement towards independence.” See: Flemming Brahms, “Entering Our Own Ignorance: Subject-Object Relations in Commonwealth Literature,” in The Post-Colonial Studies Reader [1995], eds Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin (London: Routledge, 2003), 66. As such, the notion of striving towards self-reliance was vital, manifesting in what Brahms describes as the “re-creation of social and cultural selfhood.” See: Brahms, “Entering Our Own Ignorance,” 66. For example, Labour policies after 1935 promised to move New Zealand away from a “stodgy dependence” on British models. See: Lawrence Jones, “Myth and Anti-Myth in Literary Responses to the Centennial,” in Creating a National Spirit: Celebrating New Zealand’s Centennial, ed. William Renwick (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2004), 212. Domestic concerns were thus prioritised. See: Stuart Murray, Never a Soul at Home: New

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 Zealand Literary Nationalism and the 1930s (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 1998), 21ff. The Depression has also been identified as an influence on young writers who came to challenge the status quo as a result. See: Jones, “Myth and Anti-Myth in Literary Responses to the Centennial,” 212. Pound suggests that the Depression influenced the “harsh clarity of artistic manner” in the Nationalist Project, sweeping aside ‘sentimentalities’. See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 10. This unsentimental harshness is observable in the work of McCahon. World War II is similarly noted as an important contribution to the New Zealand dialogue of self-definition. See: Murray, Never a Soul at Home, 9. The nature of peace and conflict is a major theme within McCahon’s body of work, and was influenced in part by this war. 8 See, for example, Alan Lawson, “The Discovery of Nationality in Australian and Canadian Literatures,” in The Post-Colonial Studies Reader [1995], eds Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin (London: Routledge, 2003), 168. 9 Curnow, introduction to A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45, 41. 10 See, for example, John Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” Bulletin of Robert McDougall Art Gallery 52 (1987): 2. 11 Living in a small nation, it is unsurprising that many of these nationalistic entrepreneurs were personally connected. Roger Horrocks argues that New Zealand “[p]oetry and painting are hard to keep separate—Allen Curnow looks out the window and sees lighting by J.C. Hoyte. A poet/painter (A.R.D. Fairburn) denounces modern art. Two art critics (Wystan Curnow and Tony Green) write poetry.” See: Roger Horrocks, “The Invention of New Zealand,” [1983] New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre, accessed September 20, 2011, http://www.nzepc.auckland.ac.nz/misc/horrocks.asp. In addition, to name but a few friendships, James K. Baxter and Allen Curnow were well acquainted. See, for example, the sardonically loving tribute “A Refusal to Read Poems of James K. Baxter at a Performance to Honour His Memory in Cranmer Square, Christchurch,” [1973] in Early Days Yet: New and Collected Poems 1941-1997 by Allen Curnow (New Zealand: Auckland University Press, 1997). Wystan Curnow states that McCahon was a friend of his parents. See: Wystan Curnow in Moir Laird, “Seresin Landfall Residency 2010,” Seresin Estate Blog, May 26 May, 2010, accessed September 5, 2010, http://seresinestate.blogspot.com/2010/05/seres in-landfall-residency-2010.html. These connections have been notably enduring and interwoven. For example, McCahon’s painting Floodgate 2 (1965) is used on the front page of Allen Curnow’s Early Days Yet. For a larger list of artists and poets who may be grouped in this category, see: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 14ff. 12 Diana Wichtel, “Seeing the Light,” The New Zealand Listener 3645, March 20, 2010, accessed November 1, 2011, http://www.listener.co.nz/commentary/seeingthe-light-3. 13 By virtue of her landscape poetry, Ursula Bethell is called “a spiritual colonist of this country.” See: Allen Curnow, introduction to A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45, 51. Again, the same could be said of McCahon. 14 Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 5.

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 15

The most substantial divide between painting and poetry was in terms of its reception. Gordon H. Brown provides a possible additional explanation for the link between painting and literature. He argues that the “cultured audience” of the nineteen-thirties and nineteen-forties was “predominantly literary in its tastes,” leading to the frequent dismissal of modern art that could not be read in a literary manner. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 3. This may account for McCahon’s strong inheritance of the written word. 16 Stuart Murray explains that the landscape is the “first indicator of difference in the colonizing moment,” thus an inscription of the relationship with the new land is pre-eminent in colonial national narratives. See: Murray, Never a Soul at Home, 17. A landscape painting is indeed a powerful means of constructing and encouraging culture. 17 Francis Pound, Frames on the Land: Early Landscape Painting in New Zealand (Auckland: Collins, 1983), 13-14. 18 Pound, Frames on the Land, 14. 19 The fact that this painting, so clearly in dialogue with the Nationalist Movement, was made towards its cessation shows the consistent and enduring nature of McCahon’s construction of culture. 20 ‘The Word Paintings’ chapter of this book explores the very specific ways in which McCahon employed poetry. 21 See, for example, James Brown, introduction to The Nature of Things: Poems From the New Zealand Landscape, comp. James Brown (Nelson: Craig Potton, 2005), 10. 22 The level to which this notion should be correlated to Christianity varies in terms of who applies it. For example, Allen Curnow came from a strong Anglican background, but wished to leave this behind. As Horrocks claims, Curnow aimed “to dispel the weighty fiction of Christianity.” See: Horrocks, “The Invention of New Zealand.” Other Nationalist writers have been described with religious terminology that is not necessarily reflective of their actual allegiances, but is, rather, used to capture something of their passion. For example, W.H. Oliver calls Brasch “an evangelist” with Landfall as his “testament.” See: W.H. Oliver, “The Awakening Imagination,” in The Pattern of New Zealand Culture, ed. A.L. McLeod (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1968), 431. Interestingly, in distinction to the usual description of Nationalist art and literature as parochial and vernacular, Oliver deems Brasch’s editorials and ideology to be “eurocentric and elitist.” 23 Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 19. 24 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 123. 25 Pound, “Topographies,” 122. 26 Francis Pound, “Endless Yet Never: Death, the Prophetic Voice and McCahon’s Last Painting,” in Colin McCahon: The Last Painting (Auckland: Peter Webb Galleries, 1993), 4. 27 Pound, “Topographies,” 124. 28 Except, of course, to the MƗori communities that this ‘new’ New Zealand culture displaced.

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29 Wystan Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” in TOI TOI TOI: Three Generations of Artists from New Zealand, (Kassel: Museum Fridericianum, 1999), 19. 30 Williams, “Parade,” 17. 31 Indeed, Pound believes that the New Zealand Nationalist Movement showed indifference, hostility, or ignorance of contemporary global culture. See: Pound, The Space Between, 26. Challenging this notion of ignorance, Murray logically states that nationalism is inherently a dialogue with the overseas world, as the existence of other nations must be considered when constructing the boundaries of one’s own. See: Murray, Never a Soul at Home, 9. What may be agreed upon is the way in which these global boundaries are not envisioned in aggressive terms. McCahon’s works never employ nationalism as a call to violence, despite the wars they span. Indeed, Robert Leonard believes that McCahon’s art was concerned with the project of postwar reconstruction and “its imperatives of healing and redemption.” See: Robert Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” in TOI TOI TOI: Three Generations of Artists from New Zealand, (Kassel: Museum Fridericianum, 1999), 26. McCahon’s particular version of nationalism is one built upon peace and inclusion as opposed to the construction of an ideology that would define New Zealand against its enemies or assist in any kind of militaristic propaganda. 32 Horrocks, “The Invention of New Zealand.” 33 Allen Curnow, introduction to A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45, 32-33. 34 Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 171. 35 As such, Bernice Murphy believes that McCahon’s entire career has been an attempt to address the dislocation between cultural centre and distant province. See: Bernice Murphy, “Antipodean Montages: Notes on Colin McCahon and Imants Tillers,” Diaspora in Context: Connections in a Fragmented World (Finland: Pori Art Museum, 1995), 82. Congruently, John McCrone believes that McCahon gave voice to the dislocated colonial mindset. See: John McCrone, “Art for Living’s Sake,” The Press, December 14, 2009, accessed May 18, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/the-press/promotions/reader-services/story-archives/315967 0/Art-for-livings-sake. Expanding this discussion to the present era, Caroline McCaw celebrates the meaning that can be found in local settings and environments as a result of the inheritance of McCahon. She positions this as a way of maintaining an interest in New Zealand in the face of imported colonial content in national culture. See: Caroline McCaw, “Art and (Second) Life: Over the Hills and Far Away?,” Fibreculture 11 (2008), accessed June 15, 2010, http://journal.fibreculture.org/issue11/issue11_mccaw.html. What these theorists recognise is McCahon’s focus on the authentically local experience as a means of giving voice to New Zealand as a centre of culture as opposed to a region where culture is merely an ill-fitting import. For an expanded discussion on this notion, consult the chapter ‘A Foundation of Landscape’. 36 Allen Curnow, introduction to The Penguin Book of New Zealand Verse, ed. Allen Curnow (New Zealand: Penguin Books, 1960), 20. 37 Paul Williams agrees that the “crisis of PƗkehƗ identity was often symbolically refracted through the prism of landscape.” See: Paul Williams, “Parade:

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 Reformulating Art and Identity at Te Papa, Museum of New Zealand,” Open Museum Journal 3 (2001): 17. 38 Allen Curnow, “House and Land,” [1941] in Allen Curnow, Collected Poems: 1933-1973, 91-92. 39 Francis Pound, The Space Between: PƗkehƗ Use of MƗori Motifs in Modernist New Zealand Art (Auckland: Workshop Press, 1994), 88. 40 Charles Brasch, “The Silent Land,” [1945] in Allen Curnow, A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45, 113. Indeed, Pound argues that silence and speechlessness are core elements the nationalist rhetoric, and forces that the artist or poet must overcome. See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 27, 41 Allen Curnow, author’s note to Collected Poems: 1933-1973, xiii. 42 As Paul Morris explains, sometimes the unity of identity is achieved through a suppression of difference. See: Paul Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” in New Zealand Identities: Departures and Destinations, eds James H. Liu, Tim McCreanor, Tracey McIntosh, and Teresia Teaiwa (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2005), 243. 43 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 25. Brown believes it is shorn of potential sentimental interpretations for the sake of a “more distant, harsher, symbolic reality.” 44 Colin McCahon, “Statement,” in Days and Nights, Helensville (Dunedin: Dawson’s Limited Exhibition Gallery, 1971). 45 It is thus unsurprising that Pound feels Allen Curnow’s vision for New Zealand culture was inherently insular. He argues that local geography was taken to heart and rendered as “an emotional and prescriptive truth.” See: Pound, The Space Between, 25. This ‘truth’ is a message explicitly directed toward a postcolonial New Zealand audience. 46 Despite being immigrants from Ireland, McCahon’s family did view Europe as home. Indeed, his father was “angrily anti-British.” See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith, eds Marja Bloem and Martin Browne (Amsterdam: Stedelijk Museum, 2002), 29. 47 McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 96. 48 McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 96. 49 Pound, The Space Between, 87. On this note, Allen Curnow’s call for the invention of New Zealand has not gone without criticism. For example, Calder worries that ‘inventing’ New Zealand after thousands of years of MƗori settlement “may disavow aspects of our colonial past.” Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 165. 50 The word ‘PƗkehƗ’ is a MƗori term of uncertain origin that denotes a New Zealander of European heritage. Thus it describes a person who is neither indigenous nor foreign, but fits within a paradigm of ‘nativised-white’. See: Sarah Dugdale, “Chronicles of Evasion: Negotiating PƗkehƗ New Zealand Identity,” in Race, Colour, and Identity in Australia and New Zealand, eds John Docker and Gerhard Fischer (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2000), 191. 51 Landfall is also the name of a journal of literature and the arts, established under the editorship of Charles Brasch in 1947. It remains a successful vehicle for the transmission of the local creative arts.

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52 Brahms notes the importance of landfall within New Zealand literature, coupled with the idea of ‘beginnings’ – the sense that a nation is just being formed. See: Brahms, “Entering Our Own Ignorance,” 66. 53 Adrian Roscoe, “Never a Soul at Home: New Zealand Verse and the Question of Land,” in Re-Sitting Queen's English: Text and Tradition in Post-Colonial Literatures, eds Gillian Whitlock and Hellen Tiffin (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992), 148. 54 It also references a single PƗkehƗ narrative of the country’s development, which is problematically reductive in its own right. 55 Calder quips, “[b]eautiful scenery and MƗori people: the two go hand in hand, as it were, and are the very badge of congratulatory PƗkehƗ nationalism even today.” See: Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 168. 56 For example, Allen Curnow notes a tendency, in the first quarter of the twentieth century, toward the adoption of words such as kowhai and tui within poetry as “new toys” for “indigenous effect.” See: Allen Curnow, introduction to A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45, 24. 57 Charles Brasch, “Forerunners,” in Curnow, A Book of New Zealand Verse 192345, 53. 58 Leonhard Emmerling, Out of This World (Bielefeld: Kerber Verlag, 2010), 35. 59 Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 169. 60 Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 172. This is also a resoundingly heteronormative viewpoint, based on a dimorphic perception of gender, which presupposes women as an object desired by men. 61 Brasch, “The Silent Land,” 113. 62 There is something strange about the nomenclature used to describe these two poets in A Book of New Zealand Verse 1923-45. Hyde is consistently referred to by her full name, whilst the male poets are abbreviated to surname after the first full mention of their title. Similarly, Eileen Duggan and Ursula Bethell are referred to as ‘Miss’, rather than by their surnames alone (although this convention is broader than the work of Curnow). As the use of a surname to reference a poet is a mark of their notoriety, perhaps this indicates an inherent lack of serious consideration for these writers. For a discussion of the successes and struggles of Hyde and Duggan in the canon of New Zealand poetry, see: Michele Leggott, “Opening the Archive: Robin Hyde, Eileen Duggan and the Persistence of Record,” Hecate 20:2 (1994). 63 Francis Pound, Stories We Tell Ourselves: The Paintings of Richard Killeen (New Zealand: Auckland Art Gallery, 1999), 18. On a connected note, he writes that the Nationalist Project sought to reject “the effete, the soft.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 5. 64 As Brown argues, McCahon “reassessed the uninviting wilderness,” allowing citizens to ‘possess’ the landscape by coming to terms with residing there and then learning to “love it as if the land were part of what we are.” Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1. 65 Indeed, Lloyd Geering overtly states that McCahon’s body of work is a reflection of religious life in New Zealand in the twentieth century. See: Geering, Wrestling With God, 225.

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 66

See, for example, J.J. Mol, “Religion,” in The Pattern of New Zealand Culture, ed. A.L. McLeod (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1968). 67 Peter Bernard Clarke maintains that church attendance in New Zealand has never been high. He states that “the firmly secular constitution of the country from an early stage of its modern history” has led to a “large number of purely nominal members of the Christian Churches.” See: Peter Bernard Clarke, New Religions in Global Perspective (Abington: Routledge, 2006), 151. Peter Lineham traces the “decline in support for Christianity” back to the census data of the nineteentwenties. See: Peter Lineham, “It’s a New World Out There,” in The Religion Question: Findings from the 1996 Census (Auckland: Christian Research Association of Aotearoa New Zealand, 2000), 61. 68 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 250. 69 The presence of non-Christian religions in New Zealand is substantial. Robert S. Ellwood notes a relatively large presence of the Theosophical Society, Anthroposophy, Spiritualism, Eastern-inspired New Age faiths, and so on. See: Robert S. Ellwood, Islands of the Dawn: The Story of Alternative Spirituality in New Zealand (United States of America: University of Hawaii Press, 1993), 187. 70 Pearson explains the presence of nominal Christianity quite poetically, asking “[t]he New Zealand way of life is ordained, but who ordains it? God? But few New Zealanders care about him: they don’t doubt he is there, he must be; a New Zealander who never says ‘Christ’ except unconsciously as a expletive will jump to confute an atheist. God is at the controls but he doesn’t need the New Zealander’s recognition.” See: Pearson, “Fretful Sleepers,” 332. 71 Paul Morris, Harry Ricketts, and Mike Grimshaw, introduction to Spirit in a Strange Land: A Selection of New Zealand Spiritual Verse, eds Paul Morris, Harry Ricketts, and Mike Grimshaw (New Zealand: Godwit, 2002), 9-10. 72 Morris, Ricketts, and Grimshaw, introduction, 9. 73 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 251. 74 Although McCahon’s symbols were often too obscure to be understood, Christianity is still apparent as a major theme within his body of work. For example Victory Over Death II, which is amongst his most renowned creations, is made up of repeated Biblical quotations. One requires only a passing familiarity with the Bible to recognise these words as part of a religious text. McCahon was introduced to New Zealand as the painter of Biblical events in local landscapes. After such a debut it is difficult to lose the mantle of Christian painter, even if the spiritual elements in his later works were harder to comprehend. 75 Grimshaw makes the highly useful claim that attitudes towards religion and its changing perception within New Zealand are revealed within critical and academic responses to McCahon, not simply within the works themselves. See: Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 176. 76 Baxter, “Salvation Army Aesthete? ...,” 13. 77 Baxter, “Salvation Army Aesthete? ...,” 13. 78 Ron O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1972), 10. On this note, Grimshaw explains that Christianity in art was acceptable to McCahon’s New

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 Zealand, so long as it was represented in a traditional manner and location. McCahon’s approach took religious language and concepts out of the church and into secular society where they were often unwelcome. See: Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 177. 79 Leading into this era, Liz Coats describes the mythology that surrounded McCahon as a public figure of the nineteen-sixties art world. She recalls a melodramatic response to his works, perceived as images of life and death. Coats believes that McCahon’s fellow artists began acting as witnesses to his powerful religious affect. See: Liz Coats, Fertile Ground: An Artist Looks At McCahon (Dunedin: Hocken Gallery, 2001), 7. Here we see McCahon’s more broadly ‘spiritual’ themes acting as an attracting force or as a source of dramatic excitement. 80 Wade Clark Roof provides a neat summary of the differences between the terms ‘religious’ and ‘spiritual’. He uses ‘religious’ to mean “the outward and objectified elements of a tradition” including myths, moral codes, communities et cetera. This implies some degree of grounding within a symbolic universe. Conversely, ‘spiritual’ is referred to as a concept related to seekership. Roof uses it as a term that “may refer to the inner life that is bound up with, and embedded within, religious forms” or in a broader sense to self-transformation towards greater potential. See: Wade Clark Roof, “Religion and Spirituality: Toward an Integrated Analysis,” in Handbook of the Sociology of Religion, ed. Michele Dillon (United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 138. 81 Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 180. 82 Hamish Keith in Peter Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” Bulletin of Christchurch Art Gallery 152 (2008): 28. 83 Edmond, Dark Night, 11. 84 For a comprehensive summary of this trend based on the 1996 census see: Lineham, “It’s a New World Out There.” 85 Exemplifying this, Johnston notes a decline in the focus given to “Christian prophetic realism” in the nineteen-nineties, leading to a lack of acknowledgment towards the authenticity of McCahon’s Christian beliefs. See: Alexa M. Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” in Headlands: Thinking Through New Zealand Art, ed. Mary Barr (Sydney: Museum of Contemporary Art, 1992), 107. 86 A notable example is the Whangarei Art Museum’s 2010-2011 exhibition ‘Credo and Quest: A Selective Survey of Religion and Spirituality in New Zealand Art’. The press release for this event states, “[w]ithin such a breadth of subject perhaps most curators have been intimidated to touch a deeply emotive and controversial subject.” Celebrating the presence of McCahon, the exhibition is presented as “a Hollywood Biblical blockbuster.” Despite this, the Christian element is tempered by the emphasis on a pluralistic religious dialogue. As such, the press release encourages a move “towards a new inclusive Christianity and a nation of many religions.” The event was opened by Paul Morris, a respected religious studies academic; and blessed by Geshe Sangey Thinley, a popular Buddhist teacher. See: “Credo and Quest – A Selective Survey of Religion and

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 Spirituality in New Zealand Art,” Whangarei Art Museum, 2010, accessed July 12, 2011, http://www.whangareiartmuseum.co.nz/news_events/press_releases/mr-cred oandquest.php. Interestingly, this source includes the disclaimer: “Some content portrayed in the artworks maybe religiously controversial.” 87 For example, O’Brien warns against a critical framework that ignores or minimises McCahon’s overt aims of conversion. He states, “McCahon’s intentions for his works are at odds with the manner in which much contemporary criticism deals with them. Postmodernism has, conveniently, made his work an easier pill to swallow, his ‘messages’ reduced to the status of quotations within quotations.” See: Gregory O’Brien, “What Has Been Communicated,” Sport 21 (1988), accessed July 12, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba21Spo-t1-bodyd6.html. Peter Timms offers a detailed complaint on this issue. Claiming that nonChristian art can be sentimentalised as ancient but culturally inapplicable wisdom, Timms posits Christian symbolism as a more socially awkward intrusion. He criticises the art historical pattern of morphing McCahon’s overt Christian themes into a digestible and non-specific ‘spirituality’ where “a sort of pagan naturemysticism” is constructed from his images. Timms makes the tongue-in-cheek observation that the most obvious fact about McCahon “is the one that causes the most embarrassment: he was a religious artist. Even worse, he was a Christian artist.” See: Peter Timms, What’s Wrong with Contemporary Art? (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2004), 164. 88 Indeed, Andrew Bullen remarks that Australians and New Zealanders are “unused to prophets who use paint, and we are quickly alienated by stridency.” See: Andrew Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” Eureka Street 11:3 (2001): 42. McCahon’s paintings certainly fall into this category. Indeed, Peter Timms describes sincere Christianity as an explicitly detrimental theme for an artist who aims to achieve popularity with a modern audience. A regular response to such proselytism is to block it out. See: Timms, What’s Wrong with Contemporary Art?, 164. Comparably, Brown mentions the common knee-jerk reaction felt towards McCahon, which functions as an impediment towards understanding. See: Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 13. 89 For example, Coley believes that jokes and protests made about McCahon’s work were often reactions to the “embarrassing intensity” of his canvases. See: Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. Rod Pattenden mentions the “embarrassing difficulty of interpretation” felt by critics when confronted by his religious iconography. See: Rod Pattenden, “Speaking in Questions,” in Beyond Belief: Modern Art and the Religious Imagination, ed. Rosemary Crumlin (Melbourne: National Gallery of Victoria, 1998), 126. 90 Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 196-197. 91 For example, both Turner and Brown discuss McCahon’s inability to fit well within any given faith organisation due to his questioning and uncertainties. See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 222; Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20. Morris calls McCahon a “proto-post-Christian” who found himself outside of the church. See: Paul Morris, “New Zealand Spirituality: A Time for Re-enchantment” in Spirit in a Strange Land: A Selection of New

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 Zealand Spiritual Verse, eds Paul Morris, Harry Ricketts, and Mike Grimshaw (New Zealand: Godwit, 2002), 187. 92 Brown provides an apt reflection on McCahon’s wavering faith as a whole. He describes McCahon’s vision as consistent and generally “derived from Western Christian thought, yet ... a personal philosophy able to flow with the natural changes of life’s circumstances, pessimistic or optimistic.” See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20. 93 McCahon [1976] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 48.43. 94 For example, Jim Barr sees “reasonable doubt” as one of McCahon’s major themes. See: Jim Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery (Lower Hutt: Dowse Art Gallery, 1980). Brown believes that his doubt stems from the isolation of his career and the challenge of giving “shape to belief.” See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20. Emmerling states that, for McCahon, “belief is not a religiousness safeguarded by an institution but the persistent wrestling with the conviction that there is no reason to doubt God.” See: Emmerling, Out of This World, 37. Turner suggests that McCahon looks at questions of faith and salvation from the perspective of a “doubting believer.” See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 220. Edmond sees him as “the evangelist of the ambiguous” who is as much on the search for enlightenment and improvement as his audience is. See: Martin Edmond, Dark Night: Walking With McCahon (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2011), 102. Such reactions to McCahon’s doubt generally sustain a religious tone in regard to their description of the artist. The application of terminology such as belief, conviction, faith, and salvation still orient McCahon within the rhetoric of Christianity. 95 Rob Yule provides an explanation for his seemingly problematic uncertainty, stating “[t]he ambiguity of faith with which McCahon grappled arises from the fact that God hides himself sufficiently to render faith both possible and virtuous—yet that very hiddenness opens up the possibility of doubt.” Yule believes that McCahon’s spiritual uncertainty was born of faith isolating him in a secular society. See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 96 Morris, Ricketts, and Grimshaw, introduction, 13. Christianity has indeed often functioned both as an institutionalised behavioural/belief system and an anti-state apparatus in a variety of socio-historical contexts. 97 These reductive viewpoints may inaccurately dismiss McCahon’s beliefs as nonreligious. 98 For example, Grimshaw positions him as a man who aimed to reject the Church without rejecting the Christian message. See: Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 195. T.J. McNamara neatly summarises this viewpoint by stating, “McCahon is in many ways a Christian painter but that does not mean he identified with any particular doctrine or dogma. He saw the figure of Christ as a great symbol of truth and enlightenment, one that was widely shared.” See: T.J. McNamara, “Work of Master Returns Home,” New Zealand Herald, April 3, 2003, accessed August 19, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=3350 415. On this note, Brown argues that the artist saw the Bible as “a textbook for humanity” as opposed to a recount of old stories and fixed ideas. He argues that

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 this vision is connected to a belief in the universal nature of human existence. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 151. Brown does, however, warn against readings that ignore the prominence of a Christian vision in McCahon’s religious explorations. 99 Leonard, for example, feels “McCahon exploited the deep structural possibilities of Christian myth to create a labyrinthine oeuvre, a body of work that we can ‘get into’.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 32. Christianity assisted in his aims of constructing a journey of unfolding enlightenment. Also relevant to this viewpoint is White’s claim that McCahon’s success as an icon maker has been his ability to “translate the symbolic systems of the past to a contemporary audience, many of whom have limited access to the religious genus of Western culture’s symbolic language.” See: Jan White, “Antipodean Translations: Colin McCahon and his Topoi of Belief,” Antipodes Magazine (2006), 5. It is clear that McCahon has been seen by many as a non-denominational translator of the spiritual. 100 For example, Regina Hackett remarks, “[i]n the degraded context of contemporary religion, with first-stone throwing Christians on one side and murderous Muslim thugs on the other, the paintings of Colin McCahon are a relief.” See: Regina Hackett, “The Best Lack All Conviction…,” Seattle Pi, July 11, 2008, accessed July 23, 2009, http://blog.seattlepi.com/art/archives/143244.asp Hackett disassociates McCahon from the modern mainstream Christian canon, seeing him as a pacifistic outsider. 101 For example, O’Brien describes McCahon as an “artist concerned with moral and spiritual collapse.” He denies that McCahon deals with the ‘death of god’ and suggests that his artworks are explorations of the ‘possibility of god’. See: Gregory O’Brien, “Some Disciplined Mayhem,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed July 14, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d3-d1-d8.html. 102 Leonard believes common ground can be found between the idea of McCahon as an agnostic experimenting with the language of tradition and as a Christian engaged with modern theology. He states that McCahon “is aligned with existentialism, investing meaning into a meaningless world.” Leonard locates this meaninglessness in a post-war society that the word of God has forsaken. He calls him “a passionate agnostic who used Christianity as an armature for an art with other objectives.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 32. Ian North describes him similarly as “a passionate, religiously inclined agnostic” who employed Christian imagery for cultural and artistic reasons. See: Ian North, “In the Coil of Life’s Hunger: James K. Baxter 1926-1972 Colin McCahon 1919-1987,” Artlink 14:4 (1994), 43. The recurrent mention of ‘passion’ is interesting considering its connection to theological accounts of Christ’s suffering. Debating the purpose of focusing on McCahon as an agnostic, Lynn argues “whether one is uncertain about the existence of a god seems irrelevant to the problem of encountering or coping with the notion of eternal death.” See: Elwyn Lynn, “Colin McCahon: The View From Across the Tasman,” Art New Zealand (1984), accessed February 11, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues31to40/5thbiennale.htm. 103 For example, Edmond believes that McCahon’s ultimate legacy may be the “testimony of a soul” he created, alongside the tools he gave others to navigate

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 towards the making of their own spirit. Edmond sees this as non-doctrinaire and believes one need not subscribe to a particular system of faith to either hear or employ this testimony. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 170. 104 See, for example, James K. Baxter, “Salvation Army Aesthete?...,” [1948] in Peter Simpson, Candles in a Dark Room: James K. Baxter and Colin McCahon (Auckland: Auckland Art Gallery, 1995), 13; John Caselberg, “Retrospective: Paintings by M.T. Woollaston and Colin McCahon,” in Chart to My Country: Selected Prose 1947-1971, (Dunedin: John McIndoe, 1973), 53. Young sees McCahon as a figure of national positivity, even in his periods of doubt such as the Elias paintings. Referencing ‘Jerusalem’, Young describes McCahon’s “vision of tomorrow” in which New Zealand is seen as a dignified and important land. He claims, “[t]hat such a painter could emerge from this land is, in itself, sufficient evidence of the promise the future holds.” See: Mark Young, “Colin McCahon,” [Originally published in Barry Lett Gallery Newsletter, August 5, 1965], New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre, accessed March 9, 2011, http://www.nzepc.auc kland.ac.nz/authors/young/mccahon.asp. Brian Easton tried, with great effort, to connect McCahon’s insertion of angels in his local landscape to Blake. He followed numerous trails to try and determine who first spoke to McCahon of the poet. Easton eventually concluded that Blake (in particular, his poem ‘Jerusalem’) is part of the English cultural heritage of New Zealand, thus an inspiration for its citizens. He asks, “[a]nd did Jesus walk in Aotearoa? McCahon thought so. And if Jesus did, so did Shakespeare and Blake and a whole lot of others. Every time we walk through our land, with a quiet pride of being a New Zealander, we walk with the ancestors we honour and who still mean so much to us today.” See: Brian Easton, “Singing ‘Jerusalem’ in New Zealand,” Brian Easton, 2002, accessed August 6, 2010, http://www.eastonbh.ac.nz/?p=48. See also: Peter Tomory, “Painting 1890-1950,” in New Zealand Art: Painting 1827-1967, ed. Peter Tomory (Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1968), 5. One of McCahon’s students, Robin White, does recall McCahon giving a presentation on Blake in which he showed a manuscript containing illustrations. See: Robin White [1994] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 100. Aside from this, McCahon shows no particular attachment to Blake. 105 Anne Kirker, “Art That Calls Us Into Relationship: A Way of Interpreting McCahon and Gascoigne,” in Rosalie Gascoigne, Colin McCahon: Sense of Place (Paddington: University of New South Wales Press, 1990), 14. 106 Alluding to Pre-Christian or Pagan traditions, Peter Hill compares McCahon’s giant lettering to standing stones. See: Peter Hill, “A Filter of Faith,” Sydney Morning Herald, November 15, 2003, accessed July 7, 2009, http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/11/14/1068674365452.html. 107 Edmond employs Eastern religious descriptors, calling McCahon a “guru” from who he learnt and recited “koan-like remarks.” See: Edmond, Dark Night, 11, 41. This is not an unfounded viewpoint. For example, Brown describes the enigmatic nature of McCahon’s written phrases and texts, often involving paradox and clashing clauses. He cites titles such as Tomorrow Will be the Same But Not as This Is and statements within his artworks such as “[the tongue] is a small member

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 but it can make big claims.” Brown believes that McCahon’s use of these literary devices “hopes to challenge the sluggish mind and provoke in it the stimulus of introspective questioning and the perception of new insights.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 151. This is remarkably similar to the role performed by the koan. McCahon also utilised the phrase “as there is a constant flow of light we are born into the pure land,” which originates from Buddhist discourse. 108 On this note, O’Brien feels that McCahon would have been unimpressed by theorists “who, if forced to confront the ferocious religiosity of his work, would probably consign it to the same basket as … Howard Finster—filed under Quaint, Eccentric Religious Visionary.” He is similarly unenthused by comparisons between McCahon and Blake. See: Gregory O’Brien, “Impeded and Unimpeded View,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed July 14, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly /tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d3-d1-d8.html. 109 For example, Presbyterian minister Yule feels that McCahon’s “greatest contribution was to contextualise a Judaeo-Christian vision in New Zealand art.” See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” William McCahon believes that his father’s paintings “reflect a committed Christian perspective.” He complains that “the works have frequently been judged solely on an aesthetic or art-historical basis by those who, not spiritually participant in the same way as was he, have tended to dismiss this unique visual symbolic commentary.” See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 29. Theological blogger Peter Orchard believes that “his art is ample testimony” of McCahon’s faith, suggesting that elitist cultural and religious authorities have sometimes misunderstood this. See: Peter Orchard, “Couldn’t Leave Out Colin,” Beside Ourselves, June 15, 2011, accessed July 3, 2011, http://www.besideourselves.com/2011/06/couldnt-leave-out-colin.html. Observing McCahon’s more successful moments, K.O. Arvidson positions him as a seminal New Zealand contributor to the supracultural “craftsmanship” of the Catholic Church. See: K.O. Arvidson, “Out of Irishtown,” in The Source of the Song: New Zealand Writers on Catholicism, ed. Mark Williams (Wellington: Victoria University, 1995), 68. Presbyterian minister Mart Stewart enjoys the obscurity of McCahon’s faith and his refusal to make his religious message overtly clear. He compares this to Christ, writing: “[i]t strikes me that people’s attempts to break ‘entering Jesus’ Kingdom of God’ into easy steps, clear pictures and formulations is misguided … I like that McCahon, committed to the way of Jesus, left his art to do its own talking.” See: Martin Stewart, “One Has to Believe to See,” Mart The Rev, May 8, 2008, accessed January 26, 2012, http://marttherev.blogspot.com/2008 /05/one-has-to-believe-to-see.html. Here, McCahon’s refusal to lay down a clear doctrine of faith is seen as a Christ-like quality, not a negation of Christianity. 110 Due to McCahon’s ongoing personal relationship with Christianity and the pervasiveness of its themes in his art, White argues that McCahon “belongs within the continuing Western tradition of religious art.” White aptly proposes that many of McCahon’s landscapes have been misunderstood and improperly categorised as non-religious pieces. She believes that McCahon’s faith was vital in shaping every aspect of his life and art. In White’s opinion, “an overriding intention behind McCahon’s oeuvre is to contemplate and promote the Christian message of

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 salvation.” She sees his work as a form of atonement where he mediates between divinity and humanity, also seeking personal redemption. White concludes that his work has evangelical intentions. See: White, “Antipodean Translations,” 4-5. Likewise, Tim Garrity argues that “McCahon is no less a religious painter because no church could entice him in.” Garrity is astounded by critical hesitation to call McCahon a religious man due to his doubting nature. He feels that distance from organised religion and the prevalence of uncertainty should not equate to a lack of personal faith. See: Tim Garrity, A Tribute to McCahon, 1919-87 (Dunedin: Hocken Library, 1987), 4. Brown demonstrates a similar attitude. He believes that McCahon’s attitude is “religious in its essential nature,” which should not be ignored because his motifs may not all be “traditional to the Christian Church.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1. Brown states that much of his work “speaks the language of religion.” See: Gordon H. Brown, “‘The Speaker’, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” in Colin McCahon: The Last Painting (Auckland: Peter Webb Galleries, 1993), 13. He argues that McCahon’s “view of human nature is essentially, if not totally Christian.” Brown explains that McCahon does employ MƗori motifs, but that these are usually modified to “echo certain Biblical ideas.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1. Mark Young agrees that McCahon’s “religiousness” is omnipresent in his output. See: Mark Young, “Painting 1950-1967,” in New Zealand Art: Painting 1827-1967, ed. Peter Tomory (Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1968), 4. O’Brien rejects the aforementioned terms (quaint, eccentric, visionary) as diminutive and dismissive, maintaining that one must deal with the confrontational aspects of McCahon’s works instead of attempting to defuse them. See: O’Brien, “Impeded and Unimpeded View.” White offers similar criticisms. She denies the critical model that seeks to explain McCahon’s use of religious imagery as a means of reaching a secular audience via shared human experience. Instead, she proposes that the “underlying evangelical impulse” in McCahon’s works is paramount. White accurately proclaims “he endeavors to save his friends and the viewer in his intercessionary role as artistpriest.” See: White, “Antipodean Translations,” 6-7. Bloem suggests that many academics are “uncomfortable to acknowledge that the artist might have wrestled with the possibility of believing in a living God, and uneasy at appearing to be anything other than sceptical of these core beliefs of the artist at a time when such beliefs are unfashionable.” See: Bloem, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” 14. Perhaps the strongest voice of dissent is William McCahon who complains that many commentators on his father’s art were “not spiritually cognisant in the same ways as Colin,” which prevented genuine understanding of his message. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 33-34. 111 Indeed, Grimshaw agrees that overlooking McCahon’s evangelism incorrectly categorises him as a prophet dislocated from Christianity. See: Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 195. 112 Tony Green, “McCahon Made Difficult,” Art New Zealand 49 (1988-1989): 54. 113 For example, offering one of the most complex and philosophical readings of the prophetic act, Butler and Laurence Simmons believe McCahon’s art is prophetic in that “it seeks to bring itself about, to make itself true.” They argue that

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 his prophecy is fulfilled via engagement with the artworks, and to view these images is to pass a threshold into them that may only be retrospectively perceived. Here, the deep need for audience participation in McCahon’s vision of the art object is aptly described. See: Rex Butler and Laurence Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’: Colin McCahon,” in Art, Word and Image: Two Thousand Years of Visual/Textual Interaction, eds John Dixon Hunt, David Lomas, and Michael Corris (London: Reaktion Books, 2010), 330. 114 One may construct a long list of statements in which McCahon or his imagery is called prophetic. For example, Keith calls McCahon “a prophet in our midst.” See: Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 32. He is also known as a “prophet with honour.” See: “McCahon Honoured and Imitated,” Bulletin of the Robert McDougall Art Gallery 34 (1984): 1. Justin Paton speaks of his “prophetic skywriting.” See: Justin Paton, Jeffrey Harris (New Zealand: Dunedin Public Art Gallery, 2005), 64. Rebecca Rice describes McCahon’s “prophet-like ambitions for art” as “impossible to ignore.” See: Rebecca Rice, “Peter Robinson,” Art + Object (2009): 20. Eggleton believes he participated in “a self-ordained career as a prophet and visionary.” See: David Eggleton, “Painted Words,” The Landfall Review Online, May 1, 2011, accessed May 4, 2011, http://landfallreviewonline.bl ogspot.com/2011/05/painted-words.html. This line of thought is continued by Peter Stuart who does not hesitate to call McCahon a Christian. Interestingly, he views a prophet and an evangelist as two separate vocations. He concludes that McCahon was more the former than the latter, and achieved his message through art. See: Peter Stuart in Phyllis Mossman and Peter Stuart, “Colin McCahon,” St Alban’s Parish of Eastbourne, May 4, 2009, accessed October 20, 2009, http://stalbans.eastbourne.net.nz/2009/05/04/colin-mccahon. Rowe declares that “McCahon is a prophet in our midst, an Old Testament figure who uses the role of the artist to rail against man’s inhumanity to man and the landscape and who bares his soul continually in his work in order to teach by example.” See: Neil Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC,” Art New Zealand (1977-1978), accessed August 21, 2009, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/mccahon08nr.htm. Pound feels that “from the beginning of his public career, McCahon identifies his voice with the voices of various prophets.” See: Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 4. Johnston believes that McCahon was responsive to James K. Baxter’s call for a “prophetic commitment” from writers in New Zealand, a country requiring redemption. See: Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” 101. Brown uses the notion of a “prophet in the wilderness” as an analogy for his visionary and isolated approach to artmaking. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 3. Entwhisle thinks McCahon possesses a prophetic tone within his art. See: Peter Entwhisle, “Art in Otago,” in Southern Lights: 150 Years of Otago Landscape Art, ed. Michael Findlay (Dunedin: Dunedin City Council, 1998), 14. Caselberg perceives him as a man who can “see clearly” and represent accurately the New Zealand landscape. He describes this as the rare gift of prophecy. See: John Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels, ‘The Song of the Shining Cuckoo’,” Islands 5:4 (1977): 404. He sees McCahon’s artworks as a prophetic vision of the world “as it ought to be and as it will by grace become.” See: Caselberg, “Retrospective,” 53.

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 McCahon’s output is described as being as broad as the Grand Canyon, driven by a prophetic intellect. See: Garrity, A Tribute to McCahon, 3. 115 For example, Brian Easton claims “his outlook is visionary, the vision is spiritual.” See: Brian Easton, The Nationbuilders (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2002), 154. Leonard describes McCahon as a romantic visionary surrounded by legend. He sees him as simultaneously ahead of his time and comparable to a romantic, nineteenth-century figure. See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 26. Docking calls McCahon “a visionary painter whose aim is insight—an understanding of the world of feeling.” See: Gil Docking, Two Hundred Years of New Zealand Painting (Melbourne: Lansdowne, 1971), 184. McIvor describes a general sense of spiritual potency in McCahon’s art. She feels “in all that McCahon touched, there was this sense of mystery, and of power, that was a revelation to us all.” See: McIvor, “Remembering Colin McCahon,” 99. 116 Tomory states that the intensity of his artistic vision “has a touch of the messianic about it.” See: P.A. Tomory, “Art,” in The Pattern of New Zealand Culture, ed. A.L. McLeod (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1968), 183. Edmond calls McCahon a man who had to carry the cross of art. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 45. 117 McNamara believes that McCahon has reached “almost to the status of saint.” See: T.J. McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness,” New Zealand Herald, September 6, 2006, accessed July 14, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.c fm?c_id=6&objectid=10399871&pnum=0. 118 Mossman and Stuart presented sermon in which McCahon was called “our New Zealand ‘Jeremiah’.” See: Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 119 Ihab Hassan names him as the “latter-day St. John the Baptist.” See: Ihab Hassan, “Painting a Continent – Or Nothing: A Personal Essay on a Theme in Contemporary Australian Art,” Religion and the Arts 8:2 (2004): 165. 120 Garth Cartwright feels “[b]y the time of his death he had long been anointed the St Sebastian of Kiwi modernism – the slings and arrows philistines fired at Colin made his suffering appear even more noble.” See: Garth Cartwright, Sweet As: Journeys in a New Zealand Summer (Allen & Unwin: Sydney, 2011), 23. 121 Evoking the message of Christ, Yule summarises: “Like an evangelist pressing home the bleakness of the human condition and the majesty and holiness of God to bring about a change of heart, McCahon spread a giant canvas to urge his viewers to leave the broad and popular way that leads to destruction and ‘enter through the narrow gate’ that leads to life.” See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 122 Phyllis Mossman in Peter Stewart and Phyllis Mossman, “The Prophet Ezekiel,” St Albans, September 7, 2008, accessed May 31, 2010, http://stalbans.eastbourne.net.nz/2008/09/09/the-prophet-ezekiel/#more-329. 123 For example, Ian North speculates that McCahon’s mantle of the prophet was not due to religious specificities, but rather a reflection of the mood of his paintings where good and evil were locked in battle, providing a “terrible vision of the universe.” See: North, “In the Coil of Life’s Hunger,” 41. Conversely, White denies any kind of secularised or ecumenical reading, suggesting his dualistic battles were a means of providing specifically Christian salvation. See: White,

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 “Antipodean Translations,” 7. Johnston sees McCahon’s battle as one of desolation and chaos versus the transcendence of God. See: Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” 106. 124 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 206. 125 Perhaps the most original view on McCahon’s prophecy is that promoted by Rex Butler. He argues that: “A prophecy comes only after the events it predicts, exists before only because something follows it. McCahon’s paintings are prophetic in precisely this sense. They attract us, move us, compel us, not because they are full of universal and timeless truths—this is the humanist cliché about great art—but because they are empty; opening up a place for us to fit in and to allow us to see ourselves reflected in them.” See: Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 42. Butler reads prophecy from a philosophical perspective concerning the transmission of messages through art. This particular discourse may be observed in the difference between his view on the prophetic act versus views such as, for example, those of Christian public commentators Yule and Mossman. So too do these perspectives vary from the socio-cultural perspective adopted in this book. As with definitions of McCahon’s faith, definitions of his prophecy are strongly connected to the variant perspectives of those who make them. 126 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 222. 127 In agreement, Keith believes that his pieces pose “terrible cocktail of meanings for those who would prefer their art untroubled by content.” See: Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 2. 128 Carol Duncan explains that public perception of the art gallery in modern Western communities is thoroughly secular. She believes that the popular view of galleries is influenced by post-Enlightenment thought. The museum space is seen to exist in the secular realm, dichotomised to the spiritual sphere. See: Carol Duncan, “The Art Museum as Ritual,” in Heritage, Museums and Galleries: An Introductory Reader, ed. Gerard Corsane (United Kingdom: Routledge, 2005), 78. Although a strong argument can be made for the coalescence of the modern gallery space and ritualistic experience, this does not mean that such a concept is understood or accepted by the greater public. Williams provides a succinct description of the art gallery as a space for the avowal of civil religion. He believes this is not achieved through mimicry of a church. Instead, Williams argues that “modern societies have to restate with regularity the collective sentiments and ideas that provide their unity. Hence, the recurrent practice of nation-creation involves a re-fashioning of values, memories and symbols according to the needs and aspirations of contemporary society.” See: Williams, “Parade,” 23. The gallery space allows for these symbols of nationhood to be presented in a manner that befits current cultural images. Similarly, Duncan and Alan Wallach claim that a museum’s “primary function is ideological” as it impresses upon visitors its “society’s most revered beliefs and values.” See: Carol Duncan and Alan Wallach, “The Universal Survey Museum,” in Museum Studies: An Anthology of Contexts, ed. Bettina Messias Carbonell (United States of America: Blackwell, 2004), 52. The content of art museums is linked to the definition of community identity. See for example, Duncan, “The Art Museum as Ritual,” 79.

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129 Gordon H. Brown, Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work (Wellington: Victoria University of Wellington School of Art History, Classics and Religious Studies, 2003), 36. 130 Duncan, “The Art Museum as Ritual,” 78. 131 Duncan, “The Art Museum as Ritual,” 78. 132 Robert Nelson, “Faith in Job Lots,” The Age, August 6, 2003, accessed July 10, 2009, http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2003/08/05/1059849391196.html. 133 Francis Pound in Wichtel, “Seeing the Light.” 134 Martin Browne, introduction to Three Paintings by Colin McCahon, ed. Martin Browne (Sydney: Martin Browne Fine Art, 1998), 5. These paintings were also for sale, which is likely to have informed the nature of the exhibition. 135 Jonathan Evens, “Biblical Art: An International A-Z—Part 2,” Between, February 7, 2008, accessed July 11, 2011, http://joninbetween.blogspot.com/2008/ 02/biblical-art-international-z-part-2.html. 136 Edmond, Dark Night, 71. 137 Thus McCahon’s paintings may be placed in the category of ‘genuine fakes’, a term utilised by David Brown. His research covers items such as relics that have a factually incorrect provenance or tourist sites that are imbued with meaningful pseudo-history. Brown explains that a ‘fake’ may still “arouse deep and genuine feelings.” He believes that the genuine fake is more than simply the object itself, but also includes the “relationship between visitors and presenters which the object mediates.” See: David Brown, “Genuine Fakes,” in The Tourist Image: Myths and Myth Making in Tourism, ed. Tom Selwyn (United Kingdom: Wiley, 1996), 33-34. 138 Edmond, Dark Night, 71. 139 Tony Beyer, “Jane’s Paintings,” Sport 37 (2009), accessed October 21, 2011, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba37Spo-t1-body1-d10.html. 140 Beyer is by no means alone in his spiritual presentation of Elvis. John Frow explores the relatively popular connection of religious dimensions with starhood in John Frow, “Is Elvis a God? Cult, Culture, Questions of Method,” International Journal of Cultural Studies 1:2 (1998). 141 See ‘McCahon and Genre’ for an introduction to the history of McCahon’s latter-day commercial success. For a detailed analysis of McCahon’s current value, consult appendix material ‘Posthumous Reputations’. During his lifetime, McCahon fitted poorly into a market geared towards finance and ‘safe’, recognisable imagery. In the late nineteen-seventies, Garrity admitted that McCahon “must therefore remain something of an anomaly in New Zealand where culture is firmly built on a consensus of taste tempered by an appreciation of cash value.” See: Tim Garrity, “Colin McCahon: A Reflection,” Art New Zealand (1977-1978), accessed July 20, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/ mccahon08tg.htm. 142 This is not to suggest that owners of dealer galleries did not appreciate or even experience religious dimensions of McCahon’s art. For example, his Wellington dealer Peter McLeavey views Cross (1959) as something of a totem. He states, “[i]t is an image I still carry with me and I hope always will. It is as fresh today as

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 it was then.” See: Peter McLeavey, “When I First Heard Colin McCahon’s Name,” Art New Zealand, accessed October 11, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/mccahon08pm.htm. 143 M.T. Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World,” Christchurch Star, October 14, 1959. [Accessed from Colin McCahon file, Auckland Art Gallery]. 144 Baxter, “Salvation Army Aesthete?...,” 13. 145 McCahon in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 30. As such, Brown believes that McCahon “requires that art should occupy a place in the lives of people where access to its content and meaning are an appropriate function of artistic form.” He argues that McCahon’s art was a means of enhancing the relevance of the human condition, not as a way of indulging artistic self-expression. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1-2. 146 Garrity, A Tribute to McCahon, 4. 147 Maurice Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” transcript for broadcast on 3YA Radio Station, presented on September 12, 1962, 2. 148 Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” 2. 149 This viewpoint, and the anxieties it may cause, are epitomised with the sale of Storm Warning described in the final chapter of this book. 150 The use of the phrase ‘fraternity’, as opposed to comparable gender-neutral terms such as ‘kinship’, is a reflection of McCahon’s own language choices. He speaks of “brotherhood” when discussing the idea of a loving community. This demonstrates the idea of the male as generic, reflecting the social values that the artist inherited. 151 McCahon’s parents were from Presbyterian and Wesleyan background, and were committed attendees at the MƗori Hill Presbyterian Church. John McCahon had youthful aspirations of becoming a minister, and both parents held voluntary positions within the church. They left the congregation abruptly in the nineteenthirties, apparently because the Minister required that Colin McCahon purchase a suit to attend services. William McCahon suspects this was a cover story, as his family were deeply saddened by the abrupt rift between themselves and the church. He suggests that McCahon’s visionary experience in this era was the true reason they were made to leave. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 30, 37. 152 Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20. Geering believes that he began to move away from Presbyterianism during his time at Otago Boys High. See: Lloyd Geering, Wrestling With God: The Story of my Life (Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, 2006), 225. 153 Anne Fenwick, “Remembering McCahon,” [1988] in The Listener Bedside Book No. 4: The Creative Wave, ed. Terry Snow (Auckland: W&H, 2000), 37. 154 Lois McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties (Auckland: Remuera Gallery, 2008), 25. 155 William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch, 1950,” in Three Paintings by Colin McCahon, ed. Martin Browne (Sydney: Martin Browne Fine Art, 1998), 11; Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” 101. 156 William McCahon describes this period as one of spiritual simplicity prior to the era when he would “connect outward with greater Spirit from his personal base

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 of spirit within.” See: William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch, 1950,” 11. Congruently, his friend John Coley believes that McCahon’s engagement with the Quakers may have been responsible for his “strong inner convictions” and the powerful force of his art. See: Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. As the Quaker community are not theologically dogmatic, these “strong convictions” are most likely a reference to his social conscience. Brown argues, however, that he ultimately struggled with the level of commitment required by The Quakers. See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20. 157 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 30. 158 See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 30-31. 159 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 31. 160 William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” in Three Paintings by Colin McCahon, ed. Martin Browne (Sydney: Martin Browne Fine Art, 1998), 15. 161 William McCahon describes the artist’s Catholic faith as an intellectual venture. See: William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” in Teaching Aids (Auckland: The NEW Gallery, Auckland Art Gallery, 1995), 8. 162 Simpson, Candles in a Dark Room, 2. 163 Lois McIvor, “Remembering Colin McCahon,” Art New Zealand 49 (19881989): 59. 164 Victoria Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, DVD, produced by Robin Scholes (Auckland: TVNZ, 2006), 42.55 – 43.37. 165 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 42.55 – 43.37. 166 McCahon was forced to swear belief in the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary, an act required only of priests who take confession. He refused, ceasing his involvement in the Church. See: William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 2. 167 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 8. 168 Jonathan Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” Art and Australia 41:2 (2003): 222; Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 42.55 – 43.37. 169 William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness Showing the Constant Flow of Light Passing Through the Wall of Death, 1971,” in Three Paintings by Colin McCahon, ed. Martin Browne (Sydney: Martin Browne Fine Art, 1998), 19. 170 William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 19. 171 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 32. 172 Colin McCahon to Rev. Alex Sutherland [June 1981]. 173 In agreement, friends of McCahon have discussed his apparent lack of faith. For example, Kees Bruin recalls asking McCahon if he was a Christian and receiving a negative response. See: Neil Roberts, “Kees Bruin: Allusion & Illusion,” Bulletin of the Christchurch Art Gallery (2006): 21. McCahon’s student Lois McIvor believes the artist would never call himself a Christian. See: McIvor, “Remembering Colin McCahon,” 99. 174 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 29. 175 McCahon [1976] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 44.17 – 44.36. 176 McCahon [1976] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 44.17 – 44.36.

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177 McCahon in White, “Antipodean Translations,” 7. William McCahon believes that his father was eventually able to transcend this dichotomy of good and bad. He feels this is indicated in The Days and Nights in the Wilderness Showing the Constant Flow of Light Passing Through the Wall of Death (1971) in which McCahon blends his paints in a manner that indicates the light absorbing the dark. William believes this is his father’s way of showing self-acceptance and forgiveness. See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 18-19. 178 Colin McCahon to C.K. Stead in C.K. Stead, “Colin McCahon” in Look This Way: New Zealand Writers on New Zealand Artists, ed. Sally Blundell (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2007), 92. 179 Brown explains that McCahon was primarily interested in the metaphorical dimensions of loss and the conquering of spiritual death via an acceptance of the challenges of faith. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 208-209. 180 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33. 181 Several commentators have argued along similar lines. For example, Simpson believes McCahon’s refusal to label himself as such was out of humility rather than denial of the belief system. See: Peter Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 1953-1959 (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2007), 62. Congruently, Edmond suggests McCahon may have felt he was “unable to do so because of his unworthiness.” See: Edmond, Dark Night, 79. Brown believes “there is something in his personal disposition that prevents him calling himself a Christian.” See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 26. He believes this is because McCahon struggled to see himself as an “integrated being” in terms of faith and its implications. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 205. Bruin suggests that McCahon was more responsive to the notion of being a “mystical Christian.” See: Roberts, “Kees Bruin,” 21. Here the aforementioned comparisons with Blake may be considered, and perhaps even affirmed. 182 Colin McCahon, draft manuscript for “Beginnings,” (1966). 183 McCahon’s vision is mentioned as a ‘point of interest’ on the Wikipedia page for the town of Mosgiel. See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosgiel#Points_of_inter est, accessed September 21, 2011. Edmond calls this vision the moment at which McCahon exchanged religion, in the traditional sense, for art. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 110. 184 Colin McCahon, “Beginnings,” in Landfall 20:4 (1966): 364. Keith feels that this vision is a reflection of McCahon’s artistic situation in 1966 (when this text was written), warped through hindsight to match with the present. See: Hamish Keith, Constructing the Promised Land: Landscape and Colin McCahon (Auckland: Parson’s, 2001), 5. Even if this is the case and his recount is filtered through later constructions of self, it is still revealing of McCahon’s primary motivations as an artist/prophet. Also of interest is William McCahon’s suspicion that this vision may have caused one of McCahon’s early schisms with a Christian church. He believes that his father may have sought advice in regard to this vision from his minister who was unable to concede any relevance to this kind of

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 individual revelation. McCahon’s entire family left the church soon after. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 30. 185 Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, xix. He suggests that McCahon’s art endeavoured to reflect the land, making it “belong at last to its inhabitants.” Speaking of his father’s vision, William McCahon explains it as “a metaphor for a land waiting to be seen by the new people living in it, waiting to be accepted on its own terms rather than through those cultural values implanted from a foreign land.” See: William McCahon, “Colin McCahon: A Simple View,” in Three Paintings by Colin McCahon, ed. Martin Browne (Sydney: Martin Browne Fine Art, 1998), 7. 186 Brasch, “The Silent Land,” 113. 187 Colin McCahon to Charles Brasch [Dec. 52] in Peter Simpson, Patron and Painter: Charles Brasch and Colin McCahon (Dunedin: Hocken Collections, 2010), 24. 188 Colin McCahon to Toss Woollaston [1939] in Gerald Barnett, Toss Woollaston: An Illustrated Biography (Auckland: Random Century, 1991), 51. 189 Anna Caselberg claims that McCahon taught her “to seek Freedom from Order,” suggesting that confinement was another antonym to this term. See: Anna Caselberg to Agnes Wood [1993] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 45. 190 McCahon to Brasch [20 Jul. 53] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 24. 191 Helpfully, Oliver states that McCahon’s contrasts do not reflect the duality of good and evil so much as they reflect order and chaos. See: W.H. Oliver, “The Awakening Imagination,” 442. 192 As such, Keith believes that the order, logic, and beauty of this vision correlates to the land’s primal, seismic creation as opposed to any human alterations of its surface. See: Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 5 193 Brown argues that McCahon was equally, if not more, concerned with understanding the human condition as he was with the Promised Land. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 28. Nevertheless, this preoccupation with the human condition can be read as a component of the vision of his Promised Land. For example, McCahon’s Early Religious Works explore the essential human core of the Biblical narrative through the dual time zones of the ancient Middle East and modern New Zealand. Through these works, McCahon deals with the ongoing search for purpose and meaning, which may be correlated to the construction of culture and the Promised Land. The human condition is a consideration that feeds into his Promised Land explorations and lessons. 194 Colin McCahon to Toss Woollaston [1939] in Brown, Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work, 34. It is therefore unsurprising that ManeWheoki believes McCahon has a “pacifist, anti-war theology.” See: Jonathan Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ: Colin McCahon’s Parihaka Triptych,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 134. Congruently, Caroline McCaw remarks “[l]andscape and religion

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 combine to communicate McCahon’s humanist message.” See: McCaw, “Art and (Second) Life.” 195 McCahon often linked his craft to inspiration from the natural world. For example, he claims “I paint with the seasons and I paint best during the long hot summers.” See: Colin McCahon, draft manuscript for Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition (1972). After leaving the Catholic Church, William believes his father found spiritual peace in his garden, surrounded by birdsong and “Muriwai’s distant voice.” See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 19. 196 McCahon to Rodney Kennedy [1944] in Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 19. This statement was made after he witnessed an escaping detainee of the American Military Camps in Wellington being deliberately shot down by the military police. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 30. 197 McCahon in Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 34. 198 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 252. 199 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 253. 200 Of course, Morris’ view of shared spiritual identity is purposefully beyond faith divisions, whilst McCahon intended to enact Christian ethics on a national scale. Although his successful bonding of land with humanity is clearly a creation of a transcendent national spirit, it is important to remember the primacy of Christ in the artist’s proselytising vision. 201 McCahon to O’Reilly in Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 34-35. Turner in “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 221, is one of the few theorists to mention McCahon as someone who had been engaged by Communism. Brown believes that McCahon’s political stance was influenced by Eric Gill’s publications and by John Summers who was a Christian deeply inspired by humanist art of the Renaissance. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 124. 202 P.J. Gibbons, “The Climate of Opinion,” in The Oxford History of New Zealand, eds W.H. Oliver and B.R. Williams (Wellington: Oxford University Press, 1981), 325. 203 For an example of a Canterbury Society of the Arts scandal in which McCahon supported the artist as opposed to the Society, see ‘The Great Art War’ chapter of Warren Feeney, The Radical, The Reactionary and the Canterbury Society of Arts 1880-1996 (Christchurch: Canterbury University Press), 2011. 204 Bruce Robinson, introduction to The Group 1927-1977, by Brian Muir and Bruce Robinson (Christchurch: Robert McDougall Art Gallery, 1977), 2. 205 Colin McCahon in Muir and Robinson, The Group 1927-1977, 13-14. 206 Ron O’Reilly, quotation of previous correspondence with McCahon [14 Aug. 44] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 45. 207 Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 19. 208 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33. 209 For example, Ewan McDonald sees him as an outsider “at odds with the world” who nevertheless is receptive and empathetic to its suffering. See: Ewan McDonald, “I AM/AM I,” in Manufacturing Meaning Including Gate III by Colin McCahon (Wellington: Adam Art Gallery, 1999). Lusk feels that McCahon “had

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 no doubts at all as to his purpose in life. Colin’s confidence in himself as a painter was unwavering in spite of years of unsympathetic and often vituperative criticism.” See: Doris Lusk, “Doris Lusk Remembers Colin McCahon,” Bulletin of Robert McDougall Art Gallery 52 (1987): 3. 210 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 38. Pound describes this as McCahon’s “proclamation of a prophetic and priestly self.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 14. 211 Demonstrating this, Simpson notes McCahon’s love of teaching, pointing out the painting classes that he gave in his free time whilst carrying on his full-time job and creating original works. He feels that McCahon’s drive towards teaching was a reflection of his profound desire to communicate. See: Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 21. 212 Brown speaks of an “implied social contract” between McCahon and his audience. See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 21. 213 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33.

CHAPTER THREE MCCAHON AND GENRE

In addition to his position as a religious person with specific goals for social betterment, Colin McCahon was also shaped by his artistic context. It is this context that the present chapter explores. Although McCahon can be temporally contextualised as a part of New Zealand’s modern art movements, his communicative aims are more constructively viewed through the paradigms of peaceful nationalism and Christian prophecy. McCahon has been named as an “impure modernist,”1 whose take on the movement is “personal and idiosyncratic.”2 It is also important to remember that modernism in New Zealand prioritised the creation of cultural independence from Britain. When viewed in terms of radical abstraction, modernism was often seen as suspicious or indulgent. As such, the New Zealand audience for modern art has been described as insufficient and uncomprehending.3 McCahon’s approach to symbols and representation owes far more to this context than to modernism as a whole. In order to comprehensively explain why comparisons between McCahon and any particular genre are unsustainable, it is important to examine the artist’s idea of ‘direction’. McCahon believed that ‘good art’ was a guiding force that honestly represented the concerns of its maker. Overall, McCahon was a painter who integrated a variety of generic conventions as he saw fit, moulded always to his own expressive needs. Although he was deeply engaged with international art theory from both a practical and curatorial perspective, McCahon was motivated by the spiritual and peaceful construction of local culture above all else.

Connections and Correlations in the Artworld McCahon has been connected to numerous overseas modern artists and art movements. He has, for example, been compared to pioneering European and American modernists including Paul Cézanne, Georges Rouault,4 Kazimir Malevich,5 Barnett Newman,6 Robert Motherwell, and Adolph Gottlieb.7 In terms of his sustained pursuit of themes and series, McCahon has been correlated with Australian artists Arthur Boyd and Sidney

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Nolan.8 In regard to genre, Outsider Art has been proposed,9 and comparisons to Abstract Expressionism are especially prevalent.10 Whilst not outrageous, these juxtapositions are only valid so long as they are qualified by an awareness of McCahon’s very specific, parochial motivations. Most commentators on McCahon do indeed temper his similarity to international artists and trends with an understanding of his specific local orientation.11 Brown, for example, negotiates this well in his discussion of McCahon and Rothko.12 He suspects that similarities between Rothko and McCahon are due to the latter’s occasional use of panels with blurred edges. Brown notes that both artists employ luminosity in these artworks as a spiritual tool. Despite this, he describes Rothko’s luminous panels as “essentially derived internally to function as meditation” whilst McCahon’s have an external origin and are based on atmospheric light.13 As the chapter ‘Walks and Numerals’ demonstrates, McCahon’s use of light is often atmospherically luminous as a reference to mist on the beach. This epitomises his truly local concerns in issues of representation. McCahon was irritated that some critics considered Painting (1958) to be influenced by Rothko, suggesting that he found this connection misleading or inaccurate.14 Painting contains the soft, floating rectangles readily associated with Rothko’s most famous works, but this is largely coincidental. Ian Wedde’s discussion of Ralph Hotere is another useful case study by which the particular nature of McCahon’s modern art influences and position may be exemplified. Hotere is also known for his monumental black canvases. Obvious connections can be made to Malevich or Ad Reinhardt. Indeed, Wedde calls this blackness one of the iconic signatures of modernist abstraction.15 He argues, however, that Hotere’s black can also be viewed as local content, referring to blackness as an ethno-political statement. Wedde uses this as an example of the challenge posed as to whether or not viewers wish to locate themselves.16 Here he outlines a tension between location as a place (that is, New Zealand) and location as a moment (that is, modernism). Wedde believes this tension is characteristic of New Zealand art in the nineteen-fifties onwards.17 He also mentions McCahon’s Waterfall series motif as a parlay between Newman’s ‘zip’ motif and William Hodge’s Dusky Sound landscapes. Here, austere abstracted modernism is connected with very traditional figurative representations of terrain.18 McCahon’s temporal location was of less importance to his artistic identity than his geographical location.19 In terms of explicit influences, the Dutch artist Piet Mondrian was a particularly impactful force on the artistic practice of McCahon.20 Mondrian’s aesthetic choices were inspirational in terms of painterly

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technique, even though there are multiple areas in which the artists would have disagreed.21 Matthew Larking points out McCahon’s creation of volume and depth in his overlapping lines and shading – something that Mondrian specifically aimed to avoid.22 Nevertheless, McCahon felt that his struggles with artistic representation were comparable to the ones tackled by Mondrian. He believed Mondrian had achieved paintings that “beat like, and with, a human heart.” McCahon attempted to decode this skill to avoid “rejected transplants.”23 His fascination with Mondrian does not negate his individualism or suggest he is concerned with form above content. Rather, Mondrian inspired McCahon to structure his works in a way that would give them inner life.24 This is overtly expressed in Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian (1961). McCahon describes the artwork as a reflection of “my admiration for the gentleman.”25 In this piece, the artist paraphrases Mondrian’s famous geometric shapes. His version is no direct copy. It involves more naturalistic, blended colours and McCahon’s distinctive script. Gone are the sharp lines and De Stijl palette. McCahon believed that artists who had come in the wake of Mondrian were inhibited by what Brown calls “a mere surface exploration” of Mondrian’s communication.26 Here we see a conscious move away from the textural and geometric qualities of Mondrian’s work.27 McCahon uses Mondrian as a way of negotiating and ‘breaking through’ the generic finality of non-representational art.28 Although he references Mondrian’s seminal works such as Lozenge Composition with Yellow, Black, Blue, Red, and Gray (1921), McCahon does so with the intent of getting past the obscurity of non-objective painting conventions and reaching a greater level of communication with his audience and his specifically localised social causes that are not held in common with Mondrian.29 ‘Breaking through’ is also relevant to the way in which McCahon read Mondrian’s approach to the boundaries of an artwork. The artist observed “an openness and scale that extended beyond the actual edges of the painting.”30 This is comparable to his feelings about Cézanne, and explores great art as something that extends beyond the canvas and into society. Brown sees this as a rejection of the “window attitude to pictorial space” that was the inheritance of the Renaissance. Mondrian, amongst other modernists, explored the abandonment of linear perspective for pictorial flatness.31 In Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian, McCahon indicates a major inspiration in terms of bringing the artwork out of its physical borders and into the lives and thoughts of his audience. McCahon also wished to expand their vision. He believed that by clearly paying

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tribute to Mondrian and his influence, he could “open a new way of seeing” for his viewers.32 McCahon emphasises the exploration of humanity as a means of ‘getting past’ Mondrian and other influential painters.33 He explains: Mondrian, it seemed to me, came up in this century as a great barrier – the painting to END all painting.34 As a painter, how do you get around either a Michelangelo or a Mondrian? It seems that the only way is not more masking tape,35 but more involvement in the human situation.36

McCahon also remarked that “geometric perfection seems to lack tension, it lacks being human so it lacks God’s share.”37 From these statements, we may ascertain that his avoidance of a strictly geometric pastiche represents an engagement with humanity.38 Brown reads McCahon’s ‘rough’ take on Mondrian as a reflection upon the “rawness” of New Zealand culture “emerging from its pioneer days” as contrasted to the perceived refinement of European culture.39 The techniques employed in this image reflect a considered response to the nature of local character and the task of communicating to New Zealand in a specialised and meaningful way. Despite these dialogues, there is as much literature minimising McCahon’s connection to modernists as there is affirming it.40 This is true of correlations to specific genres,41 and broader currents within modern art trends and philosophies.42 The specific national gaze of New Zealand constantly shaped modernism and the genres within it. Modernism was viewed as an external importation.43 Brown explains that it was frequently adapted to localised situations or “watered-down by an approach to art that remained essentially provincial.”44 It took on a different, parochial form, which involved an individualised experience of international genres. For example, Pound reminds us that primitivism in New Zealand was “far from internationalist.”45 It “responded to the specificities of a local, New Zealand Nationalist discourse.”46 Similarly, Brown claims that deliberate simplification of forms was more in keeping with the streamlining of objects than with overseas notions of primitivism.47 Here we see the prioritisation of modernism’s domestic or commercial applications as opposed to its ‘high art’ manifestations. New Zealand also had different priorities in terms of what was considered meaningfully innovative in terms of genre. Pound explains that New Zealand was ‘spared’ from the extreme of ultra-modern art movements. Instead, the “formalised naturalism of the regionalised real” and avant-garde nineteenth century French styles were embraced.48 The “regional real” was regarded as ‘modern’ in this context.49

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This helps to explain what McCahon would have seen as a novel and pioneering trend within artmaking. Regionalism is an important lens with which to read McCahon, and one that has been applied well by leading art historians.50 Nevertheless, McCahon shows deviation from some of its major conventions.51 McCahon himself has provided numerous statements on his experience as a parochial painter. He recalls his fortune of being free from dealers and trends.52 McCahon did not view parochialism as detrimental, nor did he bemoan his lack of connection with overseas manifestos.53 In keeping with his prophetic vision and religious beliefs, McCahon’s message was best suited to a very local discourse. This peripheral viewpoint and parochial message is the ultimate reason for discounting a heavy overseas influence or prevailing genre in the work of McCahon. New Zealand’s dislocation from centres of modernism impacted upon the actual sources through which McCahon came to know prevalent overseas trends. As a teenager, McCahon came into contact with most overseas art via reproductions in library books.54 This inaccessibility of contemporary international art in New Zealand was not to improve in the following decade. Leonard describes New Zealand in the nineteen-forties as a place where “conditions for producing and receiving contemporary art barely existed.”55 Artist often came across major movements in unusual circumstances. For example, McCahon declared his support of Cubism after seeing an advertisement for a London Cubist exhibition in an imported newspaper, The Illustrated London News.56 He recalls experiencing Cubism in curtains, lampshades, and linoleum.57 A reader of Jim and Mary Barr’s ‘Over the Net’ blog brings this source of influence to life using a piece of vintage carpet on a New Zealand train as an example of the graphic design that would have illuminated the movement for McCahon. With its interlocking blue squares, the Barrs believe this carpet is akin to French Bay (1956).58 Later on in his career, McCahon was formally educated in Cubism by the Australian Mary Cockburn-Mercer.59 Braque and Picasso were also long-term sources of influence for the artist.60 McAloon feels that his relocation from Christchurch to Auckland in 1953 brought McCahon to an art scene “where cubism – or at least a kind of latter-day, provincial manifestation of it – was very much in the air.”61 He cites local artists John Weeks, Milan Mrkusich, and Louise Henderson as influential painters in this style. McCahon’s tribute painting A Mrkusich Daisy (1967) solidifies this particular relationship. It would be seriously misleading to view McCahon as disengaged with global modern art movements despite his isolation. His job at the Auckland Art Gallery62 and his brief trips overseas

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brought him in to contact with the work of other modern artists. For example, McCahon and Peter Tomory climbed a ladder in the gallery one night so as to observe a Guido Reni painting by torchlight. McCahon was especially interested in the minute detail of tone.63 During a rare visit to Melbourne, he mentions being impressed by images by Rembrandt, El Greco, Cézanne, Camille Pissarro, and J.M.W. Turner. Largely dismissive, McCahon stated that the other artworks displayed in the Melbourne galleries “just don’t count in the end.”64 Of particular impact was his 1958 research trip to America, which allowed him to see many famous artworks in their proper forms as opposed to the reproductions he was accustomed to. In the galleries McCahon visited, Malevich’s white-on-white works made a notable impact.65 Guernica revived his interest in Pablo Picasso, and Juan Gris stimulated his considerations of Cubism.66 Allan Kaprow was particular influential, granting McCahon the idea of a painted environment.67 He was positively disposed towards Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party (1881) due to its magnificent description of light.68 From these sources he gained the idea of theatrical paintings in which the viewer may walk, and a more robust view of the representation of radiance. It is possible to trace McCahon’s use of monumental scale and a change in materials to this excursion. His famous use of hardboard, unstretched canvas, and commercial synthetic paints developed in the wake of the America trip – often applied in more unorthodox methods, most likely in response to painters such as Jackson Pollock and his striking Autumn Rhythm.69 While constructing the Northland drawings (1959) upon his return, McCahon placed paper on the floor and dripped spontaneous paint marks across the artworks.70 Cézanne was a prominent early influence who McCahon studied comprehensively.71 His drawing Madame Cézanne at Titirangi (1953) is rumoured to be a portrait of his wife Anne, which conflates the identity of McCahon and Cézanne.72 With fellow artist Jeffrey Harris, McCahon philosophised on Cézanne’s ability to flatten a landscape while retaining the relativity of objects in receding space.73 McCahon later became disillusioned with Cézanne and moved on to Giotto, Michelangelo, and Paul Gauguin.74 The Jump series contains a dedication to Tomoka Tessai, another artist who had deeply impressed him in America.75 Larking argues that Tessai was McCahon’s greatest East Asian influence, who acted as the benchmark for his appreciation of Chinese and Japanese scroll art in the wake of his American visit.76 One Necessary Protection artwork mentions Gris in large letters. Some of McCahon’s paintings spell out a debt to Titian,77 Giovanni Bellini, Francisco Goya, and Mondrian. His regionalist

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focus may have been influenced by his awareness of Thomas Hart Benton and John Steuart Curry.78 The particular way in which McCahon’s influences were absorbed can be seen in some of his tributary artworks. For example, Vincent van Gogh’s Crows Over the Cornfields (1890)79 is an inspiration for John in Canterbury (1959).80 In this artwork McCahon pays tribute to van Gogh’s cornfield landscape and borrows the same sense of menace and anxiety. Both have a sinister path leading through the centre of the work. McCahon takes van Gogh’s birds and mutates them into the lament of the quoted John Caselberg poem, claiming “the crows here are the words.”81 Nature and text bleed together into this tribute to the woes of two painters and one poet in what Brown describes as “a statement about the desperate position of the artist in society.”82 It is indeed an image that annunciates the struggle of the prophet. Here we see a clear example of the way in which McCahon’s words are constantly related to landscape and nature, even when they may seem to be entirely divorced from any kind of nonlinguistic representation. John in Canterbury displays the yellow of a vivid crop and the grey of storm clouds in a manner that purposefully seeks to maintain the connotations of these landscape features despite their beclouding to foreground Caselberg’s words. Despite the presence of these artists in McCahon’s art, he always prioritised his own expressive needs.83 When viewing McCahon’s works inspired by classic Italian painters like Giotto and Luca Signorelli, it may be difficult to see a clear connection to this source. McCahon employed modernist conventions as an inspiration as opposed to a rule. Indeed, Simpson believes that McCahon’s trip to America helped him find “a way to paint and to be an artist outside European cubism and modernism.”84 Because of this, Brown repeatedly emphasises the dangers of calling any of the artists or artworks encountered on his American trip direct influences.85 He suggests that what may have been “aggressively new” in what McCahon had learned from the art in America “was submitted to the need to communicate his personal concerns within an intelligible human framework.”86 His engagement with the paintings sighted on this trip did not lead to mimicry. Instead, McCahon extracted pleasing ideas and techniques for use in his own particular vision.87 Although McCahon was not the first famous New Zealand artist, he was amongst the first to be wholly ‘home grown’.88 McCahon’s remarkable originality, even within New Zealand, is duly noted.89 He provides a clear example of art that is separate and distinct from the centres of modernism. As such, a viewpoint of marginality and difference has coloured interpretations of McCahon’s oeuvre.90 Referring to New

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Zealand as peripheral and marginal means that its version of Western culture is neither generic nor normative. It suggests that the cultural centre is ‘elsewhere’, perhaps the United States or the United Kingdom. This is exactly the kind of viewpoint that McCahon and the nationalists rallied against. For example, Allen Curnow explicitly states “I wanted to place New Zealand at the centre, the only possible place.”91 The Nationalist Project aimed to remove New Zealand from its position of ‘otherness’ and to make the distant antipodes of colonial imagination into a real and meaningful homeland.92 McCahon borrowed from overseas artists not as a means of copying foreign genres, but as a means of picking and choosing from conventions that might suit New Zealand and help to explore this nation as a central concern.

A Precise History of Reception and New Zealand’s Modernism When considering reactions to McCahon’s artworks, changing attitudes towards modernism are an important factor. Coley’s obituary to McCahon describes the most violently vituperative action of those who found his images too difficult, and the adulation and totally loyal support of those who saw him as the country’s greatest artist.93

These differences in opinion are substantial and important. Disparities in reaction may be accounted for due to the existence of different audience positions, and the differing conceptions of modern abstraction and the place of religious art over the past sixty years. Cultural and educational shifts over the decades have caused substantial changes to the public reception of McCahon. Modernism in New Zealand came slowly.94 Its popular acceptance was equally staggered. For example, the sketch qualities of the Impressionist genre outraged New Zealand audiences as late as 1934.95 McCahon debuted with an art audience who were more engaged with pictorial representation than abstraction. Even a slight deviation away from these expected conventions was frowned upon. This is exemplified in one of McCahon’s earliest public rejections. Harbour Cone from Peggy’s Hill was excluded from the Otago Art Society in 1939, contravening their own rules entitling each member to submit one work.96 Even pieces as benign as this wilderness landscape were seen as suspicious and inappropriate in terms of technique.97

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The nineteen-forties is the decade in which McCahon began to produce his Early Religious Works, often taken to be the start of his career. These artworks demonstrate an awareness of modernism as it pertained to the Nationalist Movement. In keeping with this, a great deal of effort was invested in imagining New Zealand as a new and distinct nation.98 Local issues were a priority over imitating the modern trends of other nations.99 Facets of modernism such as abstraction were seen as indulgent and offtopic. This assisted in McCahon’s original, localised approach. A discourse too strongly focused on the overseas world does not function well as a source of domestic identity.100 Nevertheless, this did not make McCahon’s Early Religious Works palatable. Audience reception of McCahon’s work in the nineteen-forties was poor and frequently negative.101 Brown notes that this decade was defined by “an entrenched provincialism that was noted more for its conservative restraint and love of craftsmanship than for the depth of its creative insights.”102 There was an intense focus on technique within many critical responses to art in this decade, which proved problematic when viewing McCahon’s Early Religious Works. When drawing attention to McCahon’s unpopularity, most writers turn to the words of poet and art critic Fairburn. His infamous103 critique of McCahon’s 1948 work praises the artist for escaping dull, traditional styles. He describes his artworks, however, as an example of “homespun pretentiousness” and “pretentious hocus,” deriding them as “graffiti on the walls of some celestial lavatory” that offers no profound religious revelation.104 These remarks proceeded on from a private complaint made to Brasch in which he called McCahon’s artworks “deplorable.” Fairburn felt they were “merely pretentious humbug, masquerading as homespun simplicity. Looked at from any possible angle, they had no merit whatever.”105 These comments have been immortalised as the epitome of early criticism regarding McCahon.106 The same pattern of public rejection spawned by the outré appearance of McCahon’s images continued into the nineteen-fifties. Caselberg recalls now-major paintings such as On Building Bridges receiving “scant or scathing attention from reviewers and from the public.”107 Revealingly, Brenda Gamble explains that gallery visitors of this era were familiar with the nineteenth century European style. They expected attractive, rural scenery and historical subjects. McCahon’s imagery led many audience members to feel baffled and confused, leading to a sense of confrontation with the paintings.108 Pound also reminds us that while ‘primitive’ subjects were occasionally acceptable, “no radical primitivism of style was allowed.”109 McCahon’s flat, ‘simplistic’ imagery violated audience

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expectation.110 So too did the philosophical quandaries contained therein. Garrity believes that New Zealand was troubled by the “hard currency of the mind,” seeing it as suspicious and marginal. He blames this for an intellectual blank when facing the “existential situations” of McCahon.111 McCahon’s audience were not shy in expressing their uncertainty or distaste regarding his imagery. C.K. Stead describes mid-century New Zealand as a place where “anything at all by McCahon was fair game for public ridicule.”112 The general public of this period are often depicted as cruel in their pugnacious response of his art. Ian Prior, a friend of McCahon, laments “unthinking might be the right word, but unkind or stupid will also describe their reactions to him.”113 Explaining this atmosphere, Garrity argues that “[i]n New Zealand there is an attitude that one is not expected to understand anything that one does not like.”114 As a result, McCahon had trouble acquiring painting supplies after the war. These scarce commodities were only handed out by art societies to artists whose work was held in high esteem.115 In his introduction to a 1959 Frances Hodgkins catalogue, McCahon’s view of New Zealand is scathing. He credits Europe with Hodgkins’ artistic maturation and describes their homeland in terms of “timid antipodean art.”116 He also wrote of the “awful coldness of N.Z. art, the lack of real feeling.”117 This was not an attack on artists. McCahon spent several years working in the Auckland Art Gallery where he emphasised the importance of local art as a primary reason for the gallery’s existence.118 His criticism lies with the reception of art in New Zealand, not the inherent talent or vision of its people.119 McCahon’s resentment extended as far as art critics and curators with whom he held a close relationship. McIvor heard of “fierce nights” when Fraser, Tomory, and Keith were “confronted by these new works and challenged to respond.”120 This seems like an act of wilfulness on behalf of McCahon, as these friends had been public supporters. It is clear that McCahon was left with feelings of hostility towards an academic and gallery community who he saw as irrelevant and unhelpful. The attempts to sell McCahon’s work in this period also reveal a distinct lack of supportive audience. In 1950, Caselberg was unable to sell Hail Mary and The Virgin and Child Compared121 to a Zurich art dealer. The dealer claimed he could not sell art to Europe before its maker had become famous in London.122 As the decade progressed, dealer galleries in New Zealand were struggling to be profitable.123 In 1957, Webb opened Auckland’s first dealer gallery and attempted to sell Titirangi Landscapes as one of his early ventures. None were purchased. Webb explains, “there really wasn’t any audience for contemporary art.”124 McCahon’s friends

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wanted free or cheap art as pay-off for moral support. The idea of parting with large sums of money in exchange for art was very unpopular.125 Interestingly, Webb does not mention anyone other than McCahon’s personal friends as potential buyers.126 This may account for the paucity of sales. In 1959, Woollaston and McCahon exhibited at Gallery 91, Christchurch’s first dealer gallery. Described by Barton as ahead of its time, the gallery closed within a year.127 On the whole, Barry Lett claims that dealing in McCahon’s work was not financially rewarding.128 During the nineteen-fifties, the nature of modernism varied from city to city. For example, When McCahon moved to Auckland in 1953, he came across a view of modernism directed by A.R.D. Fairburn and Archie Fisher. As Brown explains, “Fairburn wanted a modernism that avoided the restrictive excesses of sentiment or the dogmatism which he associated with the Victorian Age.” He and Fisher celebrated Renaissance concepts of space and form.129 McCahon fitted in poorly with this viewpoint. Brown believes that the Auckland City Art Gallery ‘Object and Image’ (1954) exhibition, largely McCahon’s initiative, was his means of refuting “such regressive modernism.”130 Clearly there was tension as to what this movement should be. Mane-Wheoki retrospectively traces McCahon’s 1953 shift to Auckland and his job with Auckland Art Gallery as the starting point of the region’s “ascendancy in the construction of historical narratives of New Zealand art.”131 He believes Auckland was then able to consolidate its position in the emerging discipline of New Zealand art history thanks to figures such as McCahon, Tomory, and Green.132 There were also political tensions in terms of how much priority should be given to modernism. In the commercial world, modernism was acceptable in terms of the timesaving technology and convenience it spawned. Brown believes it was less favourable in the hegemonic art world where it connoted outrageous, pointless creations. Although the term ‘progressive’ was meant to negate these negative associations, it took on socio-political links of its own during the Cold War, becoming associated with Marxism.133 It is thus unsurprising that Brown suggests many facets of modernism were seen as subversive in McCahon’s homeland.134 He explains that the modern artist of the nineteen-fifties was “an image of depravity, of someone doing the devil’s work.”135 Brown believes that the modernist technique that was “tolerated” during McCahon’s early days “amounted to a superficial type of stylization considered more appropriate to the graphic arts than painting.”136 This may also help to account for the strong influence of commercial graphic techniques such as signwriting in McCahon’s oeuvre.

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Nevertheless, in navigating these restrictions on modernism, McCahon began to distinguish himself as a potentially important painter with a unique contribution to the field. By the end of the decade, Keith believes that McCahon’s Northland Panels (1958) helped to eliminate a fear of grand scale in New Zealand artists.137 Brown agrees that this seminal artwork “ruptured the notion of landscape painting” in New Zealand and became a marker in local art history.138 McCahon was subsequently labelled as one of the major artists of the period alongside Toss Woollaston and Rita Angus who also articulated notions of national identity during this time. Although these painters did include abstract elements in their work, these elements were not yet celebrated by the New Zealand artworld in which abstraction was still unpopular.139 McCahon’s audience had limited interest in his symbolic explorations, but his ability to speak with an appropriately local voice via his renditions of the landscape was an increasingly appealing quality. The nineteen-sixties can be read as a turning point for public reception of McCahon.140 It has been described as an era of “widening interest in all art forms.”141 This is the point at which McCahon began to receive significant accolades in addition to significant mockery.142 In 1959 he was pleasantly surprised by the positive reaction to his Northland and Elias paintings.143 Keith recalls the contemporaneous exhibition of The Wake as earning McCahon “almost his first unequivocally approving review.”144 He considered this kind of enthusiasm to be so novel that he held a party for McCahon to celebrate this new public approval.145 This approval continued when Painting was awarded the inaugural Hay’s Art Competition prize in 1960. Controversy did, however, follow as many members of the public were disappointed by the result and the Christchurch City Gallery refused to fund its acquisition by the McDougall collection.146 Clearly, reactions were not yet overwhelmingly positive. In 1962, city councillor R.H. Stillwell derided the presentation of Tomorrow Will Be The Same But Not As This to the local public art gallery. He famously described it as a: figurative monstrosity which should not be hung in our beautiful gallery. It is only on hardboard, not even on canvas. There is nothing there but an absolute blackout.147

Stillwell was offended by McCahon’s abstraction and unorthodox, supposedly ‘low-art’, methods of mounting his paintings. As a result, McCahon’s attitude towards artistic culture in New Zealand remained sceptical.148 His introduction to the exhibition ‘Six New Zealand Expatriates’ (1962) is especially revealing. He writes of the previous

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generation of artists149 taught by European ‘refugees’ who themselves stayed in New Zealand with “increasing bitterness and frustration.” McCahon feels the locals they taught became “infected by this frustration and the restrictive smallness of their isolated world.”150 Although it could be argued that McCahon’s comments belong to this prior era, he specified “there was, and still is, only the most rudimentary audience available” for painters.151 He complained “[t]he audience, then as now, demanded an art that aped the art of Europe.” McCahon concluded his introduction to the exhibition by asking “[c]an any land that has in any way ignored its artists justly claim as its own the refugees it has created?”152 Although McCahon himself was never a refugee, one may easily see the lingering bitterness in his attitude coupled with sustained complaints towards an inadequate local audience.153 In the nineteen-seventies, contemporary art began to flourish due to the development of its infrastructure. New art museums opened, more universities introduced art history departments, more curators were trained, and the art market expanded.154 No longer was the Auckland City Gallery the only public museum not hostile to contemporary art.155 McCahon was recognised as a highly important contributor to the increasingly normalised world of modernism. At this point in time, he came to stand as one of New Zealand’s major artists. This is epitomised in the 1978 bequeathing of Victory Over Death 2 to the National Gallery of Australia as a bicentennial gift, and as celebration of the upcoming Closer Economic Relations pact between Australia and New Zealand.156 Keith advised the Robert Muldoon government to hand over a major work of art during their visit to Australia as it would be more remarkable than the usual gifts of earrings and cufflinks.157 McCahon’s work was taken as a representation of New Zealand culture and craftsmanship, thus appropriate as an ambassadorial gift. This gift was not, however, accepted with universal approval. This is mainly due to the appearance of McCahon’s brash and supposedly simplistic imagery. Parliament viewed the bequest with intense suspicion. Muldoon was accused of inciting revenge on the Australian people with his gift. One senator referred to the painting as a “digital clock,”158 a joke that may also be observed in a contemporaneous comic in The Bulletin in which drunken parliamentarians misinterpret the artwork as a clock reading 1 AM. Muldoon himself saw the gift as something of a practical joke.159 Garrity remarks that a French president joking at the expense of Matisse would be unheard of, illuminating the scathing attitude towards fine art within New Zealand.160 Nevertheless, Keith maintains that the painting

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was handed over with genuine and respectful intentions. He suggests that Muldoon wanted his gift to be controversial and memorable, but maintains that the Prime Minister was not aiming to be malicious or to engage in a prank. The gift was intended to boost the international reputation of McCahon as opposed to damaging it.161 Keith also notes there was no interest in the work from New Zealand’s public galleries.162 By the nineteen-eighties, complaints about McCahon were balanced with extreme praise. Despite controversies concerning the Canterbury Art Society over the previous decades, McCahon was the only artist to whom an entire exhibition was dedicated as part of their prestigious 1980 centennial celebrations.163 McCahon’s audience were occasionally troubled by the prices his paintings were now fetching, which reveals both his outstanding fame and the lingering suspicion that his abstracted artworks were unsophisticated and unworthy of such value. In 1982 the Robert McDougall Art Gallery purchased As There is a Constant Flow of Light We Are Born Into the Pure Land for ten thousand New Zealand dollars. Neil Roberts, who helped to acquire the work, had hoped the people of Christchurch would accept the price. Justifying this, he cited the fact that the last McCahon controversy had taken place twenty years prior. He was mistaken. Debate about the work filled newspaper correspondence columns for nearly a month, and was a prominent topic of talkback radio. One host ran a competition to see if listeners could create a better McCahon-style work than the one that had been acquired by the gallery.164 In response, the Robert McDougall Art Gallery created a display of McCahon’s art as a reaction to local “healthy controversy” over the artist.165 Revealingly, the Bulletin reported in 1984 that the “dismissive jokes” made about McCahon in the nineteen forties and fifties had faded, along with the discomfort surrounding his “disturbing originality.”166 His mideighties audience was categorised as more open to the “particular experience” of a McCahon artwork, perceiving him as a “modern master.”167 By the time of his death, McCahon had gained an impressive status as a significant contributor to, and initiator of, New Zealand modernism. His obituary claimed that McCahon’s reputation had reached “mythic proportions” after decades of exhibitions and controversy, attracting wealthy private buyers, corporations, and large galleries.168 There have even been calls to re-evaluate the degree to which he was ignored and abused. For example, McAloon contests the popular theory that McCahon received little praise. He argues: McCahon secured a number of loyal and powerful supporters. Far from the neglected figure he is generally portrayed as … McCahon was heavily

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promoted by critics, dealers and curators throughout his life, more so than any of his New Zealand contemporaries.169

Congruently, Gamble recalls “endless interrogations” of McCahon, as confused audience members demanded explanation of his work. She feels the most hateful criticism, however, was quelled by his eventual popularity, allowing acceptance “in the time-honoured tradition of all unique, visionary artists.”170 Although McCahon’s art was shocking and even offensive to his mid-century audience, abstraction and naivety has become more normalised and acceptable over time.

McCahon’s Modernism: ‘Direction’ and Frames The most useful lens through which to read McCahon’s output is his personal and specific view on the nature of creative communication. Importantly, these philosophies were sustained throughout McCahon’s entire career. They describe his very particular approach to artmarking and modernism, and illuminate the importance of the painting as a social tool.171 McCahon’s individual trajectory is presented, quite neatly, in his own notion of ‘direction’. Criticising the nineteen-seventies art market, McCahon famously complained: In this present time it is very difficult to paint for other people—to paint beyond your own ends and point directions as painters once did. Once the painter was making signs and symbols for people to live by: now he makes things to hang on the wall at exhibitions.172

This statement criticises art made for the sake of a gallery or as a consumer product.173 McCahon aimed for didactic paintings, and there is little evidence of him celebrating his leading role in the artworld. Instead, he focuses on the very individual and pedagogical notion of an artist’s ‘direction’. Brown feels that painting in a direction was, for McCahon, “like following one of Life’s commandments.”174 Clearly, it acted as a core value within his practice. Being that direction speaks both of McCahon’s prophetic pathway and his individual visual style, this concept links his spiritual vision with his mannerisms as a painter.175 Painterly direction is further elucidated in McCahon’s statement for the 1971 Manawatu Art Gallery Centenary Collection: There is only one aim in painting and that is to make good paintings—it is the individual interpretation of what is good that makes so many directions possible. For each painter finally there is only one direction and this should become apparent in the painter’s work.176

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‘Direction’ refers to the individual path an artist must take towards a ‘good’ painting. McCahon does not endorse the notion of a universal code of aesthetics that each artist should work towards. Instead this statement suggests that an artist should understand his or her own direction and convey it clearly in order to be a successful painter. Brown reports that McCahon was impressed by artists such as Gris who showed a singleness of purpose, and thus whose paintings had “only one direction.”177 In terms of his work as a painting teacher, Garrity recalls the importance of students having “a pretty good idea of one’s direction before entering his class,” so as not to provoke McCahon’s ire.178 Not only does direction imply speaking to an audience about greater spiritual values, it also refers to the clarity—that is, directness—with which these values are expressed. Although he argues that it was rarely provided, McCahon felt that quality public criticism was “an edge to fight against and a way to keep more on the one direction & away from the barren side tracks.”179 Direction can thus be read as a source of fecundity and purpose, maintained through a healthy relationship with one’s audience. It is likely that this idea of direction was taken from his influential teacher R.N. Field.180 Indeed, Gerald Barnett believes that Field’s “only exhortation was to find one’s own direction.”181 An early application of this terminology can be found in McCahon’s review of the 1955 exhibition of the Auckland Society of Arts: painting division. McCahon was unenthused by many of the entries and asked if the art selected that year showed us “a new direction or possibly only a newly fashionable one.”182 He continued, [i]n answer to this I refer to the three paintings by Michael Kmit … and suggest that his three paintings are fashionably ‘modern’ rather than showing any new direction. I wonder whether they are not just academic paintings in a new guise or does Kmit’s lack of feeling for his subjects show us a new direction in painting, and if it does, should we not question this direction and, questioning this, then look about us to discover where we are heading.183

Here, McCahon posits modernism as a movement primarily adopted as a fashionable tool. Due to the highly personal nature of each artist’s direction, McCahon was not impressed by those who chose to copy the direction of others by mimicking generic trends. Instead, McCahon praises the artworks in the exhibition that he feels demonstrate a sense of courage and show “what one is at the time of painting.”184 Nearly twenty years later McCahon still held the same opinion. In 1972 he maintained that “[m]y painting is almost entirely autobiographical – it tells you where I am

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at any given time, where I am living and the direction that I am pointing in.”185 As for modernism, McCahon complains, “[i]t is not enough to be ‘modern’. To be modern is to take on a new coat and a new coat does not make us new men.”186 For McCahon, an artwork gains credibility through the revelation of its creator and the direction of his or her creative and spiritual path. His definition of ‘good art’ is that which reflects honestly upon the maker. McCahon’s ultimate aim was to represent his own prophetic vision, pointing out a path for his viewers to follow. In a 1979 letter, he neatly explains his views on the way in which the influence of other artists can be appropriately explored: Painting is built on derivation, it’s always been so. My work is all derived from other artists’ work. Where the reference is obscure and adds nothing to the painting I forget it and realize it’s too personal an insight I’ve used— I can’t often tell where it comes from but I do know it’s in the tradition of all painting.187

McCahon did not reject the gathering of insights or ideas from other artists. Indeed, he believes that a tribute to an artist such as Miro or Mondrian can expand the vision of a person who loves paintings.188 Nevertheless, his aforementioned statements advocate that derivation be in the service of one’s own ‘direction’, not in the service of mimicry or manufactured modernity. The issues of framing and the presentation of art were also important to McCahon in terms of what a painter should be and how a painting should act. McCahon felt that the painter’s life should be a humble pursuit in the service of social goals. The writings of Eric Gill inspired McCahon to reject the moniker of ‘artist’ and to be known instead as a ‘painter’ who produced ‘work’ as opposed to creating ‘art’.189 He was opposed to paintings being valued for a signature and “never wished to be seen in a gold frame.”190 True to his word, the majority of McCahon’s works are unframed and were often painted on unstretched canvas after 1958.191 McCahon formally renounced traditional framing and all its implications in 1971.192 He remarked that the frame may be necessary to hang a canvas up with, but “it’s not part of the work ... I think they can be dispensed with.”193 He felt that framing is “not part of my job.”194 The unusual presentation of his artworks reflects this renouncement. For example, William McCahon explains that his father’s use of common nails to hang Teaching Aids was an act of making the painting humble.195 His works encourage dialogue with the viewer, and were not to be obscured by the grandeur of classic framing styles.196

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This is epitomised in a 1971 Barry Lett Galleries exhibition of Necessary Protection (and associated) artworks, as observed by Green. He notes that many of the artworks were sketches, visibly torn from a sketchbook and pinned to the wall. Many had fingerprints, heel marks, and smears from the studio. Green believes this eschews “meaningless ‘technical’ perfection.”197 Instead, McCahon seems to consciously avoid any presentation techniques that may elevate his output into the realm of opulence. For Green, this is a representation of how ‘finish’ is unimportant when considering the function of McCahon’s images.198 Because he reads them as interim reflections on McCahon’s progressive journey as an artist, a ‘finished’ appearance would distract from this communication. Green interprets McCahon’s refusal to use enclosing frames as a method of keeping the images as part of the “living space of the gallery.”199 This implies that a frame would construct an unhelpful division between audience and the artist’s statement. Green’s reading of McCahon is indeed a useful one, reflecting his views on the importance of keeping statements to an audience direct. McCahon was indeed concerned with moving the force of a painting outside of the narrow confines of the frame. For example, he lamented that his portrait Harriet Simeon (1945) failed to convey “the largeness of the MƗori tragedy,” as the “emotion from a painting should fill a room, should not exist on a painted surface but in front of it.”200 Framing implies that an artwork ends at the borders of its canvas or under the glass that protects it, whereas McCahon wished to expand his reach towards his audience. It is worth noting that the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (henceforth Te Papa) has honoured McCahon’s intentions as much as is possible for works displayed in a public gallery.201 After purchasing Scared and Mondrian’s Last Chrysanthemum, both works on relatively fragile Steinbach paper, Te Papa opted for plain white frames to protect them. McAloon feels that this option leaves “the paintings free to act.”202 This statement is no doubt based on McCahon’s declaration that artworks hung with pins, nails, and string give the paintings “more freedom to act” than if they were in frames.203 The Te Papa framer, Matthew O’Reilly, believes that: [f]rames, any frames, work counter to the spirit and strategy McCahon adopted in his paintings. He was influenced by the wider tendency of modernist painting to relate the painted surface to the democratic white wall. He also wanted to release the painting from “the accretions of the past” implicit in the formal traditions of framing.204

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It seems likely that McCahon would have been pleased with this statement, as it accords with his notion of giving paintings freedom to work upon the audience. This was part of his self-perceived prophetic duty. McCahon firmly believed that each artist should follow their own direction, implying that modernism and various generic conventions contained therein should not be one’s ultimate concern. Rather, an artist should be concerned with honest communication. Larking describes his ‘thanks’ to Mondrian as a farewell, which helped to free McCahon from the presence of another artist’s style in his consciousness.205 McCahon’s representational styles were always created in service of pointing out his own direction, rather than reacting to the directions of others.

Conclusion McCahon has been compared with many other artists and genres, particularly those belonging to modernist movements. These comparisons are most successful when made with an awareness of his specific New Zealand concerns. Indeed, his earliest experiences of international artistic trends were tempered by distance and conflated with the modernist conventions of graphic design as opposed to those of ‘high art’. Also of importance is how McCahon saw his own indoctrination into modernism, who he names as his influences, and the way he chooses to give tribute in his highly original body of work. When pondering McCahon’s novelty and the obscurity of his message, it is apparent just how strange his artistic vocabulary was in mid-century New Zealand. Although a painter’s genre and artistic influences may seem paramount in understanding the nature of his or her communication, it is McCahon’s conception of what a painter is that needs to be grasped in order to properly understand his output. McCahon’s ultimate concern was to guide society by ‘pointing in a direction’. This, for McCahon, was a prophetic path through which his audience could come to know peace, the light of God, and the nurturing love of the land. From McCahon’s views on direction and framing, it becomes clear that he wished to point out a spiritual path and to infuse his viewers with this message as a means of causing tangible social change. Reciprocally, McCahon’s interaction with his audience was a vital factor in shaping his personal faith. Criticism from his audience can be directly correlated to his perceived failings as a prophet and as a teacher. The popular rejection of shocking and uncomfortable modern art is certainly not unique to McCahon. Nevertheless, its impact upon his personal countenance and even spiritual belief cannot be underplayed. While many artists suffered a

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similar fate, especially when presenting confronting and avant-garde ideas, McCahon’s primary aim as a painter was to engage with and educate his audience. While his paintings may have contained the brash, shocking, or confusing elements common within modern expression, McCahon saw his art as a didactic tool that required audience understanding and engagement. McCahon was distressed and disappointed by the failure of his work to bring spiritual enlightenment. Even as his oeuvre attained national fame, McCahon remained crippled by a profound spiritual doubt that punctuated his optimism for art, creation, and teaching. McCahon aligned himself with prophets who fought a hard battle, doubting the grace of God and the arrival of the Promised Land. His body of work reflects a journey from optimism to despair, which can be correlated to the difficulties he experienced in sharing his work and receiving criticism and ridicule instead of the social reform and spiritual illumination he longed for.

Notes  1

Anna Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” Interior Architecture and Design 21 (1959): 195. 2 Michael Dunn, New Zealand Painting: A Concise History (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2003), 105. 3 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 3. On this note, Cartwright quips that ‘foreign’ concepts such as modernism “were given short shrift by the reactionaries who waved the flag and instructed the nation to lie back and think of England” for much of the twentieth century. See: Cartwright, Sweet As, 23. 4 Leonard suggests Georges Rouault as an inspiration for McCahon’s cartoonish figures with thick black line work. See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 27. 5 Crow describes his text-based artworks as a “written-over version of Malevich’s Black Square.” See: Thomas Crow, “Spreading the Word: Colin McCahon: Thomas Crow Speaks to Marja Bloem,” ArtForum (2003), accessed August 18, 2009, http://www.artforum.com/inprint/issue=200307&id=5335. 6 Lynn believes McCahon has “philosophical kinship with Newman.” See: Lynn, “Colin McCahon: The View From Across the Tasman.” Butler believes Newman’s “ideology of artistic independence” was important and influential to McCahon, the impact of which he sees in works such as The Days and Nights in the Wilderness (1971). See: Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 18. 7 Lynn advises, “comparisons with Robert Motherwell and Adolph Gottlieb could be illuminating.” See: Lynn, “Colin McCahon: The View From Across the Tasman.” 8 Lynn, “Book Review,” 186. 9 Johnson believes that some of McCahon’s pieces, if seen in isolation from one another, could look like Outsider Art. See: Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 196.

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 10

Peter Entwisle names him as a member of this genre. See: Peter Entwisle, “Webb’s Dispassionate Treatment Unusual,” Otago Daily Times, March 4, 2008, accessed March 24, 2010, http://www.odt.co.nz/opinion/opinion/1497/webb039sdispassionate-treatment-unusual. Maurice Askew feels that both Mark Rothko and McCahon present shapes that “float to the edge of the canvas” and are “ready, suddenly, to burst out, beyond.” See: Maurice Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” transcript for broadcast on 3YA Radio Station, presented on September 12, 1962, 2. 11 In regard to the description of McCahon as an Abstract Expressionist, Rowe believes that “[n]othing is further from the truth, although his organisation of the picture plane and the scale of his painting owes much to this school.” See: Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” 12 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 60. 13 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 60. Brown calls McCahon’s appraisal of the deeper issues raised by Abstract Expression marginal. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 93. Congruently, White thinks that McCahon discovered many of his techniques directly from Hans Hofmann, rather than observation of this genre. See: White, “Antipodean Translations,” 9. Agreeing also with this line of thought, Turner believes that McCahon’s stylistic similarities to Rothko, Antoni Tàpies, or Newman are largely coincidental. See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 221. 14 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 60. William McCahon complains that “Colin always hoped for interpretations and commentary that recognized what he was trying to say, rather than cultural analysis drawn from sweeping generalizations of 20th Century art movements that compared his deep and subtle work to more famous ‘wallpaper’ – works that had the surface values of composition, brush stroke and colouration only.” See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 33. This too may well be a complaint against comparisons of this nature. 15 Ian Wedde, “Trouble Spots: Where is Ralph Hotere,” [1999] in Making Ends Meet: Essays and Talks 1992-2004 (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2005), 164. 16 Wedde, “Trouble Spots,” 164. 17 Wedde, “Trouble Spots,” 165. 18 Wedde, “Trouble Spots,” 165. 19 Pound also deals with the connections between McCahon and Newman. He feels that McCahon’s art “differs entirely from anything painted by Newman, or his American peers, in having a signature of place inscribed entirely on its surface.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 69. 20 McCahon owned and read Mondrian’s Plastic Art & Pure Plastic Art (1937). See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 124. 21 For example, Coley believes that McCahon looked to Mondrian and Cézanne for “structural lessons.” See: Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 22 Matthew Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification: McCahon’s Take on Tessai,” The Journal of New Zealand Art History 33 (2012-2013): 45.

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23 Colin McCahon, “19 Painters & Their Favourite Works: Colin McCahon,” Islands 10 (1974): 396-397. As Green suggests, while McCahon does not display a consistent resemblance to the works of other modern painters, he does show an ongoing engagement with the modernist problems of representation and illusion. See: Tony Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” in Colin McCahon: Gates and Journeys (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1988), 40. McNamara agrees, “it is not the formal simplicity of Mondrian's work that is the subject – rather the tribute is to the intellectual and artistic struggle toward the utmost simplicity and power of concept.” See: McNamara, “Work of Master Returns Home.” 24 It is important to remember that Mondrian himself is generally considered to have been a spiritual painter. Many theorists have approached his work in terms of its spiritual content, as they have done with McCahon. For example, Charles Cramer observes influences of Theosophy, Hinduism, and Greek Orthodoxy in Mondrian’s work. He argues that the artist preferred an inductive and empirical approach to spiritual art as opposed to a mindset of transcendent mysticism. See: Charles A. Cramer, Abstraction and the Classical Ideal, 1760-1920 (New Jersey: Associated University Presses, 2006), 137. Nevertheless, although the spiritual agenda of Mondrian may have resonated with McCahon, there is no evidence that he was particularly aware of it or chose to examine Mondrian as a guide in this context. 25 Colin McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints by Colin McCahon in the Gallery’s Collection,” Auckland City Art Gallery Quarterly 44 (1969): 13. 26 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 76. 27 Indeed, Keith believes that McCahon’s homage to Mondrian celebrates his freedom from European modernism, rather than his attachment to its rules. See: Keith, “Towards Auckland,” 16. 28 McCahon also refers to Braque in a similar fashion. He states that, within Braque’s landscapes, one may find “a gap there you can look through into infinity.” See: McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 54. Brown believes he carried this concept into North Shore Landscape (1954). He agrees that McCahon’s search for a ‘way through’ became more than a technical painting device. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 54. 29 A prime social issue discussed via his use of Mondrian was the Cold War. See the ‘Gates and Waterfalls’ chapter in this volume for further details. 30 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 14. 31 Brown also explains the lateral movement of overlapping shapes in Mondrian’s work as a means of extending beyond the picture frame. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 123. 32 McCahon to Wood [July 1979] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 120. 33 McCahon is given similar treatment to Mondrian in the foreword to the ‘after McCahon’ exhibition. He is described as “a liberating influence rather than an obstacle to be overcome or a model to be worked through”. See: Christopher Johnstone, foreword to after McCahon (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1989), 5.

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34 When discussing the ‘end of painting’, one must also consider the impact of Malevich. Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian contains stylistic similarities to his Black Square (1915), which are perhaps an intentional reference to the artist’s seminal abstraction. 35 The masking tape comment probably refers to McCahon’s use of this material in an attempt to paint straight lines in the artwork. He describes having trouble with this method and switched to painting them by hand. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 14. 36 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 28. 37 Colin McCahon to Rodney Kennedy [1942] in Keith, “Colin McCahon,” An Introduction to New Zealand Painting, 184. 38 McAloon believes that McCahon’s statement refers to the idea that “art needed to have a message. Abstraction by itself wasn’t enough, and beauty without purpose was empty.” See: William McAloon, “More Masking Tape,” Te Papa’s Blog, February 4, 2009, accessed October 14, 2011, http://blog.tepapa.govt.nz/200 9/02/04/more-masking-tape. 39 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 77. 40 For example, Garrity claims that his influences are so absorbed as to leave a seamless integrity. See: Garrity, A Tribute to McCahon, 3. McNamara calls him a “difficult painter” because his modernist style “cannot be fitted into any particular school or category or be shown to have a line of direct influences.” See: McNamara, “Work of Master Returns Home.” 41 For example, Turner believes that descriptions of McCahon’s artworks as ‘Hard Edge’ take them out of context. See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 221. 42 For example, Green points out that works such as the Titirangi (1957) series are not based on “a scientific theory of colour,” but rather the “experience of a place and of seeing.” He views this as an important deviation from ‘proper’ abstraction. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 33. The ‘scientific’ approach to colour had indeed been prominent in modern painting, and its influence can be clearly observed in the Southern Hemisphere, although there are no hints of it in McCahon. See: Zoe Alderton, “Colour, Shape, and Music: The Presence of Thought Forms in Abstract Art,” Literature & Aesthetics 21:1 (2011). For reasons such as these, Coley praises McCahon’s self-constructed methods of painting and freedom from “imitative mannerism.” See: Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 43 Brown, “The Pursuit of Modernism.” 44 Brown, “The Pursuit of Modernism.” 45 Pound, The Space Between, 55. 46 Pound, The Space Between, 55. 47 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 27. 48 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 26. 49 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 30. 50 Tomory argues that his symbolic content “stems from an intense regional vision.” See: Tomory, “Art,” 183. Leonard congruently describes his “creative and

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 wilful misreading” of modern conventions as grounding his work in personal history and provincialism. See: Leonard, “Mod Cons,” 165. 51 Brown argues that McCahon tried to “escape the narrow regionalism that dogged most of the landscape painters then working in New Zealand.” Rather than providing specific depictions of place, he often generalised based on memory and feeling. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 104. Brown believes McCahon moved away from a specifically regionalist vision during the nineteen-fifties when he began to use the landscape as something that was more symbolic than specific. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 5. This is true; however, his vision is still strongly connected to New Zealand and seeks to convey a sense of place that contains an emotional element, even though a very specific region may not always be mentioned. Pound also debates this lens and argues that it is impossible to call McCahon a Regional Realist as he is too connected with modernism. See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 69. 52 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 364. 53 This is fortunate, as it is likely that Europe would have not have accepted his deviant trends. German journalist Vanessa Muller writes “a whole generation of New Zealand post war art seems to be determined by tyranny of distance ... Europe for a long time demanded a clear-cut either/or assimilation in the ‘International Style’ or an aesthetic life in the shadows at the other end of the world.” See: Vanessa Muller in Louisa Cleave, “Exhibition Marks Breakthrough in Europe,” New Zealand Herald, March 8, 1999, accessed August 16, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=3412. Bernice Murphy aptly describes him as “counter-internationalist.” See: Murphy, “Antipodean Montages,” 85. 54 Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 11. Brown believes that many authors on Cubism and related genres with whom McCahon was familiar promoted the idea that art should be for the betterment of society. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 124. 55 Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 26. 56 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 361; Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 8. 57 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 361. 58 Jim Barr and Mary Barr, “Lookalike,” Over the Net and on the Table, November 5, 2010, accessed March 16, 2011, http://overthenet.blogspot.com/2010/11/lookali ke_05.html. 59 Hamish Keith, “Towards Auckland,” in Towards Auckland, eds Hamish Keith and Jane Davidson (Auckland: Auckland Art Gallery, 2006), 11. 60 See, for example, McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 54. 61 William McAloon, “French Bay,” Te Papa, 2009, accessed June 1, 2010, http://collections.tepapa.govt.nz/ObjectDetails.aspx?oid=44386&coltype=Art® no=1983-0018-1. 62 See, for example, Mary Kisler in Guy Somerset, “Seduced & Seduced Again,” The New Zealand Listener 3675, October 16, 2010, accessed November 9, 2011, http://www.listener.co.nz/culture/books/seduced-seduced-again.

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63 Mary Kisler, Angels and Aristocrats: Early European Art in New Zealand Public Collections (Auckland: Godwit, 2010), 328. 64 McCahon to Brasch [14 Sep. 51] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 23. 65 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 221. 66 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 88. 67 Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 45. Colin and Anne McCahon discussed one of Kaprow’s installations with the artist, who explained the long strips of canvas hanging from the ceiling as an artwork through which the audience would walk. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 90. McCahon joined in the erection of Kaprow’s work at the Hansa Gallery, and it is likely that this was a source of inspiration for his later ‘paintings to walk by’. 68 McCahon to Brasch [10 May 58] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 30. 69 See: Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 48; Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 93. 70 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 10. Brown argues that McCahon’s trip to America helped him to understand the way the physical properties of paint could be better exploited, the impact of which he sees in The Wake (1958). See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 44. 71 This was thanks to Phaidon Press who released affordable monographs of Cézanne’s work. McCahon and Woollaston enthusiastically studied these publications. See: Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 14. His sister bought him a Phaidon volume on Michelangelo. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 12. McCahon considered Cézanne to be a bridge between Renaissance styles of representation and Cubist special scaffolding. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 73. Peter Tomory believes that McCahon’s painting style evolved from his study of Cézanne’s “fluid expression of form through colour” and his “tonal analysis of form.” See: Tomory, “Painting 1890-1950,” 4. 72 Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 26. 73 Jeffrey Harris [1994] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 137138. 74 Hamish Keith, “Colin McCahon” in An Introduction to New Zealand Painting 1839-1967, by Gordon H. Brown and Hamish Keith (Auckland: Collins, 1969), 185; See: Pound, The Space Between, 37 for a comprehensive summary of correlations between McCahon and Gauguin. Simpson also agrees that Gauguin’s spiritual content was influential. See: Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 46. 75 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 88. Brown believes that McCahon never saw Tessai as a “big influence” on the actual stylistic qualities of his artworks. His reflections focus on the beauty he saw in Tessai’s images as opposed to a desire to mimic. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 93. This point is debated in Larking’s exploration of Tessai. See: Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification,” passim esp. 45. 76 Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification,” 45.

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77 McCahon also owned a Phaidon Press book on Titian and was “deeply impressed” by his later religious works. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 3. 78 McCahon sighted publications dealing with the WPA’s Federal Art Project, containing reproductions from these artists. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 12. 79 The title of this artwork has been translated in a variety of ways including Crows in the Wheatfield and Wheatfield with Crows. 80 The poem quoted here is an excerpt from Caselberg’s ‘Van Gogh’. 81 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 27. 82 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 76. 83 For example, Alexa M. Johnston states that McCahon did not subscribe to a modernist rejection of content. See: Grove Art Online, s.v. “McCahon, Colin” by Alexa M. Johnston, accessed June 17, 2010, http://www.oxfordartonline.com/subsc riber/article/grove/art/T052717. Indeed, she feels that his abstraction is something that can only “function in the service of content.” See: Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” 104. Congruently, Rodney Wilson maintains “McCahon has never taken leave of the image, or its substitute the symbol, for any prolonged period, and cannot be considered by any stretch of the imagination a ‘formal abstractionist’.” See: Rodney Wilson, “Formal Abstraction in Post-War New Zealand Painting,” Art in New Zealand 2 (1976), accessed July 8, 2010, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/abstract.htm. White agrees that McCahon’s attempts at abstraction were “pressed in the service of his overarching mission.” See: White, “Antipodean Translations,” 8. 84 Peter Simpson in James Ihaka, “Titirangi Pays Homage to Famous Son,” New Zealand Herald, August 25 2006, accessed June 25, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co. nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=10397930, my emphasis. In regard to Abstract Expressionism, John Stringer similarly remarks that “he was not captured by the external style of the genre, rather it liberated him somehow to be more himself.” See: John Stringer, “Abstract Expressionism and Concrete Faith,” CS Arts 13 (2003): 3. 85 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, passim, esp. 87ff. 86 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 94. 87 As Brown remarks, McCahon “admires individual artists who fit into his larger vision of the human spirit; he ignore those who do not.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 72. He explains how McCahon “respectfully ignores” the limitations of art to clear the way for his expression. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 200. 88 With the modernism of the Northern Hemisphere as such a weak force in his region, McCahon had the freedom of extreme and individual innovation. Leonard writes, “[w]ith few artists in New Zealand practicing radical styles for McCahon to position himself against and no one else laying down the law, McCahon was free to make it up as he went along, making willful use of his sources, grounding his explorations not in a broader context but back in his own work.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 30.

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89 Tongue-in-cheek, McNamara calls McCahon one of New Zealand’s “Old Masters.” See: McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.” Curnow sees his work in the context of New Zealand art history as sui generis. See: Wystan Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” in Colin McCahon: Gates and Journeys (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1988), 43. He writes, “having invented painting in New Zealand, he could now work in a tradition of his own making.” Wystan Curnow, McCahon’s Necessary Protection (New Plymouth: Govett-Brewster Art Gallery, 1997). Curnow states that McCahon was never obligated to nominate himself as either an abstract or figurative painter. See: Wystan Curnow, I Will Need Words: Colin McCahon’s Word and Number Paintings (New Zealand: National Art Gallery, 1984), 1. 90 Prominent examples include McAloon locating New Zealand “as far from the centres of modern art as it is possible to get.” See: William McAloon, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” Artlink 23:3 (2003): 65. Curnow calls McCahon an artist who “lived and worked at the margins … outside the limits of the art world.” See: Wystan Curnow, “The Shining Cuckoo,” in Interpreting Contemporary Art, eds Stephen Bann and William Allen (London: Reaktion Books, 1991), 27. So too does Bloem locate him as a Modernist on the periphery. See: Bloem in Crow, “Spreading the Word.” 91 Allen Curnow, preface to Four Plays by Allen Curnow (Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1972), 7. 92 Despite this, McCahon’s perceived connection to the periphery may be another reason why his work is increasingly popular. Cornelia H. Butler explained in 2000 that “[t]he so-called periphery, whether practiced in terms of identity of space, is increasingly seductive to an art-viewing public weary of work created from the same position of a fully internationalized, European modernism. See: Cornelia H. Butler, “Periphery,” in Flight Patterns, (California: The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, 2000), 107. 93 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 94 Gregory Burke describes New Zealand in the early twentieth-century as “provincial and conservative” with modernism arriving late. See: Gregory Burke, “River Deep, Mountain High: The Periphery as Paradox,” in TOI TOI TOI: Three Generations of Artists from New Zealand, (Kassel: Museum Fridericianum, 1999), 12-13. Curnow agrees that modernism was late in New Zealand. Interestingly, he also names the United States as another of the “provincial places” where modernism was delayed. See: Wystan Curnow, “Colin McCahon,” in The Fifth Biennale of Sydney – Private Symbol: Social Metaphor (Sydney: Biennale of Sydney Limited, 1984). 95 See: Pound, Frames on the Land, 28. 96 Brown usefully compares McCahon’s work to Doris Lusk, a modernist painter whose landscape was permitted by the society. Her style is described as accessible and local, in comparison to McCahon whose work comes across as architectural and avant-garde rather than inherited from the familiar. See: Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 17. Linda Tyler explains this rejection as a reflection of a lack of support “from an interested and informed

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 public.” See: Linda Tyler, “A Matter of Taste: Charles Brasch as Art Collector,” in Enduring Legacy: Charles Brasch, Patron, Poet & Collector, ed. Donald Kerr (New Zealand: University of Otago Press, 2003), 49. 97 Stripped of trees, houses, and other familiar features of the New Zealand landscape, this artwork is described by Brown as culturally “unsettling.” See: Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 21. Even Brasch, friend and supporter of McCahon, wrote, “unfortunately his execution is not equal to his conception.” See: Brasch [28 Oct. 46] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 6. Such claims in regard to execution were to be redolent throughout the following years. 98 Keith describes the isolation from Europe as a “state of mind” as much as it was a physical distance. See: Hamish Keith, “Contemporary Developments,” in An Introduction to New Zealand Painting 1839-1967, by Gordon H. Brown and Hamish Keith (Auckland: Collins, 1969), 167. 99 Green agrees that critics valued art showcasing New Zealand as “a new place, remote from Europe. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 33-34. 100 For example, Buchanan feels that McCahon’s art benefits from being provincial rather than global. She describes it as an “intense PƗkehƗ conversation about the land, place and history.” See: Rachael Buchanan, “Colin McCahon: A Time for Messages,” Arena 52 (2001): 41. 101 Brasch complained in 1947, “public criticism in New Zealand, where it exists, has been worse than useless.” See: Brasch [22 Nov. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 13. 102 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 3. He does feel, however, that although the nineteen-forties were a “hostile years for the creative person,” there was also an “intensity of feeling” in this era that was used by a selected few. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 28. Nevertheless, in this context, McCahon was more commonly criticised for his techniques of representation than celebrated for his unusual vision. Many of McCahon’s early supporters including O’Reilly, McLeavey, Kennedy, Woollaston and Brasch are celebrated for their efforts in the 2011 ‘Behind Closed Doors’ exhibition. These figures are now considered important and useful patrons and friends of New Zealand art. See: Behind Closed Doors, 8ff. 103 This critique is mentioned with notable frequency when discussing McCahon and his audience. Brown explains that Fairburn was highly respected as a “man of distinction” and “culture.” His opinions were important and carried weight. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 3. 104 A.R.D. Fairburn, “Art in Canterbury,” Landfall 2:1 (1948): 49-50. This remark should not be taken as an attack on the spiritual nature of the paintings. Johnston believes that Fairburn’s comments were an attack on McCahon’s “rejection of technical excellence” as opposed to his implementation of religious imagery. See: Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” 101. Nevertheless, this remark is still important as a reflection of the critical disdain for McCahon in his early career. Interestingly, Edmond believes that Fairburn’s insult of “graffiti” was not as terrible as he intended. McCahon wanted to reach all facets of his audience and assumed he was talking to the largest group possible in a vernacular way. See:

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 Martin Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2009), 236. McCahon did not wish to delineate ‘high’ from ‘low’ communication, thus Edmond’s reading is indeed justified. 105 A.R.D. Fairburn to Charles Brasch [4 Dec. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 14. Unsurprisingly, he advised against their publication in Landfall in this same correspondence. 106 Nevertheless, McAloon describes McCahon’s early rejection by critics as “an enduring myth.” He acknowledges that Fairburn’s comments were “memorably dismissive,” but maintains that they were an exception to the critical response that greeted his work. McAloon cites Baxter, J.C. Beaglehole, and Angus as voices who opposed negative responses to the artist. See: William McAloon, “Man of Sorrows,” Te Papa’s Blog, April 9, 2009, accessed July 20, 2011, http://blog.tepapa.govt.nz/2009/04/09/easter-mccahon/. This is not an unreasonable statement. It is easy to dismiss all positivity as a means of emphasising the struggles felt by the artist. Negative reactions may also be read as ultimately useful for establishing McCahon’s notoriety and reputation. Simmons points out how rare it was for an artist to have the amount of critical attention given to McCahon in mid-century New Zealand. He draws our attention to the unprecedented volume of work devoted to McCahon in an art industry that was “devoid of even the most rudimentary structures that might aid any aspiring career-minded artist.” Simmons sees the negative reactions to McCahon as a substantial contribution to his profile. See: Simmons, ““I AM”,” 92. McCahon was not comprehensively hated by his community and negative criticism was not necessarily destructive to his reputation. 107 Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” 108 Brenda Gamble, “Colin McCahon as Colleague and Friend,” Art New Zealand (1977-1978), accessed June 23, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40 /mccahon08bg.htm. 109 Pound, The Space Between, 33. 110 Tertiary art education was also rare in this decade, limiting general understanding. The Elam and Canterbury College of Arts were the main establishments, but were not socially prominent. See: Greg Whitecliffe, “Issues of Multicultural Art Education in New Zealand,” in Beyond Multicultural Art Education: International Perspectives, eds Doug Boughton and Rachel Mason (New York: Waxmann, 1999), 217. 111 Garrity, “Colin McCahon: A Reflection.” 112 Stead, “Colin McCahon,” 87. 113 Ian Prior, Elespie and Ian: Memoire of a Marriage (New Zealand: Steele Roberts, 2006), 72. 114 Garrity, “Colin McCahon: A Reflection.” 115 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 56. 116 Colin McCahon, Frances Hodgkins Paintings and Drawings (Auckland: The Pelorus Press, 1959), 6. 117 Colin McCahon to Charles Brasch [1951] in Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 3. For comparison, McCahon also told Brasch that ‘warmth’ was

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 “the most lacking quality in N.Z. painting.” See: McCahon to Brasch [20 Jul. 53] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 24. 118 Hamish Keith, “Working at the Gallery: A Memoire,” in Towards Auckland, eds Hamish Keith and Jane Davidson (Auckland: Auckland Art Gallery, 2006), 27. 119 Tomory, director of the Auckland Art Gallery during McCahon’s employment, recalls the difficultly of working with the conservative advisory committee who had a blinkered view of contemporary art. Seconding the notion that art must reflect New Zealand to be culturally worthy, Tomory’s 1958 Hiroshima Panels exhibition received no coverage from the press. See: Peter Tomory in Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 18. 120 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 45. 121 Caselberg refers to an artwork titled The Blessed Virgin Compared…, which is probably The Virgin and Child Compared. Caselberg’s title matches the extended inscription on the artwork. This artwork is also from 1948, the same date as Hail Mary. 122 Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” On a connected topic, Pearson explains that many artists of this decade would boast about going to England “but not to come back is desertion, like crashing your way into another class.” See: Pearson, “Fretful Sleepers,” 336. This attitude explains the tension between perceptions of New Zealand as a poor place to practice art, versus resentment felt towards those who moved to Europe in order to better their prospects. 123 In addition, they did not all have a positive relationship with McCahon who was irritated by the cultures in art societies, schools, and dealerships. For example, he was angered in 1949 when the Canterbury Society of the Arts rejected a Hodgkins painting. In retaliation, he called Canterbury Society of the Arts, the School of Art, and the McDougall Gallery “the three tombs of dead art.” See: Colin McCahon, letter to The Press [20 Jun. 49] in Feeney, The Canterbury Society of Arts, 87. 124 Peter Webb in I Am: Colin McCahon, 20.47 – 21.19. 125 Webb in I Am: Colin McCahon, 20.47 – 21.19. 126 Webb in I Am: Colin McCahon, 20.47 – 21.19. 127 Christina Barton, Ground/Work: The Art of Pauline Rhodes (Wellington: Adam Art Gallery/Victoria University Press, 2002), 105. 128 Barry Lett in I Am: Colin McCahon, 40.17. 129 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 64. 130 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 64. 131 Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” 4. 132 Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” 4. 133 Gordon H. Brown, “The Pursuit of Modernism in the 1940s and Early 1950s,” Art New Zealand, accessed September 21, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/ Issues21to30/pursuit.htm. 134 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 15. 135 Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20. 136 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 13. 137 Keith, “Towards Auckland,” 13. He describes the first exhibition of this work as a “watershed in the development of New Zealand painting.” See: Hamish Keith,

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 introduction to Eight New Zealand Artists (Melbourne: National Gallery of Australia, 196-?). Keith speaks of the chasm of modernism that McCahon crossed as of great benefit to New Zealand art, but admits that he may have felt “exposed and isolated” on the other side. See: Keith, “Towards Auckland,” 17. 138 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 91. 139 See, for example, Robert Leonard, “Gordon Walters: Form Becomes Sign,” Art & Australia (2006), accessed November 22, 2010, http://www.artaustralia.com/article.asp?issue_id=176&article_id=77. 140 It is demonstrated in, for example, Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 34ff. 141 W.N. Sheat in Queen Elizabeth II Arts Council of New Zealand, New Zealand Art of the Sixties: A Royal Visit Exhibition (Christchurch: Caxton Press, 1970). 142 In 1968 Young reflected, “it is really only in the last ten years that there has been any significant indication of a modern movement.” This chronology suits the burgeoning acceptability of McCahon’s art. See: Young, “Painting 1950-1967,” 3. 143 Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 53. 144 Hamish Keith, “Hamish Keith Opens Gates and Journeys,” Bulletin of Robert McDougall Art Gallery 56 (1988-1989): 1. 145 Keith, “Hamish Keith Opens Gates and Journeys,” 1. 146 Feeney, The Canterbury Society of Arts, 109. 147 R.H. Stillwell, letter to Christchurch Star [18 Dec. 62] in “Tomorrow Will be the Same But Not as This Is,” Christchurch Art Gallery (2001), accessed August 17, 2009, www.christchurchartgallery.org.nz/Collection/Infosheets/69_142.pdf. 148 McCahon also distrusted foreign art institutions. In 1966 he confessed, “I must admit to awful bitterness and to a hatred of ‘them’.” See: McCahon, “Beginnings,” 364. ‘Them’ in this context being the overseas art world as opposed to Otago Art Society and the New Zealand scene. 149 Grace Joel, Rhona Haszard, Frances Hodgkins, Francis McCracken, Raymond McIntyre, and Owen Merton. 150 Colin McCahon, introduction to Six New Zealand Expatriates (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1962), 5. 151 McCahon, introduction to Six New Zealand Expatriates, 5-6. 152 McCahon, introduction to Six New Zealand Expatriates, 7. 153 Interestingly, in this same decade, Keith argued that Australian art in New Zealand was far better known than New Zealand art was within Australia. Keith believes that artists may have seen New Zealand in this era as “something of a wasteland.” See: Keith, introduction to Eight New Zealand Artists. 154 Burke, “River Deep, Mountain High,” 13. Polytechnics and private art colleges also emerged in this decade. See: Whitecliffe, “Issues of Multicultural Art Education in New Zealand,” 217. 155 Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 29. 156 For an exposition on the uneven reciprocity between the Australian and New Zealand artworlds in McCahon’s era, see: Pamela Zeplin, “Crossing Over: Raising the Ghosts of Tasman-Pacific Art Exchange: ANZART-in-HOBART, 1983,” New Zealand Journal of Media Studies 9:1 (2006).

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Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 27. “Muldoon’s Revenge or Art?,” The Age, March 16, 1978, 12. 159 Rex Butler, “Metaphoric Work of Faith,” Courier Mail, October 20, 2007, accessed July 23, 2009, http://www.couriermail.com.au/entertainment/arts/ metaphoric-work-of-faith/story-e6freqkf-1111114672351. Keith interested the Prime Minister in the bequest by suggesting it would cause Australian experts to defend a New Zealand painting to the Australian public, a concept that amused Muldoon. See: Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 27. 160 Garrity, A Tribute to McCahon, 3. 161 Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 27. Despite the controversy and derisive remarks associated with its gifting to the Australian people, the work is presently regarded as one of the masterpieces of the National Gallery of Australia. See: National Gallery of Australia, “Colin McCahon: A National Gallery of Australia Focus Exhibition,” accessed October 5, 2010, http://nga.gov.au/McCahon/index.cfm. 162 Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 28. 163 Feeney, The Canterbury Society of Arts, 125. 164 Neil Roberts, “A Controversial Purchase,” Bulletin of the Robert McDougall Art Gallery 128 (2002): 28. 165 “McCahon – A Singular Vision,” Bulletin of the Robert McDougall Art Gallery 25 (1983): 2. 166 “McCahon Honoured and Imitated,” 1. 167 “McCahon Honoured and Imitated,” 1. 168 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 1-2. 169 McAloon, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” 65. 170 Gamble, “Colin McCahon as Colleague and Friend.” This mirrors Easton’s accurate view of art history in which “the deviant becomes the conventional vision.” See: Easton, The Nationbuilders, 156. 171 To contextualise, Jim McCahon—the artist’s brother—believes that he looked beyond art as a representative tool. Mimesis was not necessary after the development of photography. See: Jim McCahon in I Am: Colin McCahon, 4.16 – 4.30. McCahon speaks overtly of the “unimportance of the photographic in art,” prioritising instead the use of “poetic imagination” to transform objects represented “into other forms than those which were merely present in appearance.” See: Colin McCahon [1956], production notes for The Glass Menagerie in Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 72. As with many other artists, he painted to inspire thought in people and to raise new ideas. See: Jim McCahon in I Am: Colin McCahon, 4.16 – 4.30. McCahon’s prophetic ambitions and his artistic ambitions are deeply intertwined. 172 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 26. 173 This makes an interesting side-note to the issues of the museum and monetary context of McCahon’s art as presented in ‘McCahon and Religion’. 158

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174 Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 22. He believes McCahon’s sense of purpose and “directed vocation” assisted and sustained the artist. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1. 175 In agreement, Simmons uses the notion of direction to argue that McCahon’s religiosity and “art-world manipulations” were not in opposition. See: Laurence Simmons, ““I AM”: Colin McCahon Genius or Apostle?,” Interstices 7 (2006): 91. 176 McCahon in Centenary Collection, 11. 177 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 170. 178 Tim Garrity to Agnes Wood [1993] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 83-84. 179 McCahon to Brasch [1 Dec. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 13. 180 McCahon stated that “[t]he painter’s life for me was exemplified by the life and work of R.N. Field.” See: McCahon, “Beginnings,” 363. Robert Nettleton Field is remembered as “a quiet man who has never sought publicity and makes the most modest claims for himself.” See: Ross Fraser, “Robert Nettleton Field,” Art New Zealand, accessed January 25, 2012, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues11to20 /field.htm. In addition to ‘direction’, Field is also a likely inspiration for McCahon’s extreme modesty. 181 Barnett, Toss Woollaston, 19. 182 Colin McCahon, “Paintings,” in “Auckland Festival of the Arts: Three Aspects and a Portrait,” Home and Building 8:1 (1955): 47 183 McCahon, “Paintings,” 47. 184 McCahon, “Paintings,” 47. 185 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 26. 186 McCahon, “Paintings,” 47. 187 McCahon to Wood [July 1979] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 120. 188 McCahon to Wood [July 1979] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 120. 189 See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 30. 190 McIvor, “Remembering Colin McCahon,” 99. This fits in with McCahon’s rumination “it may be I like to retain an anonymous position in relation to my work.” See: McCahon to Brasch [5 Jul. 66] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 37. 191 Pound reads this unframed style as a manifestation of McCahon’s commitment to primitivism. He correlates this technique to “raw, unmediated emotion.” See: Pound, The Space Between, 62. 192 McCahon in Centenary Collection, 11. 193 McCahon in I Am: Colin McCahon, 23.49. 194 McCahon in I Am: Colin McCahon, 24.14. 195 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 3. He also agrees that McCahon’s aversion to frames is part of his desire “project out from the windows of paint.” See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 31. 196 McCahon also advised that his students cut expensive framing from their practice. Wood believes this was, in part, due to his previous years of poverty and

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 his desire to support students from less wealthy backgrounds. See: Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 115. 197 Tony Green, “Colin McCahon: ‘Natural Protection’ Barry Lett Galleries,” Arts & Community 7 (1971): 13. 198 Green, “Colin McCahon: ‘Natural Protection’,” 13. 199 Green, “Colin McCahon: ‘Natural Protection’,” 13. Green also argues that a frame would demarcate the images as ‘beautiful’, feeding into McCahon’s avoidance of opulence. 200 McCahon in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 84. 201 Comparably, Jim and Mary Barr explain that their McCahon artworks composed of paper pinned to the wall were too fragile. The Barrs had them framed as a means of preserving the delicate corners. They describe this as “[n]ot something that would have made McCahon very happy but, if they were to survive most owners thought what else was to be done? Stick them down on canvas, that’s what.” They praise the Gow Langsford Gallery’s 2010 display of Rocks in the Sky where the paper artwork was laid on canvas. The Barrs write, “[u]nframed and unglazed as the artist intended, it retains its integrity as an object and refers directly back to the 1970s when it would have been first shown.” See: Jim Barr and Mary Barr, “Lay Me Down,” Over the Net and on the Table, September 10, 2010, accessed February 4, 2011, http://overthenet.blogspot.com/2010/09/lay-medown.html. 202 William McAloon, “Freedom to Act,” Te Papa’s Blog, June 5, 2009, accessed May 11, 2010, http://blog.tepapa.govt.nz/2009/06/05/freedom-to-act/. 203 McCahon in Centenary Collection, 11. 204 Matthew O’Reilly, “Framing McCahon on Steinbach,” Te Papa’s Blog, August 28, 2009, accessed May 12, 2010, http://blog.tepapa.govt.nz/2009/08/28/framingmccahon-on-steinbach. This consideration of frames is also evident in other art institutions. For example, the Adam Art Gallery displayed The Third Bellini Madonna (1961-1962) as part of a 2011 exhibition. The pamphlet distributed at this event draws specific attention to the fact that a professional frame maker owns this artwork. This anonymous owner is praised for having “taken great care to devise a surround for the painting that sensitively responds to its formal appearance. This proves that not all acts of interpretation need take verbal or written form.” See: Behind Closed Doors: New Zealand Art From Private Collections in Wellington (Wellington: Adam Art Gallery, 2011), 10. Here, the idea that framing McCahon is a reinterpretation of his work is implicit. 205 Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification,” 46.

CHAPTER FOUR A FOUNDATION OF SCRIPTURE

Colin McCahon’s Early Religious Paintings create a very literal connection between the events and locations of the Bible and his native soil. McCahon aimed to retell a famous but geographically distant narrative, making it immediate and powerful via the insertion of local faces, landscapes, and buildings.1 In doing so, he attempted to speak out against war and destruction, and to usher in social change that would bring about the Promised Land.2 Importantly, McCahon’s engagement with the Promised Land paradigm begins with a fair amount of optimism. There is a spirit of possibility in his early rendition of this theme, suggesting that change is real and perhaps even imminent. Nevertheless, his focus on grief and stoicism did not successfully communicate his desired rhetorical choices. So too is McCahon’s audience hindered by his ‘ugly’ comic book stylisation. The secular, anti-authoritarian heart of New Zealand culture was a stumbling block for an artist who wished to dictate lessons gleaned from Christian prophesy. The first of the Early Religious Paintings is I Paul to You at Ngatimote (1946).3 The title is a misspelling of ‘Ngatimoti’, a small town on New Zealand’s South Island.4 Ngatimoti is home to a group of Brethren who took a pacifist stance during World War One.5 McCahon’s mother took a similar stand in their hometown of Timaru, making this theme familiar and important to the artist.6 There are hints of conflict in the background, introducing the social issue McCahon addresses. An aeroplane flies overhead and barbed wire is seen below it. In contrast, we are also shown a view of landscape in the right side of the backdrop.7 Paddocks and rivers create a comparison between war and nature. This dichotomy was to become a vital theme of McCahon’s imagery in his attempt to redeem and reform humanity. The aeroplane is also a significant motif within McCahon’s body of work. In addition to its obvious role as a symbol of war, munitions, and technology, McCahon employs the aeroplane as a representation of the human spirit. With its connotations of aerial bombing, this craft suggests that humans are destructive creatures.

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The blending of eras in this image is intended as a direct warning. Biblical prophecy is used to draw attention to the social ills of modern New Zealand. Paul himself stands in the centre of the image. His face appears troubled, with eyes and forehead distorted in an expression of anxiety. His moustached lip forms a dramatic frown, perhaps as a reflection of the conflict depicted. McCahon’s inclusion of a self-portrait positions the artist as part of the same prophetic tradition. He stands behind Paul, apparently unclothed, giving a look of stoic disapproval.8 McCahon wished to communicate his anxiety that World War Two had not brought peace through victory.9 He hoped that his transmission of a modern day ‘letter’ from Paul could reinvigorate New Zealand with an ethos of social betterment. A comparable artwork is the untitled penultimate image from Fifteen Drawings for Charles Brasch (1951-1952). Within it, a figure who is likely to be McCahon supports an unconscious Christ who wears the crown of thorns from his crucifixion. Despite the spiritual majesty of appearing with Christ, McCahon is dressed in a singlet: a humble, working class garment. This implies that art and prophecy are a laborious, as opposed to a glorious, task. This was in keeping with the humble spirit of the era. Peter Beilharz and Lloyd Cox explain “the myth of egalitarianism and a classless society became incorporated into … the very fabric of New Zealand’s dominant PƗkehƗ nationalism.”10 By dressing himself in a simplistic and unpretentious manner, McCahon speaks in the language of the Nationalist Movement.11 This is necessary, as his holy pose could easily be read as a manifestation of self-aggrandisement as opposed to a reflection of his desire to assist. The Valley of Dry Bones (1947) correlates McCahon with Ezekiel, another Biblical prophet. Although the narrative in this artwork is taken directly from scripture, the portrait of Ezekiel looks almost identical to that of McCahon in the previous images. Again, his personal resonance with prophets is made explicit. The Judeo-Christian mythology McCahon references concerns the power of prophecy. According to this narrative, God took Ezekiel into the desert where he saw a valley full of human bones. God commanded him to speak prophecy unto the dried corpses. True to God’s word, the bones grew sinew and re-formed into skeletons. Ezekiel was told to prophesy unto the wind, which filled the lungs of the dead and brought them to life.12 This story is focused upon the idea of optimism and rejuvenation. God gave hope to his people, claiming that they will inherit Israel and prosper through his will. McCahon re-enacts this drama amidst the hills of New Zealand, hoping for his own cultural regeneration. He delivers a pathway from malaise and

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demise into the Promised Land, just as Ezekiel and the Jewish people were promised the re-formation of their temple.13 This was a relevant concept in McCahon’s post-World War II context. New Zealand was a great distance from the battlefields, yet tens of thousands of soldiers had been sent there and slaughtered.14 By collapsing this post-war horror into a Biblical account of a slain army, McCahon emphasises the power of the prophet to give life to his people in the wake of their near-destruction. The Valley of Dry Bones functions as a modern political statement, aiming to reconcile a recent wave of death from battle and to use prophecy as a tool of reconstruction. Considering the common conflation between war sacrifice and nationalism, it is interesting that McCahon does not glorify this slaughter. This emphasises the pacifistic heart of his nationalist vision. In addition to the presence of prophetic self-portraits, McCahon’s Early Religious Paintings also introduce recurrent symbolism such as Christ as the source of illumination. Associated ideas, including water as a cleansing symbol, reappear in artworks like the Waterfalls series. An important example of this is A Candle in a Dark Room (1947), which points to the poet James K. Baxter as a fellow New Zealand prophet and correlates him with Christ.15 This painting is a direct response to meeting the young Baxter who McCahon found interesting and exciting in a spiritual sense.16 The artwork contains bold, geometric forms with its handwritten title dominating the upper-half of the canvas. A candle throws off a pyramid of light and darkness.17 It is a work dealing, quite literally, with the illumination of prophecy; this time linked to Baxter’s personal, spiritual luminescence. This symbol of a light in the dark is a confession of the spiritual and creative turmoil that must be suffered when seeking to express a radical vision. The connected imagery of Christ as a lamp or ‘light of the world’ is carried on in McCahon’s subsequent works such as Crucifixion (For Rodney Kennedy) (1947), Crucifixion, With Lamp (1947), The Virgin and Child Compared (1948),18 Christ as a Lamp (1948), and Virgin and Child as a Lamp (1950). In these paintings, there is a clear correlation between the light of the lamp and Christ’s life. The lamp is extinguished as Christ dies. Brown believes that as the lamp of Christ sheds its light, so too does the body of Christ shed its blood in sacrifice.19 The two symbols are purposefully blurred to show the potential congruence of physical and spiritual radiance. These works, alongside A Candle in a Dark Room bind McCahon, Baxter, and Christ together to emphasise the perceived universality of their vision for humanity. Through this merger of symbols, McCahon combines the illuminating qualities of a close friend, the image of a shining lamp, and the spiritual light of Christ.

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In 1972 McCahon overtly stated, “[a]ll the people in my paintings are friends.”20 He associated acquaintances with Biblical characters and events, trying to imagine “who would have been there doing that at a particular time.”21 Nevertheless, he does specify that none of his artworks in this category are intended as actual portraits of these people. Instead, he uses them as life models.22 A prime example of this recasting is the character of Mary, who was a popular subject for McCahon and highlights his Catholic-inspired perspective. A commonly employed face of Mary was McCahon’s neighbour, Majorie Naylor.23 She appears in works such as Marge as the Virgin Mary at Maitai Valley (1946), and two sketches of 1947. This work transposes Mary from the actual landscape of the Bible and places her in a Nelson suburb.24 She is crafted in a simplified, downcast shape sharing the orange and ochre yellow of her landscape. The raw, earthy colours blend this Biblical figure into the palate of New Zealand.25 This grim and austere stylisation of Mary and the New Zealand landscape continued into The Marys at the Tomb (1950). McCahon places Mary within a bleak, empty, liminal zone: half ancient Biblical world, half modern New Zealand. McCahon described the Otago backdrop26 of The Marys at the Tomb as “windswept, eroded, and austere.”27 It is as a dramatic and powerful locale, evoking the Biblical wilderness into which God’s people were cast before they reached the Promised Land. McCahon saw Otago as a calm and cold place, similar to the imagined Egyptian landscape of his seminal vision.28 The presentation of this stark scenery feeds into McCahon’s desired eschewal of the touristic gaze. Its spiritual intensity comes from its asceticism. McCahon, perhaps unfairly, criticised Pieter Brueghel for not telling his audience anything other than the “nice things” that happen in a “time and place.”29 He complained that the artist does not “tell you about more lasting things.”30 In avoiding these niceties in The Marys at the Tomb, McCahon is able to focus upon a sense of eternity and to dislocate the narrative from a specific temporal and geographical location.31 The landscape presented is one of metaphor and sacred duality.32 McCahon’s most intense use of familiar faces is Crucifixion: the Apple Branch (1950). The painting contains McCahon, his wife, and his son William witnessing the crucifixion as it unfolds in a dual landscape of Canterbury and Nelson.33 William believes that his father “reported” on domestic problems through autobiographical artworks such as this.34 The painting shows the separation of McCahon’s family as a result of various hardships.35 Reflecting its profundity, McCahon considered this work too personal to exist in the public eye.36 Although it was exhibited once in a

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1950 The Group exhibition, Brown believes McCahon hid it thereafter, going so far as to withhold it completely from Bieringa’s complied list of early religious works.37 Because this work was not created with McCahon’s usual audience in mind, it cannot be considered a public statement from the artist. Nevertheless, McCahon employs important symbolic elements that help to illuminate his use of the Bible and approach to narrative in this era. Biblical motifs, generally relating to the story of the McCahon family, abound. The unclothed family are located in Eden with a fecund apple tree. The work is thus divided into Old and New Testaments. The apple tree speaks of the fall, while the crucifixion and thirteen skulls represent the story of Christ and his disciples. There are also thirteen apples on the branch, which may refer to the proposed thirteen tribes of Israel. William McCahon believes that numerological messages can be found in the geometric divisions of the land. McCahon’s use of shape denotes God the divine (in the shape of the circle)38 and God the man (as Jesus hanging on the cross).39 Introducing another major theme across McCahon’s body of work, the suffering of Christ is used as a representation of the artist’s emotions. William McCahon believes that “Colin has called to Christ in his own misery.”40 There is a profound sense of empathy between the two prophets. The Angel of the Annunciation (1947) depicts a female angel telling Mary that she will give birth to the Son of God.41 In keeping with McCahon’s parochial intent, this piece shows the Tahunanui Golf Club House in the background.42 McCahon’s choice employs a popular, contemporary hobby and in a region that would be familiar to his perceived audience.43 The clubhouse already exists in the collective imagination as a site of community and communion. Many audience members would also be familiar with the long tradition of visual representations of the annunciation. Nevertheless, there is dissonance between these themes within McCahon’s visual rhetoric. It is unusual that such mythologies should be depicted within modern New Zealand.44 Considering the frequent appearance of McCahon’s contemporaries in his Biblical scenes, it is clear that the Early Religious Paintings are representations of dual eras. Coley describes these figures as people who could have just come from driving tractors or making scones.45 These are unlikely subjects for a scene of Christ’s passion, yet their inclusion seeks to make the event immediate and ‘real’.46 To understand this duality of eras, it is useful to examine McCahon’s approach to painting a scene. McCahon did not seek a simple representation

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of his surrounds. He claims to have painted a memory of time and experience linked to a location rather than a traditional portrait of a place.47 McCahon approaches location through a veil of memory to extract the important emotional and experiential details of the landscape. He values the idea of place, and the element of humanity in the understanding of land. McCahon chooses to paint his friends and family in Biblical scenes because this familiarity encourages a greater sense of engagement with the land and the story.48 He suggests that anyone can have a sacred experience on his or her local turf, anyone can be present at the tomb of Christ, and anyone can listen and learn from the warnings and morality of the Christian sacred text.49 These events and messages are as relevant in Nelson and Otago in the middle of the twentieth century as they are in their native place and time. In a nationalistic context, this act strives to validate the importance of New Zealand and the paramount position it should have in the imagination and worldview of its citizens.50 In this mode of representation, McCahon employs small, local details to bring in an underlying sense of familiarity. For example, Simpson notes his occasional use of such devices as arum lilies.51 These lilies appear in Hail Mary (1948).52 In the context of McCahon’s artwork, the lilies refer to the chastity of Mary and the angel who told her that she would conceive the Son of God. Caselberg describes their tripartite form as a representation of the Holy Trinity.53 They also speak of the purity and goodness of living things such as the rural New Zealand scene behind the angels. Because the annunciation is typically recalled as having happened inside, the countryside is a purposeful statement.54 Gabriel, or a female equivalent, appears to present the lilies as a sacred gift of knowledge expressed in the form of white flowers. Caselberg writes: [t]he purity of this picture reflects an Immaculate Conception by which Mary would give birth to those virtues which if any can—surely must redeem western civilisation, although they may be only rarely realized yet: of the brotherhood of mankind; of living humbly rather than in luxury; of non-retaliation to violence, even verbal; of ‘loving kindness fully blown’; of serving and suffering for others instead of for ourselves.55

These are certainly ‘virtues’ that McCahon wished to bring about. He hoped that his painting would be a site of action that could literally summon these changes for the redemption of humanity. Here Mary acts as a totem of purity and as a call to realise Biblically inspired messages in the here and now.

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McCahon’s Promised Land The Promised Land56 (1948) is a highly important artwork within McCahon’s oeuvre, as it clearly reveals his own contribution to the descriptor of ‘prophet’ that has dominated his reception.57 The painting shows an array of optimistic symbols affirming the essential positivity of McCahon’s early vision. An angel hovers above the hills, represented only by a face in a halo of blue. The Promised Land is represented as a glimpse of New Zealand’s Golden Bay.58 McCahon emphasises the symbols of the pitcher and candle, which represent the Virgin and Christ. In this context, they act as keepers to the gateway of the Promised Land and suggest divine clarification and illumination.59 Unlike his later pieces dealing with Moses and the Promised Land, this image is imbued with hope and enthusiasm. Quaker aesthetics assisted in McCahon’s approach to this painting.60 Quaker texts such as the Book of Discipline contain an affirmation of silence, simplicity, and focus. These qualities have been extrapolated into a practical set of aesthetics that generally encourages ‘plainness’ in design. Through this system, truth and vanity are dichotomised.61 McCahon’s simplicity of form and focused self-portrait suits this method of austerity as a counterpoint to spiritually problematic decadence.62 Decadent religious representations are also eschewed via the figurative style McCahon adopts in The Promised Land. Pound feels that McCahon adopted these naïve forms to “reject European sophistication” by employing the “harsh clarity” of ‘primitive’ and juvenile representation.63 So too does this imply a juvenile nation ready to develop its own culture. This artwork provides a clear example of how the search for the Promised Land is intertwined with The Nationalist Project. Despite the lofty role of prophet,64 McCahon manages to avoid selfglorification in his portrait. He once again wears a simple, working class singlet. He depicts himself with a workman’s hut by the side of the Takaka Hill.65 The idea of a working class66 prophet suits the valorisation of effort over hereditary social status. This also has sympathy with Christ’s teaching presented in Matthew 13:57, “A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country, and in his own house.” Congruently, the sombre and serious expression on the face of McCahon’s self-portrait suggests that he approaches his self-perceived prophetic role with a stoic and humble nature. This early treatment of McCahon’s Promised Land shows a clear attitude of labouring towards his goal of an enlightened New Zealand.67 McCahon presents a sense of immediacy in The Promised Land. He suggests the Promised Land can happen here and now, not relegated to a distant Biblical event or metaphysical state of being.68 At this point,

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McCahon saw the Promised Land as something tangible and achievable through a spiritual appreciation of local geography and respectful usage of the land. It is also interesting to note that this artwork is contemporaneous with the creation of the modern Nation of Israel. McCahon may have been inspired by this present-day affirmation of the Promised Land, giving him hope that a similar event could happen in the modern era.

The Problem of Naïvety and Audience Reception McCahon’s naïvety and primitivism was an attempt to present a foundational myth for New Zealand, and to communicate this myth in the clearest manner possible. In the nineteen-forties, the New Zealand art community desired to constitute their own model of self-representation influenced by the Nationalist Project. Pound calls their vision “that of a strong, vigorous, and pre-sophisticated youth.”69 In agreement, Curnow sees the cartoon style McCahon employs here as a signifier of cultural innocence, the recognition of corruption, and a condition of social renewal. He points out the blank, childish looks of McCahon’s cartoon figures. This, Curnow suggests, is an expression of “deep inward faith.”70 McCahon’s version of faith could not, however, rest upon a European mode of depicting piety and devotion. Instead, these artworks function as dramatic, immediate, and confrontational objects with a fresh vision of religiosity for an emergent nation. McCahon sought to instigate a reimagining of New Zealand after World War II, aiming to usher in a new Promised Land.71 The simplicity of the comic or cartoon style employed by McCahon is also a communication device on account of its familiarity and directness. Despite his lofty religious subject matter, McCahon offers a simple and unpretentious representative style.72 McCahon was required to use easily accessible material to convey his message to the often-unreceptive artworld of the mid-nineteen-forties and beyond.73 He was also deeply concerned with humility in art. This humble style and visual austerity harkens to the road signs and blackboards that he considered to be such excellent communicative devices. For example, McCahon was pleased with Crucifixion With Lamp because it “has a part of the beauty of those painted signs outside the sideshow tents at the Summer Show.”74 He shows an interest in techniques that are honest, simple, and bare. Revealingly, Brown recounts how McCahon was wary of “stylishness” and its “distracting charms.”75 His aesthetic choices were always made in service of his visual rhetoric and communicative aims.76 By denying himself the skills that “conventionally define the artistic abilities of a

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mature painter,” Brown believes McCahon was able to paint at the limits of the art object, eschewing the modern aesthetic for his own message.77 In doing so, he was able to create an impression of himself as a humble painter and emphasise the humility of his Biblical subjects.78 Unfortunately, these visual rhetorical choices were flawed, as there was a fundamental incompatibility between McCahon’s technique and prevailing audience taste of the era. Although his rough stylisation was designed to communicate a specific message, this rhetorical choice actually interfered with the act of communication that it was meant to aid. In his prophetic paintings for mid-century New Zealand, McCahon did manage to find supporters and a modest audience for his message. For example, McCahon’s friend Caselberg refers to these works as visionary and impassioned.79 He saw them as representations of human activity “in terms of New Testament compassion.”80 This shows an understanding of McCahon’s fraternal desires. Celebrating McCahon’s refusal to reject or critique the grand narrative, Hubert Witheford believes he successfully negotiated the problem of employing “religious motifs without some suggestion of falseness of presumption.”81 Here his direct honesty is praised. Some audience members found the Early Religious Works intense and provocative in a manner that was appropriate for their content. For example, O’Reilly called Crucifixion According to St Mark “awful and terrible” in the “nearly lost sense of those terms,” by no means intending for his comment to be pejorative.82 Comparatively, Woollaston sees the lack of consciously constructed appeal in McCahon’s images as a manifestation of their tragic element. He argues that deliberate appeal to the audience would be an “abuse of their trust” considering the sombre theme of these Biblical narratives.83 Keith has been a long-term admirer of McCahon. He first experienced Marys at the Tomb at age fourteen.84 Keith recalls his trouble and fascination in reconciling familiar Biblical stories with the local landscape, describing this as his “first encounter with Colin McCahon’s Promised Land.”85 Reflecting the intensity of the artwork’s content, Keith recalls this as an epiphany that sparked his love for art.86 More recently Keith has called the Early Religious Paintings “crude, even brutal,” but celebrates their “compelling intensity.”87 This intensity of content and form has proven exciting for many modern viewers. Peter Calder speaks proudly of “the glowering hillsides; the melting, aching faces.”88 Bloem recalls a conversion to McCahon’s style. She initially found I Paul to you at Ngatimote “particularly ugly,” but was haunted by the image. Bloem eventually came to appreciate its “power beyond beauty.”89

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Several Biblical scholars have been pleased with McCahon’s reinvigoration of these ancient stories and figures. Forman goes so far as to state that I Paul To You at Ngatimoti achieves what Pauline scholars have been attempting to do for centuries. He celebrates the recontextualisation of Paul in this local environment to “tease out the significance of his message for a specific locale.”90 On this note, Mark Williams celebrates McCahon’s “ordinary” renditions of the Virgin and Christ. He sees them as a manifestation of a necessary and desirable process of revaluation for the Catholic Church.91 The human core of McCahon’s vision is paramount to this praise. Also evoking the necessity for re-evaluation, Joanna Margaret Paul sees McCahon’s reinvigoration of Mary as a necessary antidote to religious kitsch, sentimentality, and church-endorsed injustices. She believes that the church needs an artist/poet to carry on this task. Paul asks that such an entrepreneur “[r]ewrite the image of the Virgin Mary as scriptural earthly fertile ordinary” as “Colin McCahon did it.”92 Although these comments are relatively recent, they show that McCahon’s desire to communicate a very direct and humble vision of the Christian scriptures retains the potential to reinvigorate perceptions of faith and identity. Attitudes towards McCahon’s Early Religious Paintings are not, however, universally positive. Revealingly, Brasch’s poem ‘I Think of Your Generation’ calls these paintings: … an outrage to all whose comfort trembles Hollow against such vision of light upon darkness.93

As these remarks convey, McCahon’s contemporary audience were often shocked or confronted by the naïve stylisation of these images and the overt religious themes contained therein. For example, McCahon’s first major solo exhibition at the Wellington Central Library in 1948 is recounted by Brown as a baptism of fire. He believes that McCahon optimistically produced the Early Religious Works as a communicative statement for the public. He was then “caught off guard by the hostile response of many viewers who saw nothing of the reality he had sought to convey.”94 Echoing this, Green remarks on the perceived “sheer badness of his anti-style” that rudely greeted viewers of McCahon’s 1948 paintings.95 Also in 1948, Howard Wadman wrote to McCahon, asking: whether you feel the deliberate unsophistication of your style is finally satisfying, or whether this is a device to be used merely until your drawing catches up with the grandeur of your conception.96

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This suggests that naïve stylisation was intrinsically linked with developing talent; that it was something an artist ‘grew out of’. Reflecting a similar disapproval of his style, O’Reilly recalls a popular story in which the army deemed McCahon colour blind.97 While this may be no more than an urban legend, it betrays a view of McCahon as somehow inept in terms of base artistic skill.98 In an attempt to explain these reactions, Woollaston feels that McCahon’s paintings “make no overtures to the public, no effort to be charming or appealing.”99 They lack the grandiloquent, pleasing style commonly expected of devotional art in the Western Christian tradition. Although critics and fellow artists such as Coley believe that the “clumsiness and rawness” of McCahon’s art clothes a rigorous and careful construction,100 many audience members have clearly been confronted by the comic book forms who enact his Biblical scenes. On one level, this can be seen as a reaction against the ‘improper’ employment of words in an artwork. They are seen to violate or debase the nature of a painting, and have also been read as a reflection of poor communicative skills. Concerning the former vexation, Brown believes that McCahon’s use of written communication was hard for his audience to accept as it implied that text in an artwork could have an intrinsic meaning, rather than simply existing as visual imagery. Brown also argues that the conventions of the High Renaissance still coloured viewer expectations in this era, meaning that writing and painting were commonly perceived as two very different media.101 Although modernism was increasingly present and acceptable, this framework imposed “the neutrality of formalized lettrism.”102 Brown explains that the coupling of visual imagery with written words “appeared to many as a gross distortion of the intrinsic purity that properly belonged to painting as a distinct form of art.”103 This violation was especially problematic when considering the implied purity of the subject matter. Refinement of artistic form is often, albeit unfairly, correlated to refinement of character and message. For example, John Summers considers McCahon’s speech bubbles a reflection of undeveloped communicative skills. He remarks: The words issuing from the mouths of some of Colin McCahon’s figures (after the manner of comic strips) reinforce my feeling that the artist has not packed his total meaning into the chosen medium of paint. Writing seems to me as out of place here as the twittering of birds in a pastoral symphony.104

This comic style also implies that McCahon’s art may be somehow degenerate. Brown explains how the idea of ‘good taste’ in art is often

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linked to social graces and traditional values – notions of connoisseurship.105 The Early Religious Works earned McCahon a reputation as purposefully clumsy in his human representation. In his attempt to make his works readable and relevant, McCahon received criticism for being too colloquial and unrefined.106 His audience were at odds with the nationalist drive away from the refined technical qualities of the Italian High Renaissance.107 The communicative dimensions of his written rhetoric were also of concern. Messaris poses the question of whether or not visual arguments need captions to be understood.108 His ultimate conclusion is that, “precisely because of its presumed lack of propositional properties, visual communication has an element of deniability that is absent from words.”109 Whilst McCahon may have been able to broaden understanding of his religious ideas by including written rhetoric in his works, these verbal elements made his evangelical content even clearer and more confronting. Discomfort caused by McCahon’s provocative content and style is not limited to this era. For example, in 2009 Edmond described McCahon’s Early Religious Works as “awkward and raw ... they are ourselves in ways we perhaps do not wish to recognise.”110 Significant attention is still given to decrying the paintings as worthless, talentless, or suspicious rather than engaging with their intended message. Take, for example, web forum disapproval of the “awful primary school level paintings by Colin McCahon.”111 Another forum post quips, “[t]hat people are prepared to pay huge sums for childish daubs indicates how completely bankrupt most of the ‘art’ scene really is.”112 Here, McCahon’s work is dismissed as juvenile, and no attempt is made to engage with his message. Another reason why McCahon’s early shows were so provocative is the conflict between his evangelical imagery and secular society.113 In 1948, the Christian writer Summers celebrated the way in which McCahon’s Early Religious Paintings “reveal spirituality where polite society does not expect to find it.”114 Although this is complimentary, it illuminates the perceived rudeness of McCahon’s religious content. Indeed, Oliver believes that McCahon’s didactic imagery is “without conventional reticence.”115 Reception of McCahon’s art is hampered by the schism between his desire to introduce Christian religiosity into everyday life in New Zealand and a large portion of his audience’s unwillingness to engage with these unorthodox, confronting ideas. There was a notable disagreement between religious art and modern art in this era. Summers, writing in a religious magazine, provides an interesting perspective on these politics of representation. He believes the

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nineteen-forties were an era in which “the religious man stands comparatively unsupported by contemporary art.”116 Summers praised McCahon as someone “trying to pick up the threads of a broken tradition.”117 From the overtly Christian viewpoint of Summers, one may observe the incongruity of McCahon’s more brash religious lessons in a society with a spirit of secularity, coupled with an appreciation of the mimetic rather than the symbolic. Although McCahon’s visual rhetoric is often categorised as broadly spiritual in the present day, some descriptions of the artist’s work characterise him as a mad Christian. He is accused of “syrupy mysticism”118 and suffers under the cliché of “a dour god botherer.”119 Though she is a fan of McCahon and means her comments in a positive light, Buchanan states: Just as a reader imagines what a favourite author looks like, I had imagined my own Colin McCahon. He would have a beard and slightly crazy eyes. He would wear a gigantic pair of wooden rosary beads.120

This alarming image epitomises McCahon’s perceived religious fervour as felt by his present day secular audience, primarily as a result of the comfortingly evangelical Christian content expressed in the Early Religious Paintings and their intense brand of visual rhetoric. McCahon has also failed to win over a significant Christian audience. Theological blogger Orchard provides an accurate analysis that “the cultural elite deny his Christianity as an embarrassment, the religious elite deny him as an embarrassment.”121 McCahon’s artworks contain Christian themes that speak of uncomfortable religious action, rendered in crude and striking forms. They are confronting, arguably ugly, and bring forward thoughts of death, crucifixion, and struggles with faith.122 Brasch admitted McCahon’s religious paintings “are disturbing meaning that they raise a whole series of questions which most of us spend our lives avoiding, therefore we tend to turn away from them.”123 Coley agrees that McCahon’s art might be upsetting as his Biblical scenes are most often associated with human fragility, suffering, and sin as opposed to “the more joyous expressions of religion.”124 The grief-stricken faces of The Marys at the Tomb and McCahon’s stoic renditions of the prophets epitomise this intense and unlikeable tone. Indeed, Baxter feels that McCahon’s Early Religious Works offend Christians who want to “forget Christ on weekdays” due to their content of terror and suffering that may come across as blasphemous or morbid.125 McCahon has indeed been criticised for blasphemy due to his rendition of the Christian faith in the vernacular of soap packets and comic books.126

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Many audience members fail to realise that McCahon’s symbolism comes from a genuine engagement with the Bible and Christianity.127 Brasch, for example, felt uneasy with his friend’s employment of Christian symbols, stating, “[a]ll these recent religious subjects seem to me exploratory & transitional: I can never be sure whether you are just ‘using’ the subjects, or whether you have to paint them. I do not think they ought to be ‘used’.”128 He went on to complain that Crucifixion With Lamp was “ugly & rather repulsive. I believe most people who saw the Group show thought the same.”129 Even Summers was vexed with the “crude craftsmanship” that he saw as a reflection of New Zealand’s “uncouth spirituality.”130 Summers was concerned that the oversimplification of forms may draw too much attention to themselves and thus prevent viewers from entering into the tragedy of the crucifixion narrative “as easily as we should.”131 While McCahon meant for his simplification to be a democratic device, bringing Christianity into the popular realms of communication, it may as easily be perceived as an offensive profanation of the holy. Naïve technique has clearly been a problem for many different categories of viewer.

Conclusion The tension between audience response and McCahon’s intent is clear. The Early Religious Paintings are testament to McCahon’s 1939 aim to connect God and land for the sake of peace.132 McCahon’s parochial rendition of the Bible is intended as a way of showing New Zealanders that the text can be meaningful and engaging within their lives. His visual rhetoric is intended as a means of combatting the distance created between local landscape and scripture when a tradition is imported as opposed to indigenous. His use of the Bible as a means of reporting on personal anxieties epitomises McCahon’s view of the scripture as a living, immediate text. Nevertheless, McCahon’s Early Religious Paintings have been more readily observed as an affront to secular culture than as an example of how Christianity can function within one’s life and sense of national identity. His audience also appear to miss the message of pacifism within these artworks. So too is there a lack of engagement with his vision of working towards the Promised Land. McCahon shows us hints of a peaceful theology with nature presented as an opposing force to war. Christ, depicted as a figure of illumination, is connected with the landscape in a manner that connotes a sense of transcendent peace amidst the darkness of

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a post-war nation. There is little evidence to suggest that this theme has been instructive or even observed.

Notes  1

Linda Tyler suggests that McCahon’s foray into figures in the landscape may have been a response to his shared project with Anne, Pictures for Children, for which he provided the backdrops. See: Linda Tyler, “I Did Not Want to be Mrs Colin: Anne & Colin McCahon,” in Between The Lives: Partners in Art, ed. Deborah Shepard (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2005), 42-43. Although these images had a juvenile audience in mind, Martin Edmond was filled “with childhood anxiety” over the unresolved mysteries of perspective in a Pictures for Children print that hung in his bedroom. According to Edmond, this picture contained the same hills that were repeated in image such as Takaka Night and Day (1948). Edmond also notes other symbols including gates, aeroplanes, and beams of light, which appear in McCahon’s mature output. He remarks that even in the ordinary imagery there was a touch of fascinating exotica. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 3ff. 2 McCahon’s aims have congruence with the Australian poet A.D. Hope’s project of revivifying classic myths in a new context, and Australian artists such as Boyd whose pacifistic project also included the recontextualisation of mythologies (including the crucifixion) in his homeland. 3 Mark Forman believes it is appropriate that McCahon began with Paul, as he is credited with shaping and spreading Christianity after Christ. Here he is shown “in solidarity with McCahon’s own people.” See: Mark Forman, The Politics of Inheritance in Romans (United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 229. 4 Perhaps this misspelling is an attempt to give the name a Greek ending to accord with the nomenclature of the New Testament. This name translates to ‘place of Timothy’. It is likely that this feeds into McCahon’s theme of Biblical references. Indeed, Mossman believes that the setting of Ngatimoti “deliberately reminds us of Paul’s letters to Timothy, beginning ‘I Paul to…’.” See: Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 5 Peter J. Lineham, There We Found Brethren: A History of Assemblies of Brethren in New Zealand (Palmerston North: GPH Society, 1977), 17. The New Zealand Brethren Treasury magazine first dealt with the question of pacifism in 1900, during the Boer War. During the First World War it espoused the idea of acting as citizens of a heavenly country and respecting the Germans as a group of people dear to God. Many adherents to the faith were forced to deal with conflicting attitudes of themselves as both members of a peaceful faith and members of a society at war. See: Lineham, There We Found Brethren 156-157. 6 Ethel McCahon publically declared that New Zealanders should not be sent off to fight in Europe. Her brother, Colin Ferrier, was killed in Ypres. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 29. 7 Comparisons can also be made to wartime images such as A.R. Betteridge’s 1918 cover design for Kia-ora Cooee. This image, with its aircraft and paddocks, looks

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 as though it could be a view down on to McCahon’s I Paul to You at Ngamote landscape. 8 Interestingly, Lusk describes it as a haunting self-portrait and prophecy of the future. She believes that McCahon came to resemble the image of Paul in the later portion of his life, after he was beset by illness. See: Lusk, “Doris Lusk Remembers Colin McCahon,” 3. 9 See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 125. 10 Peter Beilharz and Lloyd Cox, “Nations and Nationalism in Australia and New Zealand,” in The SAGE Handbook of Nations and Nationalism, eds Gerard Delanty and Krishan Kumar (London: Sage, 2006), 561. 11 The singlet is a relatively generic representation of the modern working class. In addition to this, it has special overtones as a specifically New Zealand symbol. The black singlet in particular is associated with labourers in rural New Zealand, especially men. This motif turns up in artworks such as Nigel Brown’s The Black Singlet (1982). It has also been immortalised as a national symbol by inclusion in graphic design such as the 1994 New Zealand Post stamp set titled ‘Kiwiana’. One stamp includes the singlet and gumboots as representations of local manual labourers – an essential symbol of the nation. This outfit would have also been worn by shearers, forming a potential connection to the story of Christ via the motif of the modern shepherd. 12 See: Ezekiel 37 13 Ezekiel is also popularly associated with the Tau, as it is believed to be the mark he placed upon the righteous who lamented sin to save them from slaughter in Ezekiel 9:4. Albert Mackey makes this connection in his encyclopaedia of Freemasonry, as do numerous popular Biblical commentators from the Nineteenth Century (and thereafter) such as Patrick Fairbairn. This connection to the Tau is interesting considering McCahon’s personal attachment to the symbol. 14 See, for example, Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 19. 15 This painting was initially dated to 1943. Brown had his only serious argument with McCahon over the date of this work. McCahon was adamant that the 1943 date was accurate and a reflection of his first meeting with Baxter. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 4. For an account of the emended date, see: Peter Simpson, “McCahon in 1947-48: A New Date, A ‘Lost’ Exhibition and Some Letters,” Art New Zealand 100 (2001). 16 McCahon describes his work as a portrait of “Jim B.” and as a representation of a time and place named as 1947. See: Colin McCahon to Malcolm Ross [March 1972]. 17 Brown shows a direct correlation to the candle in Picasso’s 1945 Pitcher, Candle and Casserole. He also declares it an example of McCahon’s ability to choose idioms from contemporary art that could bestride “the regressive norms of New Zealand painting.” See: Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 34. Brown believes this darkness represents: “the dark forces of the imagination that troubled both poet and painter and from whence their dark angel urged them on in their creative passions, yet scoffed at any lack of faith.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 30.

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18 McCahon compares the Christ child to a lamp and the Virgin to a jug of water. This water symbolism was also used for his wife, Anne. This provides another link to the Biblical recasting of family and friends. See: William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch,” 10-11. The Face of Mary was inspired by Anna Magnani. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 39. 19 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 43. He also writes that the lamp is “a symbol of God’s mysterious wisdom to the faithful.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 42. The notion of ‘mysteries’ in the theological sense will be taken up in the chapter ‘Gates and Waterfalls’. 20 He would sketch faces he observed at the weekly Dunedin organ recital, and was especially taken by the large nose of a neighbour in Mapua who features heavily in artworks of this era. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 5. Interestingly, McCahon did not consider his use of Anne McCahon’s face a portrait and did not wish for it to be referred to as such. See: McCahon to Ross [March 1972]. 21 McCahon in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 38. 22 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 6. McCahon explains that The Family is an exception to this statement and should be considered as a portrait. 23 Luit Bieringa, “There is Only One Direction…,” Art New Zealand (1977-1978), accessed June 18, 2009, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/mccahon08lb .htm. Brown spells her name as “Margery Naylor.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 38. 24 Luit Bieringa describes such backdrops as “the bare bones of a Nelson hillside or valley, they contained the surface setting for the re-enactment of the Passion, austere and prophetic.” See: Bieringa, “There is Only One Direction…” Marge as the Virgin Mary at Maitai Valley certainly contains this austerity. 25 In this vein, it is useful to consider McCahon’s sketch Peninsular Landscape with Lamp (c.1946). Had this Otago Peninsular experimentation come to full fruition, it would have been McCahon’s very first use of the lamp within the landscape of New Zealand. A cross stands beside the radiant symbol. McCahon makes a clear attempt to position these imported symbols of Western Christianity and illumination into his local landscape. 26 Although this artwork was painted while McCahon was living in Christchurch, it is based on McCahon’s memories of Wakari in Dunedin. He fondly remembers features of this landscape such as the way the tree line interacted with the horizon. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 5. His only negative comment is “[n]o doubt this landscape profile has now vanished,” a reference to his environmentalist concerns over the temporality of the natural world under human care. 27 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 20. 28 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 363; Charles Brasch had comparable ideas, comparing his visual experience of Palestine to Central Otago. See: Brasch in Easton, The Nationbuilders, 151. Interestingly, A review of the Otago Rail Trail states “[o]ut here amongst gnawed hills and druid stones, it’s easy to see how painter Colin McCahon had visions of angels and an Egyptian god.” See: “Travel: Cycling the

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 Otago Rail Trail,” Sunday Star Times, March 3, 2009, accessed May 18, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/sunday-star-times/entertainment/1753207. 29 McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 70. 30 McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 70. 31 In regard to The Promised Land and its dual landscapes of Golden Bay and the Takaka Hills, Pound argues McCahon abandons “mere geographical fact … in the interest of a higher, more encompassing truth.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 16. A similar occurrence may be observed in many of McCahon’s Early Religious Paintings. 32 Johnson agrees that there is a duality of pessimism and optimism. On one hand, the scene is “arid, ungoverned and raped.” Conversely, it is “nature created in the glory of god, delivering transcendence.” See: Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 195. 33 William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch,” 10. Dual landscapes were employed in several paintings of this era, many of which are mentioned in this chapter. These landscapes are often indicated in bubbles dividing the frame, clearly demonstrated in Artworks such as Hill Landscape with Inset (c. 1947). 34 William McCahon in Linda Herrick, “Looking Back in Anger: Colin McCahon’s Family Portrait,” New Zealand Herald, August 30, 2002, accessed February 15, 2011, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/arts/news/article.cfm?c_id=544&objectid=23519 29. 35 See: William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch,” 10. William McCahon sees this artwork as a private prayer from his father whose artworks failed to gain appreciation while his family lived apart due to financial difficulties. The reasons for the McCahon family living separately are indeed traumatic. William McCahon and friends of the family report that he was a target of his father’s anger. He believes that he was sent to live with his grandparents in the late nineteen-forties as a means of protection. William McCahon also recalls his mother being removed by her strongly religious family to be spiritually cleansed after the sin of childbirth. See: William McCahon in Herrick, “Looking Back in Anger.” In contrast, Carr presents a softer version of this story, claiming that her grandfather was an intelligent man who would not have believed that childbirth was a sin. See: Victoria Carr to Linda Tyler in Tyler, “I Did Not Want to be Mrs Colin,” 39. 36 William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch,” 10. 37 Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 22. In this article, Brown recounts McCahon’s evasiveness when he asked him about the painting. Around 1982, Brown saw the painting in storage at McCahon’s studio. The artist claimed to like the image, but was upset by some of the linework. Brown believes this may have been the reason for hiding the painting away. Nowadays it can be seen on display in The National Gallery of Australia, Canberra. 38 Angels have often been depicted as spherical. 39 William McCahon, “Crucifixion: The Apple Branch,” 10-11. Brown, perhaps picking up on a popular thematic of American literature, believes that the simultaneous narratives connote Christ as the new Adam and McCahon’s local New Zealand as a new “land of Promise.” This renders McCahon’s family as

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 occupants of the new Eden, who will “know both innocence and grief.” See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 24-25. 40 William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14. 41 As Butler and Simmons explain, the theme of the Annunciation has provided an ongoing challenge for Western artists who have explored ways of representing the divine Word as flesh. See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 341. This angel is named in the Gospel of Luke as Gabriel, a being identified with the male gender. Brown provides a history of the artistic depiction of angels that may account for McCahon’s choice to depict this one as female. He nominates the influence of Italian Quattrocento painters and Fra Angelico as likely sources. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 220. 42 As noted by, for example, McDonald, “Roadworks,” 50. 43 McCahon also thought the artwork could be beneficial to individuals. He lent it to Dennis McEldowney when he was seriously ill. McEldowney believes it was a helpful and uplifting gift. See: Dennis McEldowney in Gregory O’Brien, “Widening Horizons and Worlds Regained,” in After Bathing at Baxter’s: Essays and Notebooks (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2002), 90. 44 Riria Hotere points out that “[d]own the ages, artists have shown us angels with different faces and different costumes. We don’t often see angels shown where we live: Aotearoa.” See: Riria Hotere in “Tales from Te Papa: Angel of the Annunciation by Colin McCahon,” 2009, accessed 31 May, 2010, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1yUoOvzpU78, 0.29. 45 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 46 This truncation of time is prevalent in Orthodox iconography. 47 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 19. Keith states that “[t]his view of landscape his nothing to do with scenery.” See: Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 5. 48 Indeed, McDonald feels that his spirituality lies in the relationship between land and the individual. See: Ewen McDonald, “Roadworks: An Intersection, A Crossing of Paths, A Point of Conjunction and Departure; Two Artists Meet in a Landscape for the First Time,” in Rosalie Gascoigne, Colin McCahon: Sense of Place (Paddington: University of New South Wales Press, 1990), 50. 49 In the words of Docking, “[p]articulars [are] bonded with universals and become archetypal symbols.” See: Docking, Two Hundred Years of New Zealand Painting, 186. Tomory agrees that McCahon’s landscapes are familiar but his symbols are universal. See: Tomory, “Painting 1890-1950,” 5. Universal, in this sense, is likely to refer to ‘universally Christian’. 50 For example, In McDonald’s opinion, McCahon saw the landscape as a realm to live in rather than one of Otherness, which was often suggested by its portrayals in the New Zealand landscape tradition. See: McDonald, “Roadworks,” 51. 51 Peter Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’,” Govett-Brewster Art Gallery, 2002, accessed November 30, 2009, http://www.govettbrewster.com/Publications/Visit+ Online/simpson.htm. Lilies are themselves a loaded symbol, connected to the virginal princess in the Biblical Song of Solomon, employed as motifs of death, and held by saints such as Joseph the stepfather of Christ. See, for example, George

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 Ferguson, Signs & Symbols in Christian Art (New York: Oxford University Press, 1954), 33. 52 This image also shows a local piggery. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 39. Caselberg reads the piggery as a symbol of “man’s work on earth.” See: Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” 53 Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” 54 Brown believes the serene vista is representative of a tender relationship between the two figures. He reads the yellow light around the key figures as a symbol of the purity and divinity of light. Brown also nominates the blue tunics as a symbol of “heavenly love and respect for truth,” while the veils the figures wear denote “modesty and the rejection of material worldliness.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 42. 55 Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” Caselberg’s notion of ‘loving kindness fully blown’ is borrowed from Thomas Hardy. 56 McCahon has also referred to this work as This Is The Promised Land. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 5. 57 Later McCahon would reflect upon this painting as “very odd, somewhat juvenile work but not bad.” See: Colin McCahon to Nola Baron [Dec. 1969] in Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 123. From this statement it is apparent that McCahon’s vision of the Promised Land matured over time, but not so much that a rejection of its earliest incarnations is necessary. 58 Alternatively, Easton chooses to view it as the landscape sighted by the Canterbury Pilgrims who first viewed their Promised Land of the Canterbury Plains. So moved was he by this painting, that he selected it as the cover images for The Nationbuilders. See: Easton, The Nationbuilders, 152. Brown argues that geographic place names do not especially matter in this context as the artwork essentially explores many possible locations awaiting their transformation. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 207. 59 Indeed, Pound argues that “the painter’s vision is made a promise divinely vouchsafed and his work miraculously authenticated” by the angelic face and the symbols of light and purity. See: Pound, “Topographies,” 122. Fitzgerald agrees that this artwork is “an image of purity and light.” See: Michael Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining,” Time Pacific, February 19, 2001, accessed May 20, 2010, http://www.time.com/time/pacific/magazine/20010219/mccahon.html. 60 Brown suggests that McCahon speaks of social cleansing and offers “a Quaker’s socialised idea of the Promised Land.” See: Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 15. 61 Susan Garfinkel, “Quakers and High Chests: The Plainness Problem Reconsidered,” in Quaker Aesthetics: Reflections on a Quaker Ethic in American Design and Consumption, eds Emma Jones Lapsansky and Anne A. Verplanck (United States of America: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 66-67. Garfinkel points out numerous ways in which the semantics of these sacred texts have been difficult to interpret in the reality of the lived tradition – a common problem within scripturally based religions. Nevertheless, the correlations she illuminates between text and aesthetics are useful in understanding the motivations

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 of artists and manufacturers who have attempted to bring Quaker teachings into their creative output. 62 In keeping with this, Askew states that McCahon’s paintings “reject the smugness of a cosy religion, and return to the fervour of the direct word of God spoken from a hilltop.” He complains about the state of religious art since the PreRaphaelite days, describing most works as “moral sermons” and “romantic slush.” He praises McCahon for wrenching the genre back to “basic realities.” See: Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” 1-2. 63 Pound, The Space Between, 62. For further details on the way in which “harsh clarity” has impacted on New Zealand nationalist art see: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 88ff. 64 In addition to being a prophet in his own right, McCahon may also be conflating his identity with Moses. See, for example, Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 9. 65 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 5. This resonates with Kelly Barclay’s argument that New Zealand culture values the idea of power and resources being earned through “honest labour” in a just and transparent system. See: Kelly Barclay, “Rethinking Inclusion and Biculturalism: Towards a More Relational Practice of Democratic Justice,” in New Zealand Identities: Departures and Destinations, eds James H. Liu, Tim McCreanor, Tracey McIntosh, and Teresia Teaiwa (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2005), 121. 66 Although McCahon opted for a lifestyle of poverty, he was well educated and came from a middle-class background. He also held ‘white-collar’ jobs such as curator and art teacher. Towards the end of his life, he received substantial payments for his art. This places the artist in a higher social standing than those born into poverty, unemployed, or working in less respected industries. While he may have presented himself as working class, this is not entirely biographically accurate. 67 On this note, Brown points out McCahon’s interest in Gill and the idea that “art should reflect a workmanlike attitude.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 30. 68 Pound argues that the work could rightly be called The Discovery/Invention and Proof of the True New Zealand. See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 16. 69 Pound, The Space Between, 38. 70 Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 47. 71 On this note, Curnow writes, “McCahon’s form of activism was a kind of fauxnaïve comic-book religious expressionism in which New Zealand was challenged to make of itself a testing ground for the post war order.” See: Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 19. 72 Brown describes the ‘primitive’ style as a means of eliminating unnecessary detail so as to communicate directly without undue ornamentation. He argues that this form of stylisation assisted in the transmission of symbolic content. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 34. 73 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 15. 74 McCahon to Brasch [1 Dec. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 13. 75 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 70.

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Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 147. Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 200. 78 Garrity agrees that McCahon never wasted his creative intelligence on refining technique or servicing his own ego. See: Garrity, A Tribute to McCahon, 4. 79 John Caselberg, “Titirangi as Art,” in Chart to My Country: Selected Prose 1947-1971 (Dunedin: John McIndoe, 1973), 50. 80 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 404. 81 Hubert Witheford to McCahon [4 Feb. 48] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 34. 82 Ron O’Reilly to Colin McCahon [22 Feb. 48] in Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 42. Brown believes that this reaction conveys the kind of pleasure that comes from the excitement of a scary confrontation such as a horror film. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 42-43. 83 Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 84 Other sources claim twelve or thirteen. See, for example, Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 29. 85 Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 2. 86 Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 29. 87 Hamish Keith, “Colin McCahon,” 187. 88 Peter Calder, “Getting the McCahon Message,” New Zealand Herald, October 7, 2002, accessed November 19, 2009. http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/artic le.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=2997804. 89 Bloem, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” 17. 90 Forman, The Politics of Inheritance in Romans, 1. Forman praises the presence of Paul and his message as an active agent within the artwork, as opposed to the common style of showing Paul as a hovering and detached figure. Forman finds this to be an effective means of promoting the message of hope and solidarity that he interprets in the writings of Paul. 91 Mark Williams, introduction to The Source of the Song: New Zealand Writers on Catholicism, ed. Mark Williams (Wellington: Victoria University, 1995), 19-20. 92 Joanna Margaret Paul, “On Not Being a Catholic Writer,” in The Source of the Song: New Zealand Writers on Catholicism, ed. Mark Williams (Wellington: Victoria University, 1995), 140. 93 Charles Brasch, “I Think of Your Generation,” [1948] in An Anthology of New Zealand Verse, eds Robert McDonald Chapman and Jonathan Francis Bennett (New Zealand: Oxford University Press, 1956), 172. This poem is also known as “The Estate” part iii. 94 Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 20-21. 95 Green rationalises this ‘anti-style’ as an informed choice, derivative of popculture items such as commercial packaging and comic books. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 29. 96 Wadman to McCahon [17 Jun. 48] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 5. 97 O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 7. 98 In reality, the condition of McCahon’s eyes was excellent. His post-mortem revealed healthy, youthful corneas. Despite his father’s strong opposition to organ donations, William wished for his eyes to be used for transplants. See: William 77

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 McCahon in Herrick, “Looking Back in Anger.” McCahon was rejected for service due to an enlarged heart. 99 Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 100 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. In reference to A Candle in a Dark Room, Dick Frizzel agrees that “[y]ou have to know EVERYTHING about painting to paint like this. The truth in a McCahon blows through the work unimpeded by a millimetre of wrongness, like the wind blowing through the back screen door.” He describes this work as an elevation of “the crude and the comic.” See: Dick Frizzel, It’s All About the Image (Godwit: Auckland, 2011), 82. 101 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 112. 102 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 112. 103 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 44. 104 John Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” The Student: Journal of New Zealand Student Christian Movement 3 (1948): 9. Despite this, he does qualify that McCahon’s use of comic-style text is “better than sterilely copying past religious art, which would not be true of our country.” Summers praises McCahon’s attempts to develop a unique and local voice even if he is not especially partial to his methods of achieving this. 105 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 4. 106 Interestingly, Brown feels reactions such as these are misguided. He notes the “economy and restraint” in McCahon’s crucifixions, which reflect more on the Gospel accounts as they are written than subsequent “aesthetic dogmatism.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 44. 107 This is a way in which comparisons with Fra Angelico and similar Renaissance painters are unsustainable. See: Pound, The Space Between, 38. Brown agrees that there was a schism between McCahon and many members of his audience in the nineteen-forties and nineteen-fifties, substantially due to the taste for traditional Renaissance attitudes towards “idealized humanity and its scientific bias for explaining human mobility in terms of anatomy, and space as linear perspective or the physics of light.” Brown believes that McCahon was not especially interested in employing these inherited attitudes towards style. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 70. Summers does, however, offer an interesting way of comparing the styles of McCahon and Fra Angelico in this context. He believes McCahon’s Angel of the Annunciation with its depiction of a remote farming location deprived of the “riches of aesthetic response and expression … seemed to me as aesthetic as, in their greater way, were the paintings of Fra Angelico speaking from and for the refined spiritual life of the Italian monastery.” See: Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” 10. 108 Messaris, “What’s Visual about ‘Visual Rhetoric’?,” 212. 109 Messaris, “What’s Visual about ‘Visual Rhetoric’?,” 215. 110 He also agrees that they were seen as “outré and somehow presumptuous” by their contemporary viewers. See: Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 229. 111 ‘Major von Tempsky’, May 3, 2004 (8:12 a.m.), comment on “Investing in Fine Art & Collectibles,” Sharetrader Forum, accessed July 22, 2011, http://www.share trader.co.nz/showthread.php?428-Investing-in-Fine-Art-Collectibles.

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112 Geoff McCaughan, May 13, 1999 (5:00 p.m.), comment on soc.culture.newzealand. [Website seems to be recording time in an erroneous fashion.] 113 Although most religious New Zealanders are affiliated with Christianity, and there are no laws defining a separation between church and state, New Zealand is currently considered to be a secular country. It has no official state religion and significant percentages of the population claim to have no religion on the census. See: “New Zealand,” in Religious Diversity in Southeast Asia and the Pacific: National Case Studies, eds Gary D. Bouma, Rod Ling, and Douglas Pratt (Dordrecht: Springer, 2010), 31-32. Indeed, secularity has a long history within New Zealand. Ellwood explains that as early as the late nineteenth century, a “fundamental tension … existed between the religious impulse and the essentially secular, scientific nature of a planned colonization scheme.” An upsurge of rationalism in the eighteen-seventies had a lasting effect of sceptical attitudes within the fabric of New Zealand culture. See: Ellwood, Islands of the Dawn, 4. 114 Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” 10. 115 Oliver, “The Awakening Imagination,” 442. 116 Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” 5. 117 Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” 5. 118 Chris Knox, “James Robinson,” in Look This Way: New Zealand Writers on New Zealand Artists, ed. Sally Blundell (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2007), 29. 119 Rachel Gardner, “Light Falls Through a Dark Landscape,” OnFilm Magazine (2004), accessed June 16, 2010, http://www.onfilm.co.nz/editable/ColinMcCahon. html. 120 Buchanan, “Colin McCahon: A Time for Messages,” 40. 121 Orchard, “Couldn’t Leave Out Colin.” 122 Green also notes the potential for interpretations of blasphemy. He suggests that McCahon’s vulgar imagery can be seen as a demotion of spirituality from lofty reverence to the vernacular. See: Tony Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” in Colin McCahon: Gates and Journeys (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1988), 29. 123 Brasch to McCahon [5 Jul. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 8. 124 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 125 Baxter, “Salvation Army Aesthete?...,” 13. 126 Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 29; Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 46. Leonard argues that McCahon’s mixture of high and low sources can be read as either “urgent, pious, direct” or as blasphemy. See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 27. It is clear that McCahon intended for his work to be placed in the former category, although this was not always the case. Considering his deeply held beliefs, blasphemy was not McCahon’s aim. His engagement with the comic book style was a means of reaching his audience, not profaning Christian narratives. 127 White claims, “few recognize that this imagery is more than emblematic.” See: White, “Antipodean Translations,” 4. 128 Brasch to McCahon [12 Dec. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 13.

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129 Brasch to McCahon [12 Dec. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 13-14. Brasch would later change his opinion dramatically. By June of 1948 he found the painting so engrossing that he struggled to leave it. Soon after, he purchased the work. See: Simpson, Patron and Painter, 14-15. 130 Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” 9. 131 Summers, “Catacombs to Ngatimoti,” 9. Summers compares McCahon unfavourably to Gauguin and El Greco who he sees as more competent with their “distortion.” He feels that every part of a picture should stress its final meaning, something McCahon’s distortion does not achieve. 132 McCahon in Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 34.

CHAPTER FIVE A FOUNDATION OF LANDSCAPE

From views of his local wilderness to patches of sky appearing in the intangible wounds of Christ, landscape can be found in almost all of McCahon’s images.1 Regardless of his changing style, landscape retains its presence throughout McCahon’s body of work and functions as a vital tool of spiritual communication.2 Building upon works such as Takaka Night and Day (1948), McCahon developed the land as a powerful symbol within his lexicon of visual rhetoric. He presented the New Zealand landscape as a source of spiritual rejuvenation and communion. In contrast to the problems of reception associated with his Early Religious Paintings, McCahon’s landscapes are seen as definitive of a unique national vision. His communication for successful in this field. McCahon’s basic landscape symbolism was comprehensible, and resulted in a largely positive response from an eager audience.

God and Landscape Art in Colonial New Zealand New Zealand culture is most receptive to the Bible and Christian identity when it is phrased in a parochial, nationalistic context. Pound argues that the artistic correlation of God with nature has been apparent in the PƗkehƗ context since early colonial days when the landscape was shown as a divine creation or the location of Christian churches.3 A notable example from popular culture is the phrase ‘God’s Own Country’, which was morphed into the local neologism ‘Godzone’ by Thomas Bracken in an 1890 poem of the same name. This description of New Zealand has enduring popularity. Lawrence Jones describes the Godzone myth in terms of: the conquering of the bush and the building of a just egalitarian and biracial society, its heroic pioneer near-past, its uniquely beautiful landscape, its proud British heritage, its glorious future.4

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The Nationalist Movement of the nineteen-thirties was opposed to the Eurocentrism of this concept, thus certain nuances have been eroded. Nevertheless, the tacit acceptability of spiritual reactions to the land endures. This attitude is also discernable in reactions to McCahon’s landscape paintings.5 The genre of landscape art has often acted as a vehicle for establishing colonial identity.6 The manner in which a group views nature and the landscape is a means by which a cultural homogeneity can be established.7 This is in the spirit of Lucaites and Hamilton’s description of visual rhetoric as a tool for creating a “tableau of public memory,” which allows a group of people to create a shared identity and understanding of community via shared images that are popular within a distinct culture.8 Thus it is unsurprising that representations of the natural world have been a successful tool of the Nationalist Project, allowing for the imaginative development of a distinct New Zealand identity.9 This identity is frequently tied to rural landscapes that are presented with a sense of emptiness, and thus potentiality.10 Malcolm MacLean believes that rural New Zealand is “valued and valorized” in the political and cultural construct of nationhood. The concept of farming is depicted as a way of belonging to the land.11 In a more overtly religious context, Morris believes that this valorisation of rural scenery was reflexive of New Zealand’s largely urban settlement during the nineteen-forties. He describes the worship of the “bush of a mythic rural New Zealand” in order to develop a nature spirituality and “transcending love of this land.”12 This nationalistic, spiritual perception of rural scenery is very important when considering the impact of McCahon’s imagery. Landscape in general, and identifiable rural landscape in particular, was key to the development of a mythological engagement with a ‘national spirit’.13 The lack of human structures in many of McCahon’s vistas is a pertinent statement.14 They form a powerful anti-urban comment, which engages with the rural heart of New Zealand nationalism and also with McCahon’s personal dislike for pollution, concerns over the destruction of nature, and the weaponry of the mechanical age. Landscape is also part of McCahon’s personal identity and ties to nationhood. This is evidenced in his rejection of a lectureship in Australia. In a letter to Kees Hos he claims to have been “mucked up” by his time in the American landscape and was worried Australia’s novelty would do the same. McCahon explained “I don’t trust myself with new land … I belong with the wild side of New Zealand.”15 In his landscape discourse, McCahon presents images of nationhood, prophetic statements to his community, and also images of his personal sacrifices and deep love for a threatened wilderness.

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Symbols and Styles in the Landscapes of McCahon Charles Andrew Cotton’s Geomorphology of New Zealand is a fundamental inspiration behind McCahon’s particular approach to landscape, which encouraged the painter to foreground its primal and elemental features.16 Charles C. Eldredge calls Cotton’s text a “grounding in antiquity” for the Nationalist Movement between the wars, based on a geological history that was far older than MƗori or PƗkehƗ culture.17 The influence of Geomorphology is particularly clear in works such as Takaka Night and Day, which shows the effects of light and darkness on a series of primal hills.18 The rolling clefts and valleys are expansive and devoid of life.19 McCahon attempted to sweep aside the trees and farms over the Takaka Hills in order to reveal the “geological diagram” below.20 The artwork is open, wild, and unusually big for the period of McCahon’s oeuvre in which it was created.21 In its largeness, it envelops the viewer into an intense viewing space. There is a sense of eternity in its emptiness; both night and day are perceived at once. Like in the Early Religious Paintings, McCahon collapses time to speak of immediate and essential experiences.22 Although it may not overtly appear as such, this artwork is highly spiritual in its themes. Here we may observe Brown’s claim that McCahon’s landscapes are “the stage upon which is played out the life and death drama of human salvation.”23 Like many artists before him, McCahon uses the sun and its light as a symbol for God and enlightenment in Takaka Night and Day. His valley represents the beginning and end of human life and emotional polarities experienced in the progression from birth to death. The depiction of darkness/light and night/day provides a Christianinspired spiritualised summary of the play between these dichotomies.24 Again, McCahon eschews a passive, pleasant landscape image in order to dictate an awe-inspiring religious vision of the elemental earth. McCahon’s bare Takaka Hills are a major example of the simultaneous fear and possibility ascribed to the colonial landscape.25 McCahon’s love of the land appears to be ineffable. He confessed, “[t]he real Far North of New Zealand is unlike any other part of the land. I can't talk about it, I love it too much.”26 McCahon recalls numerous occasions of being profoundly moved by the power of his homeland. He explains: You bury your heart, and as it goes deeper into the land you can only follow. It’s a painful love, loving a land, it takes a long time. I stood with an old MƗori lady on a boat from Australia once—a terribly rough and wild

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passage. We were both on deck to see the Three Kings—us dripping tears. It’s there that this land starts. The very bones of New Zealand were there, bare yellow clay-slides running to the sea, and black rock.27

He presents New Zealand as a living force, exposed to those who recognise its potency. McCahon’s talk of bones reaffirms the land as a humanised structure, animated with description of primal colour. In keeping with this respect for New Zealand, McCahon brings a gentle message of conservation. He states that his environmental artworks are not protest pieces, but ways of expressing what we have now and may never have again.28 McCahon had a deep relationship with the flora of New Zealand. For example, his Necessary Protection artworks speak of the shielding qualities found in the native manuka shrub. The kauri is another significant plant in McCahon’s oeuvre, primarily associated with his time in Titirangi. He recalls the creation of “thousands of pictures” involving the plant.29 So strong was his relationship with the kauri that McCahon repeatedly personified the tree. He defined 1957 as the year “I came to grips with the Kauri and turned him in all his splendour into a symbol.”30 Humanising pronouns were not the beginning of this personification. Madame Cézanne at Titirangi (1953) shows a human face amid the geometric explorations of the kauri forest. This marks the beginning of McCahon’s conscious symbolic language through which he abbreviated his more traditional landscape images into stylised motifs.31 In the following year, McCahon painted Kauri Nudes (1954) as a means of exploring the connection between human and environment. The circular symbols, generally used to represent the greenery of the kauri blooming from its branches, become parts of the female body. One figure appears to be growing from a dark trunk. This is a very organic view of the human heart.32 McCahon’s kauri trees also act as a contrast to technological progression, creating another dichotomy between war/destruction and nature/peace.33 His personification of the kauri was a means of emphasising the moral cost of the destruction of nature, inspired by his time amongst the bushland of Titirangi. He shows a profoundly spiritual vision that links the human soul with nature, warning against the violence and destruction that disrupts this unity.

Path to the Promised Land McCahon’s landscape pieces are often phrased as sequential journeys. For example, Six Days in Nelson and Canterbury (1950) borrows from the

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comic book tradition to show the passing of time in windows.34 Religious subtext can be observed in the veiled reference to Genesis cosmogony. McCahon’s six days in the New Zealand landscape correlate to six days of creation.35 McCahon fell off his bike while observing this scenery, which accounts for the vivid streak of blood running down the middle of the artwork.36 Brown believes it to also represent the blood that McCahon metaphorically lost to hostile audience reactions of this era.37 Importantly, he would later employ streams of blood to represent the sacrifice of Christ. Pound explains that this blood, “whether jutting from Christ’s wound, or the suffering artist’s wound, serves to make fertile, to sanctify and vivify the New Zealand earth.38 He suggests that both McCahon and Christ sacrifice their blood in this sacred construction of land.39 On a similar note, McNamara evokes Allen Curnow’s poetic reference to the “stain of blood that writes an island story.”40 This visceral intimacy with the landscape is a necessary tool in the nationalistic narrative process. By bonding his blood with Christ, McCahon makes clear the sacrifices of prophethood for the sake of forming a nation. In addition to this binding of prophet with soil, the viewer is encouraged to journey with McCahon and form a relationship with the Promised Land via this visual travel.41 On this topic of personal growth, Leonard notices how it is difficult to find a sequence in these images. He argues that McCahon does not show us the developmental creation of a new world. He shows us that what is changing and being created is the subject. The human self is refined by meditating upon the landscape. As Leonard states, “[g]eomorphology begets psychomorphology.”42 It is interesting to compare this to Pound’s argument that blood and soil are made consubstantial through the image. Pound suggests that the viewer may suckle upon this ichor like St Catherine suckling on the wound of Christ.43 Thus one may become part of the earth through the sacred ritual constructed in Six Days in Nelson and Canterbury. This artwork seeks to transform the viewer, both through an intellectual development caused by landscape development, and a spiritual development caused by the prophet’s blood in holy soil. McCahon’s Northland Panels (1958) also as a painting to walk past, with each panel providing a narrative incident in the comic book manner.44 The first panel contains a stark image of black above white, reflecting McCahon’s dualistic spiritual worldview.45 As the first panel in this sequence, it can be read as the Genesis scene in which light is carved from dark. McCahon positions his narrative in the Biblical tradition and the Northland wilderness. His naïve landscape is flattened, semi-abstracted,

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and more focused on a message than highly rendered pictorial representation. This is a conscious choice. Brown argues that it is a means of disentangling ‘landscape’ from ‘scenery’ as the latter implies the touristic gaze. Instead McCahon abandons the picturesque so as to encourage contemplation of the landscape as it truly is, dull as it may be.46 This is in direct contrast to the grandeur of popular awe-inspiring vistas such as Mitre Peak, which have been used to promote the landscape of New Zealand abroad.47 This painting is an early example of McCahon’s words acting as a symbol in their own right. Here, the ‘T’ of ‘TUI’ morphs into his soon-tobe-ubiquitous Tau cross. McCahon also indicates that his symbols are a combination of word, sound, and form. This painting is, in part, a paean to the landscape.48 While the scenes depicted are vast and splendid, his inscriptions do not depict happiness or report on the land as a source of celebration. The work reads “a landscape with too few lovers” and recites McCahon’s poem: oh yes it can be dark here and manuka in bloom may breed despair

Not ready to abandon hope for his audience, McCahon’s painted song is a lament towards a culture that does not appreciate the land he loves, coupled with a range of signs and symbols that seek to bring the audience into an ideal relationship with their surrounds. A small but important symbol is that of the road.49 This rhetorical motif is likely to be influenced by Richard Diebenkorn who McCahon discovered in America. McCahon felt an affinity with Diebenkorn’s attitude towards colour and the application of paint. In particular, McCahon celebrated his ‘road’ image and the way in which Diebenkorn “throws a road straight up through a landscape: the landscape unrolls around it.”50 While this may at first seem purely stylistic, McCahon viewed this perspective as an extrapolation of what Cézanne had formulated as regards an image existing beyond its frame.51 McCahon’s road symbol was a means of attempting to bring the picture outside of its traditional boundaries, and to draw the audience into dialogue that extends further than the gallery.52 The Northland Triptych (1959) falls into a similar visual category. It presents a sublime view in which the land dissolves into sky with delicate pastel hues. Black lines suggest roads through the countryside. Like its

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predecessor, this work speaks of a love that is not shared. In this artwork McCahon asks “New Zealand why does nobody love you.” We can presume this is due to a lack of engagement, for he also states: “To Know it is to love it.” McCahon begs his children to forgive him “for loving this land” in what Paton calls a “rain-streaked, guilt-racked plea.”53 McCahon inserts a specifically religious element with his declaration “Oh God, God. I Know what you want.”54 Again the verb ‘Know’ is capitalised, imbuing it with special significance. Woollaston believes that the crucifixion is implicit in all of McCahon’s Northland series, sometimes by a presence as ineffable as “atmosphere.”55 This atmospheric suffering is certainly evident here. Indeed, Grimshaw notes that the middle panel of a Christian triptych is the Christ panel, often representing his crucifixion. He suggests that the centre panel of this work could be read as such. Grimshaw feels that the panel implies a suffering, broken, denied, and crucified land, yet one that is also ultimately redemptive.56 Christianity emerges in McCahon’s plea to know and love the land. He positions himself with the lonely stance of a prophet who has experienced the landscape’s great power. This was not the only work intended to inspire a passionate engagement with the land. The Landscape Theme and Variations paintings (1963) were designed to fill the Ikon Gallery like an immersive environment, hung only eight inches from floor level. McCahon explains: I hoped to throw people into an involvement with the raw land, and also with the raw painting. No mounts, no frames, a bit curly at the edges, but with, I hoped, more than the usual New Zealand landscape meaning … I hope you can understand what I was trying to do at the time – like spitting on clay to open the blind man’s eyes.”57

This refers to Christian mythology in which Jesus was able to give a blind man sight to demonstrate the power of God. McCahon attempts a similar attack on blindness, attempting to open the eyes of his audience to the transcendent power of New Zealand’s topographical forms by submerging his audience in their majesty.58 This immersive environment reflects upon McCahon’s eschewal of frames as a means of speaking to his audience more directly.59 Instead of presenting his landscapes as art objects, McCahon uses his Landscape Theme and Variations as a way of reforming the gaze of his audience. He wished for them to look upon his landscapes as spiritual, rather than purely pictorial, pieces. They are intended to function as a majestic summary of human life.60 A Biblical narrative may also be observed. William McCahon understands the hills as representations of Christ entering Jerusalem, his passion, and resurrection. He feels that the two hills represent the two

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natures of Christ: divine and mortal.61 Here we see Christ placed as part of the New Zealand landscape, which re-enacts his sacrifice. McCahon’s desire to reform audience blindness is a desire for them to understand and empathise with this narrative of darkness and redemption. The North Otago Landscapes (1967) offer a similar view of the essence of the New Zealand topography. McCahon gives a detailed explanation of their meaning and origins: These landscapes are based on places I have seen and known … In painting this landscape I am not trying to show any simple likeness to a specific place. These paintings are most certainly about my long love affair with North Otago as a unique and lonely place, they are also about where I am now and where I have been since the time when I was in standards four and five at primary school and living in North Otago … These paintings stand now as a part of a search begun in Dunedin, continued in Oamaru and developed by the processes of normal erosion since then. The real subject is buried in the works themselves and needs no intellectual striving to be revealed—perhaps they are just North Otago Landscapes.62

In this statement, McCahon uses geological words to describe his artworks. He speaks of an erosion process and suggests that his ‘real’ subject is buried within the works, vis-à-vis his ‘search’. This text also reflects McCahon’s gradual progression away from “simple likeness of a specific place” and toward an employment of symbolism that could reference the New Zealand landscape as a whole. Otago comes to stand for the elemental power of the land and its great spiritual possibilities.63 He suggests that human intuition is the key to understanding this piece, not over-intellectualisation. So too is shared humanity a core to their meaning. Although the images contain no actual figures, they are comprised of human memory and a human, spiritual connection with the land. McCahon spent an entire evening making his friends stand in front of a North Otago Landscape panel in order to prove its human element.64 McCahon’s art uses New Zealand as a source of sacred power and a site from which humanity can connect with the redemptive divine. McCahon presents a message of conservation and respect, often personifying nature to depict his deep relationship with the land. His landscapes are narratives punctuated with Christian metaphor. They ask the audience to open their eyes and spiritually engage with their potent natural surroundings.65 Nevertheless, many contain hints of disappointment in regard to the way New Zealanders interact with their surrounds. McCahon’s artworks complain that no one loves the land like he does. He speaks of giving sight to the blind but does not mention any subsequent success. This feeds into McCahon’s self-conception as a struggling and

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misunderstood prophet who shed his blood in order to reveal the truth. It is also symptomatic of New Zealand as an outpost of the British Empire, still hampered by an Anglocentric devaluation of the non-European vista as somehow deviant. Despite this colonial hangover, McCahon’s contributions to a nationalistic discourse have been noted and embraced since the creation of these works. Pound explains how grand vistas were once tarred by the tourist’s view and the stranger’s eyes. Authenticity was absent, thus leading nationalist artists to seek out “the hidden truths of the non-touristic spaces between.”66 In response to this, McCahon’s landscapes are created for the ‘true’ local who is impressed by the essence of the land. Pound calls it “a beauty less obvious, more difficult, more profound.”67 Difficult indeed, as epitomised by Brasch’s dismissal of Maitai Valley (1947) for containing “simplification rather too heavy and violent.”68 Despite this, successes are recorded too. For example, Andrew Clifford describes the tourist friendly iconography of New Zealand as a montage of “tropical beaches and snow-capped mountain ranges.”69 He contrasts this to the “primeval landscape of stormy black-sand beaches and dense, damp bush” at the heart of New Zealand identity. Clifford maintains that McCahon captures this latter truth.70 This epitomises the positive and emphatic reactions to McCahon’s landscape component. His anti-touristic gaze has been a winning feature in terms of audience response. While many of McCahon’s pleas and statements are ignored or misconstrued, his case for the value of New Zealand’s landscape has been a significant success. McCahon’s paintings are described as having a special relationship with his compatriots. Reid, for example, claims “McCahon resonates all the more for us, the words not arcane but a poetic language New Zealanders can hear in our inner ear.”71 Congruently, Caselberg heard the land itself speak through his paintings.72 There is a sense of McCahon ‘getting it right’. This reaction cannot be found in regard to any other elements of his oeuvre. McCahon’s landscapes are far more palatable for a non-religious audience than his overt Christian imagery, and are considered to be constructive of a national identity as opposed to being disruptive of cultural secularity.

The ‘True’ New Zealand: Audience Response A common reaction to McCahon’s landscape pieces is a celebration of their supposed authenticity. It is interesting to compare this to Pound’s revisionist version of New Zealand art history, in which he posits the notion that there is no ‘real’ New Zealand landscape to which artists can

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be true or untrue.73 He sees this as a construction of twentieth-century commentators, which was fuelled by nationalistic concerns.74 He also believes the idea of geographical determinism to be a fallacy. That is, he rejects the idea that an objectively ‘real’ or ‘true’ New Zealand causes a particular artistic style.75 Interestingly, many audience reactions to McCahon’s work directly contravene Pound’s theory against a singular, authentic view of the New Zealand landscape. This is not to say that Pound is mistaken, but rather that the idea of a ‘correct’ New Zealand landscape lives on in the popular imagination. This is exemplified by Thomas who writes “[t]o adopt an old-fashioned vocabulary which probably remains current to those who most admire these works, there is a sense of truth to the shape of the land.”76 Here he references Takaka Night and Day and Six Days in Nelson and Canterbury. McCahon is seen as an artist who truly understands the qualities of the New Zealand landscape, and as the purveyor of a style that can be understood by all members of the nation. Calder’s experience of seeing McCahon’s art in Amsterdam is an excellent example of this patriotic, moving quality: It was like looking at them with fresh eyes and they exerted a powerful visceral tug, in the same way as the haka performed on foreign soil makes the neck-hair bristle more than normal. The sight of one particular North Otago landscape … filled me with such a sense of place and pride of ownership that I felt like crying out to the other visitors: “This is my country, this. And this is exactly what it looks like, too.” Indeed, seen so far from home, the landscapes seemed to possess a haunting, almost photographic realism.77

Away from home, McCahon’s work acts as a description of nationhood that may be imported and shared in order to differentiate New Zealand from the rest of the world and remind its citizens of the unique qualities of their cultural heritage. This is replete in published reactions to his imagery. For example, a panel of New Zealand Herald journalists declared that McCahon “more than any artist this century captured the essence of who we are as New Zealanders.”78 Congruently, Cliff Pratt believes his art “expresses something purely NZ, possibly in the lighting, possible also in the subjects, maybe in both.”79 Creative writer Vivienne Plumb agrees that McCahon truly understood the rapturous, primordial nature of New Zealand and its geological turbulence.80 Art enthusiast Nagesh Seethiah connects to McCahon via their common nationality, citing this as one of the reasons he is his favourite artist:

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Chapter Five I just feel a connection with things that are ‘Kiwi Made’, maybe because we’re such a small country. McCahon also lived almost in the same area that I grew up in, and made the stain glass windows in my school’s chapel.81

Like Seethiah, many New Zealanders are able to feel a cultural resonance and physical closeness to the history and work of McCahon. McCahon’s artworks have clearly informed the way that people view the landscape and conceptualise New Zealand. In listing McCahon as a national hero, The New Zealand Edge lists explains “his explorations on canvas of his relation to the world and his standing place in New Zealand, squinting into the hard sun, represent defining statements about what it means to be ‘from here’.”82 Pratt celebrates this same notion with a poem: Colin McCahon, artist who encompasses, Encapsulates the NZ experience. Puts it in a rectangular frame, And still transcends it, Diptypch, triptych, Mould and decay, Storage for our national emotions.83

In the opinion of Fitzgerald, “[p]ainting his own road map, Colin McCahon pointed a new way through the New Zealand landscape.”84 It is a path that has been regularly followed.85 McCahon has endured as the creator of a national gaze, bound to his stylised representation of the landscape. For example, O’Brien’s young children saw Colin McCahon’s hills in the New Plymouth landscape.86 When glimpsing a vivid orange sunset, Edmond remarked “here was something that I simply would not have seen in the same way had I not looked at those paintings.”87 Similarly, the protagonist of Albert Wendt’s Black Rainbow novel remarks: As I raced the river through the gap, I thought the hills were straight out of an early McCahon painting. Strange how we see reality through art and other cultural baggage we carry.88

Art patron Jenny Gibbs congruently states: [w]hen I drive through New Zealand, what I see is a land full of Colin McCahons. I mean Colin McCahon taught me to see the land here.89

Gibbs believes McCahon has awakened New Zealanders to the difference between their land and other cultural centres, epitomising a dark spirit that

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is unique to the country.90 Again, McCahon is seen to have captured something of New Zealand’s ‘darkness’. Similarly, Buchanan feels that McCahon was part of the landscape of my childhood. Gothic, biblical, extreme – the rain was always falling in McCahon’s promised land. Heavy clouds gathered, prophets spoke, crosses rose, tilted and collapsed.91

McCahon’s dour spiritual insertions are mixed in with Buchanan’s experiences of the New Zealand climate. McCahon’s landscapes have also been employed as part of a revelatory process, deeply intertwined with the language and emotive qualities of religious experience. Sister Galvan Macnamara’s short film about McCahon’s impact on his worldview elegantly emphasises this point. Macnamara states that the Northland Panels were an “absolute revelation.”92 They allowed him to see the land he had known for seventeen years “in its true light for the first time.”93 Macnamara saw a landscape that was brooding and “alive with power” in McCahon’s paintings. From that point onwards, he claims “[m]y vision was reformed and every day I cherish and adore the landscape with Colin McCahon in my eye.”94 Macnamara states emphatically that McCahon showed him that New Zealand was the Promised Land.95 McCahon’s images are put forward as a filter through which one may view New Zealand in all its natural power. Caselberg offers a revealing personal story about his relationship with McCahon’s art and the ways in which it altered his perceptions: I did not see the paintings at first. Then, after a week or so of living and sleeping among them—and, later, when hitch-hiking on through north Otago’s arching hills and across flat Canterbury, where thin grass blades had begun piercing the gleaming spring-black soil—at night I dreamed of those pictures’ strange new symbols and of their extraordinarily-new fiery colours.96

His understanding and appreciation of the works is directly correlated to an unfolding experience of the New Zealand wilderness, suggesting a primal connection between the two. McCahon’s artworks offer a new mode of seeing this nation. They create a connection between New Zealand and the spiritual voices within his artworks, allowing his audience to find something profound in their everyday surroundings. Testimonies as to this articulation abound. Keith states that McCahon “will always be our voice.”97 He suggests that McCahon approaches the land as a visionary, transcending the limitations of regionalism.98 In this

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way, he helped his audience to stop seeing themselves as part of an English rural outpost, “run by a farming government whose customers were 16,000 miles away.”99 Keith traces this back to the nineteen-sixties, when he noticed a change in the tastes of local audience members: They have begun to feel, at last, some kind of identity; the idea that their existence in these islands is part of an unfair plot to deprive them of the cultural goodies of Europe, is no longer current. It has become more generally recognised that this painting is all we have, all that speaks to us directly, that might arrive at the Universal through our own particular. The imported yardstick now seems less relevant; and once belief is offered, Art must flourish.100

Julian Young agrees that McCahon contributed to the task of “liberating New Zealanders from the need to inhabit pale and ill-fitting identities imported from the mother-country.” He sees art as a signpost to creating local identity, particularly in ex-colonies.101 On a similar note, Caroline McCaw believes McCahon gave “an emerging colonial nation state help to see itself.”102 As late as 1977, Denys Trussell described New Zealand as a relatively modern colony, still unfamiliar to its settlers. He saw it as a primordial land, not explored as a human inspiration. Trussell felt “it is yet to find its way into our culture through the transfiguring power of the imagination.”103 Here he clearly evokes the need to construct New Zealand in a manner that would ascribe meaning; perhaps a little late for the Nationalist Movement but certainly capturing its character. Trussell nominated McCahon as a painter with “an explicit interest in the spirituality of the landscape,” identifying “man’s spiritual hopes and fears with the light and darkness of the earth itself.”104 Trussell’s idea of McCahon as someone who can fill the primordial landscape is also a popular viewpoint. Reflecting on the Nationalist Project and its cultural inheritance, Avril Bell remarks I often think of McCahon at the sight of skeletal New Zealand hills in clear winter light, and recognise my home places when I look at his Northland Panels. The nation may be an invention, but it is one with very real effects and a long afterlife.105

On this same topic of stripping the landscape to its fundamental realities, Young explains: McCahon has shown the fallacy of popular thought by laying bare the land in all its actual and terrifying immensity by exposing the external menaces

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and pressures that erase all pretence of isolation; and yet, though he has removed our supposed Utopia, he has awakened us to the promise that our land holds.106

The archaic magnitude McCahon ascribes to New Zealand is able to empower viewers with the mystical enormity of their surrounds. Trussell offers an interesting take on McCahon’s reformation of the way land is perceived. He suggests the artist brings out a suppressed truth that New Zealanders do not live perfect lives by virtue of their material abundance. He describes the nation as being in a coma symbolised by “the endless, comfy suburbs, the pastel-tinted, soft-quilted bedrooms, the emasculated trees, the manicured lawns.”107 McCahon’s depiction of New Zealand is able to snap viewers out of this mundane life and into spiritual considerations. Agreeing with this viewpoint, Paula Savage believes that McCahon’s art requires us to “acknowledge the spiritual essence of our country.”108 Also in agreement, Mackle opines: This artist, perhaps more than any other has been able to wrest from the distinctive features of the New Zealand terrain their secret powers and combine them with his own spirituality on canvas.109

In these aforementioned viewpoints, there is a strong focus on the idea of the ‘spiritual’, with some clear hesitation in terms of describing the landscape as part of any religious tradition. The idea of a primeval power within the landscape upon which we can construct and deconstruct culture appears to be acceptable within a poetic, nationalistic reading of McCahon. Nevertheless, a few religious comments can also be found. Speaking as part of the Christian discourse, Young has been inspired to feel pride in his homeland via the art of McCahon. He explains, “this land can bear the weight of the Crucifixion and everything that it promises.”110 Through McCahon, Young is able to view his native landscape with reverence and awe. He writes, “[t]he body of Christ is laid to rest amongst New Zealand hills; it is only natural that his resurrection will occur here too.”111 While Young may not literally await the second coming in his homeland, his statement highlights faith in New Zealand as a nation worthy of hosting profound and terrible spiritual events. Also choosing to assign McCahon’s spiritual landscapes to a particular faith, Mossman believes he should be considered as both a New Zealand and Christian artist simultaneously, as “[h]e’s a prophetic figure, his art and his message earthed in this country, where neither art nor Christianity has always had an easy path.”112 McCahon’s efforts to promote a new, parochial view of New Zealand can indeed be correlated with his promotion of a spiritualised landscape.

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Of course, this Christian reading of McCahon’s spiritually inspiring landscapes is a minority one. Peter Bland’s elegy to fellow poet Louis Johnson titled ‘A Last Note from Menton’ epitomises the potential discomfort of Christianity in McCahon’s seminal works. Referring to McCahon, he writes: Well, what’s a little puritan thunder when it gives you the shape and feel of the land? But you’d have none of him. In Mansfield’s study a print of The Virgin as a Jug of Water and the Infant Jesus to a Lamp made you hopping mad. ‘It’s Kiwi Kindergarten stuff… Mum Knows best… the bullying voice of God!’ You slammed the door and drive to Cannes hungry for Matisse, writing back that ‘life’s too short to be preached at! …113

Here Bland includes the common criticism that McCahon’s work is too ‘preachy’, but also includes his persona opinion that religious nagging is worth enduring for the sake of coming to know the local landscape with intimacy. Most audience members—despite an attachment to Judaeo-Christian perceptions of ‘the spirit’ and revelatory prophetic powers—abrogate this Abrahamic discourse. Morris’ treatment of New Zealand’s spiritual character is an excellent lens through which to consider the local landscape as a source of transcendence and communal meaning in a manner that applies to McCahon’s reception. Morris proposes Catherine Albanese’s concept of ‘nature religion’ as a productive lens for viewing the spirituality of New Zealand. He draws attention to her argument that an engagement with the land and nature has formed an integral part of various American spiritualities. Morris feels that the plurality and dynamism of New Zealand belief systems is comparable.114 Indeed, nature is a source of meaningmaking that is broader than a specific religious institution. It is a less exclusive source of symbols, narratives, and emotions that befits a religiously diverse nation in the search for cultural identity. If New Zealand’s spiritual identity resides outside of the normative Protestant Church, perhaps it may reside inside of nature. The above reactions to McCahon’s landscape pieces certainly suggest that it might. Also of importance, Morris believes that crucial nodal moments are points at which deep individual and collective experiences, and spiritual identities, may be formed. Amongst the examples of nodal moments he

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describes are “the experiences of belonging here,” “discovering the somewhere else,” and “the land and our experience and use of it.”115 All of these identity-forming experiences are present in the landscapes of McCahon. His colonisation of the ‘empty’ landscape is a discourse of belonging and discovery. His paintings are a presentation of the landscape in a manner that evokes communal connectivity and outlines a sacred utility of local terrain. In this way, McCahon’s nature spirituality becomes part of the broader, communal New Zealand spirituality. He is effective in his prophecy of nature, which encourages communal bonding over a shared experience of the land that transcends divisive specificities and works towards the articulation of what might be the distinctively New Zealand spirit.

Conclusion McCahon was highly successful in linking the land to spiritual and nationalistic feelings. His art posits the landscape as a symbol of great spiritual power, heavily connected to Christianity. Engaged in a discourse of cultural construction and social development, McCahon also asks his audience to love and know the land. His version of the landscape is a liminal and powerful zone where spiritual lessons may be experienced. McCahon’s symbols of light and dark, ridges on hillsides, and the eternity of the sun across the sky all present ideas of moral and cosmological structure. In his post-war context, McCahon asked his audience to rebuild society in a peaceful and environmentally conscious manner. His art demonstrates a struggle to convince those around him to love the land with the same desperate passion that the artist himself felt. McCahon endeavoured to personify the land as a living being, necessary for our spiritual and physical wellbeing. He also humanised the land as a place coloured by personal memory and emotion. Audience reactions prove an engagement with ideas of primal majesty in local geography, and even recognition of transcendent spiritual qualities in the landscape as the result of these images. McCahon is seen by many as a gateway into the landscape and as a descriptor of wild New Zealand. Rolling hills summon thoughts of his name. He is believed to have captured the ‘real’ New Zealand and created a language with which to define the particularities of a relatively new homeland. Allen Curnow wrote of the “discovery of self in country and country in self” as the characteristic of the best New Zealand poetry, and also the characteristic that makes this body of verse unique within the Anglophone canon.116 This can easily be applied to the achievements of McCahon. His didactic path

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of coming to know the landscape has seen his works prized by his audience and recognised from the uniquely local voice contained therein. McCahon helped PƗkehƗ New Zealanders to imagine the land around them as part of their mythology.117 His landscapes assist in the conceptualising of New Zealand as more than just a colonial backwater. In terms of this aim, his visual rhetoric led to effective communication. McCahon’s vision of Christianity in the New Zealand landscape provides meaning within a culture that looks more readily to its European ancestry than it does to the unique topography that surrounds it. He gives New Zealand validity as a true centre of spiritual and cultural meaning. The nationalistic dimensions of McCahon’s prophecy shine though in this context, and are received and embraced without major reference to religion. The landscape appears to be an appropriate realm for the expression of spiritual feeling, tied to the striking beauty of the natural world and the cultural autonomy of postcolonial New Zealand.

Notes  1

Keith describes landscape as the starting point of McCahon’s art and its major compositional basis for his entire career. Even in his highly abstracted latter-day works Keith argues that McCahon does not abandon the landscape, but rather celebrates its transformation by movements in abstraction. See: Keith, “Towards Auckland,” 9. Johnson agrees that landscape is the theme uniting McCahon’s disparate genres of gesturalism, proto-naive realism, and synthesised abstraction. See: Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 195. Babington states that one of McCahon’s central preoccupations is his “immense respect for the powerful natural spirit inherent within the landscape of New Zealand.” See: Jaklyn Babington, “Colin McCahon: A National Gallery of Australia Focus Exhibition,” National Gallery of Australia, accessed October 5, 2010, http://nga.gov.au/McCahon/2.cfm. 2 In the nineteen-sixties, Keith described landscape art as occupying the bulk of New Zealand’s artistic production. Although he noted an upsurge in urban themes, he called landscape “the most enduring image in New Zealand painting.” See: Keith, introduction to Eight New Zealand Artists. 3 Pound, Frames on the Land, 18. 4 Jones, “Myth and Anti-Myth in Literary Responses to the Centennial,” 207. 5 So long as these artworks are read as landscapes, which is often not the case in his more abstracted pieces. 6 Scholars, including Pound, believe that the notion of landscape itself is an idea imported from Europe. This genre reflects on McCahon’s position as a participant in Western culture and Western art history. See, for example, Pound, Frames on the Land, 11. 7 Illuminating this, Stephen Daniels and Denis Cosgrove argue that “a landscape is a cultural image,” a way of structuring one’s surroundings. See: Stephen Daniels

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 and Denis Cosgrove, introduction to The Iconography of Landscape: Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design and use of Past Environments, eds Stephen Daniels and Denis Cosgrove (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 1. This view is reflected in Pound’s statement that “nature is culture,” perceived through the distortion of language and art. See: Pound, Frames on the Land, 16. 8 Lucaites and Hariman, “Visual Rhetoric, Photojournalism, and Democratic Public Culture,” 37. 9 Trevor James reminds us that landscape is a technical term originating in the graphic arts that carries with it a notion of representation. Therefore, the way a nation views its landscape is key to the way citizens organise their reality and create a distinct identity. This representation is tied to British colonial ventures in which images were used to present the terrain of ‘foreign’ regions to the public ‘at home’. See: Trevor James, ““Pitched at the Farthest Edge”: Religious Presence and the Landscape in Contemporary New Zealand Poetry,” in Mapping the Sacred: Religion, Geography and Postcolonial Literatures, eds Jamie S. Scott and Paul Simpson-Housely (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1991), 131. 10 Nicholas Thomas aptly warns that settler art, which evokes empty landscapes awaiting the inscription of meaning and spiritual content “cannot be seen as a purely pictorial or aesthetic statement.” See: Nicholas Thomas, Possessions: Indigenous Art/Colonial Culture (London: Thames and Hudson, 1999), 21. The erasure of MƗori culture by the Nationalist Project is again evident in this ‘empty’ landscape discourse. 11 Malcolm MacLean, “Making Strange the Country and Making Strange the Countryside: Spatialized Clashes in the Affective Economies of Aotearoa/New Zealand During the 1981 Springbok Rugby Tour,” in Sport and Postcolonialism, eds John Bale and Mike Cronin (Oxford: Berg, 2003), 60. 12 Morris, “New Zealand Spirituality,” 187. 13 Terms employed in this paragraph such as ‘bush’ and ‘farm’ may appear to connote quite different types of landscape. McCahon’s dichotomy of natural and spiritual versus human made and destructive employs a contrast between rural and urban zones. McCahon’s early religious works may even be read as a celebration of low-density agriculture. Certainly, the farm is employed as a symbol of a wholesome and parochial use of natural resources. Conversely, as will be demonstrated with the Gate series, McCahon employed features of the urban landscape as a means of expressing threat and anxiety. McCahon does not automatically categorise all human structures as dangerous or anti-natural, thus it is valid to identify sustainable farming as part of the rural landscape the artist admired and advocated. 14 Turner describes these landscapes as devoid of white settlement but “thriving with natural and spiritual forces.” See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 220. 15 McCahon to Kees Hos [15 Dec. 78] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 6. 16 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 5. This book was a wedding gift from the artist Patrick Hayman. See: Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 5. Easton wonders what would have happened to New Zealand art had this book

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 been on a different topic. See: Easton, The Nationbuilders, 150. Its impact is indeed that dramatic. For example, the Adam Art Gallery’s exhibition ‘An Artist and a Scientist’ (2000) was based around this important connection. Brown believes Geomorphology gave McCahon a vantage point and a direction of where he could travel in his art. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 27. McCahon told Brown that Cotton produced “some of the most superb drawings of New Zealand,” which explained the surface of the country. See: McCahon (1979) in Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 102. 17 Charles C. Eldredge, “Pacific Parallels,” in Pacific Parallels: Artists and the Landscape in New Zealand (Washington DC: The New Zealand-United States Arts Foundation, 1991), 37. 18 Eldredge describes the “bald hill” depiction of terrain as one of the main features of New Zealand landscape art. See: Eldredge, “Pacific Parallels,” 35. 19 These qualities are no accident. McCahon disliked the “feeling of imprisonment” in Henry Moore’s work. See: McCahon to John Caselberg in Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 17. He also complained of the “sense of restriction” one finds in New Zealand. See: Colin McCahon, speech presented to University of Auckland ‘Little’ Congress, Hunua, May, 1963, in Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery. McCahon aims to do the opposite in his own artworks, incorporating a feeling of space and light. 20 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 5. 21 McCahon painted this vista by draping the canvas over three sides of Lusk’s spare bedroom, which gives an impression of its scale. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 4-5. 22 Interestingly, Thomas explains this emptiness as an unusual feature for local painting immediately before and during this time period. Regionalist landscape painters typically inserted signs of industry and historical specificity. As a means of contrast, Thomas employs Lusk’s Canterbury Plains From the Cashmere Hills (1952), which contains pine plantations and a mass of houses over the rolling hills. See: Thomas, Possessions, 21. This demonstrates McCahon’s independence from prevailing generic trends. It also emphasises the religious message in this image. 23 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1. 24 Keith sees the Early Religious Paintings as part of McCahon’s blossoming understanding of New Zealand as a backdrop for “themes of universal significance.” He points out the Nelson hills as a representation of light and dark within human life. See: Hamish Keith, “Colin McCahon,” Art and Australia 6:1 (1968): 61. So too do the Takaka Hills function as a means of linking New Zealand with the universalised narrative of Christianity. As with the Early Religious Works, this act simultaneously seeks to make Christianity modern and immediate. Tomory agrees the work renders “eternal symbols of Man’s hope and anguish as contemporaneous.” See: Tomory, “Painting 1890-1950,” 10. This intense spiritual drama is a reaction to prevailing mundane artistic representations of local terrain. Keith states that, in New Zealand, “in general the landscape is passive, even indifferent. Possibly this very indifference might supply the reason for some 150 years of obsession. Or more simply the landscape may occupy the central place

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 merely by default, for there has certainly been little else to occupy the artist.” See: Keith, introduction to Eight New Zealand Artists. McCahon does not centralise the landscape because there is nothing else to reflect upon. He centralises it as a fundamental part of his Christian discourse. 25 Representing the former, Coley presents McCahon’s landscapes as a place where vulnerable humans could be swallowed by the bush or destroyed on unforgiving mountains. See: Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. Nevertheless, his vision is far from negative. Leonard sees McCahon’s empty land as a place waiting to be named and settled, a place awaiting culture. In this way, he reads the unpopulated landscapes as zones that call forth the possibility of the Promised Land. Leonard describes this concept as a “utopian reconciliation of the people and the place.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 26. Congruently, Brown observes “a powerful rhythmic force as if the hills were giant waves, parted as a passage to a promised land.” Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 24. 26 Colin McCahon, “Necessary Protection” in “Artists and the Environment,” Art New Zealand 77 (1977), accessed March 31, 2010, http://www.art-newzealand.co m/Issues1to40/environcm.htm. 27 McCahon, “Necessary Protection.” 28 Colin McCahon in Curnow, McCahon’s “Necessary Protection”, 6; Colin McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’ Catalogue (Auckland: Barry Lett Galleries, 1971). 29 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 8. 30 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 24. 31 Therefore, Green does not view McCahon’s 1957 Titirangi paintings as a reversion to Impressionism. Rather, he sees them as a means of finding repeatable symbology in the landscape. The ubiquitous kauri of McCahon’s early landscapes is transformed into “straight lines and arcs of a circle.” Green compares this process to the graphic design of road signs where objects are pared down to a basic symbol and repeated. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 32-33. 32 John Daly-Peoples suggests that McCahon’s kauri trees were “the one constant against which man could be measured – particularly man’s destructive attitude towards the environment.” See: John Daly-Peoples, “Luise Fong, Titirangi Comes to Wellington,” The National Business Review, August 13, 2009, accessed May 3, 2010, http://www.nbr.co.nz/article/luise-fong-titirangi-comes-wellington-107420. 33 Usefully, McNamara compares McCahon’s kauri trees in the Wake panels to a sacred grove, part of “a grand, elegiac ceremony.” He believes that the felling of the kauri trees speaks of the murder of beauty. See: T.J. McNamara, “McCahon’s Answering Hark,” New Zealand Herald, accessed August 30, 2010, http://www.nz herald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=180437. 34 Pound compares this artwork to Coastal Profiles From Mt Egmont to Queen Charlotte Sound by Charles Heaphy (c. 1842). He refers to McCahon’s work as different from Heaphy’s in that it aims to show the passing of time in a mental journey and describe states of mind as opposed to depicting the coastline in the fashion of Heaphy’s typical strip landscape. See: Pound, Frames on the Land, 56; Pound, “Topographies,” 124.

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35 Brown agrees that this artwork refer to the artist’s own creation “of what for him was the Promised Land.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 26. Pound believes it “is in many ways the summary of the early Nationalist endeavour … six days of the painter’s creation of a country.” See: Pound, “Topographies,” 124. 36 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 223. 37 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 127. 38 Pound, The Space Between, 101. 39 Pound, “Topographies,” 124. 40 T.J. McNamara, “Artists’ Gloom and Doom Part of Gallery Splendour,” New Zealand Herald, December 17, 2011, accessed July 2, 2012, http://www.nzherald.c o.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=10773785. The Curnow poem he references is “Landfall in Unknown Seas”. 41 Pound sees the panels as “charts of a country to be found and formed in the flight of the mind. See: Pound, “Topographies,” 124. The word ‘flight’ evokes the flight from Egypt—the Biblical flight to the Promised Land—that was core to McCahon’s expression of ‘inventing’ New Zealand. ‘Flight’ also evokes travel and development of the individual, as seen via McCahon’s aeroplane/soul motif. 42 Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 27. 43 Pound, The Space Between, 101. 44 The Northland Panels are praised for their contribution to modern art in New Zealand. This is, in part, due to McCahon’s deviation from pre-existent trends of communication. For example, Keith feels that the panels deliver their strongest message via scale as opposed to pictorial content. See: Keith, “Contemporary Developments,” 167. 45 This panel seems to combine Rothko with Malevich, although it is important to read McCahon’s piece as part of a different conceptual sphere. Indeed, the artist nearly ended his friendship with O’Reilly when he persisted in promoting Tessai’s scrolls as the major influence for McCahon’s hanging panels. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 93; Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 137. 46 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 96. 47 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 129. Williams agrees that the “raw” landscapes of Northland Panels “are neither romantic nor placid enough to advertise New Zealand visually.” See: Williams, “Parade,” 17. 48 Fitzgerald, for example, believes that Northland Panels with “their alternate notes of hope and despair, is his song of the earth.” See: Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining.” 49 Woollaston sees McCahon’s landscapes as representative of how minor the human relationship with New Zealand has been. He uses the thin, white road as an example of this scale. He believes that it represents “a ribbon of sentiment, hope, or endeavour, against the enormous heaviness of the hills.” See: Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 50 McCahon [May 1963] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 94. 51 McCahon [May 1963] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 94. 52 In a discussion of Baxter, Trevor James notes the meaningful tension between self and landscape that is presented in this New Zealand poetic tradition. (The text he specifically refers to is Baxter’s ‘Poem in the Matukituki Valley’). His

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 observation of the “limitations of language against the vast scale of the natural order” can easily be applied to McCahon and his Northland Panels. See: James, ““Pitched at the Farthest Edge”,” 142. James describes the human figure in Baxter’s landscape as ill at ease and half aware. He postulates that this may be a reflection of Baxter’s beliefs in a rudimentary connection to God via the lingering imago dei. Thus unfamiliarity with the created universe is only partial, and its revelations are not entirely alien. See: James, ““Pitched at the Farthest Edge”,” 142. The Northland Panels negotiate a similar narrative of the modern human in a new and vast environment that can be strange and menacing. At the same time, it is a world that McCahon believes can be known via the transcendent spirituality that links human with God and the land. 53 Paton, Jeffrey Harris, 29. 54 McCahon seriously considered destroying this artwork, as the “drunken cry of the inscriptions embarrassed him.” Later, he donated the triptych to the Hocken Library to be kept for research purposes only, never to be shown in a public exhibition. Brown is unsure if he remembered to stipulate these specific conditions. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 3, 185. 55 Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 56 These comments were generously provided by Grimshaw to the author in 2012. 57 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 30. Sadly, this plan did not work out. The paintings were framed for display at the Ikon Gallery in May of 1963, as their edges were deemed too curly. See: McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 41. In 1994, owners of McCahon’s latter-day artworks were warned not to correct any artworks that may “curl in an unsightly manner” without professional assistance, suggesting that the presentation of McCahon’s unstretched canvas and jute has been an ongoing concern. See: Tom Vickers, “Caring for Paintings in Your Collection,” Colin McCahon Research and Publication Trust Newsletter 4 (1994): 4. 58 McCahon’s statement about Landscape Themes and Variations was made after negative public reception to the abstracted Painting and the second Gate series. See: Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’.” 59 Indeed, Brown believes the rawness of his paint and the unframed canvas was a means of transcending the interference between picture and viewer as caused by the framing experience. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 102. 60 This reading has been shared by a few prominent respondents to McCahon’s work. For example, Jim Barr reads the bulbous forms against the simple sky as a reference to the relationship between God and man, with the latter encompassing the former. He sees the procession of hills as “reminders of the continuum of the land across which man tracks his fleeting life. They are also a reminder of the other great continuum; God and man’s uneasy relationship with him.” See: Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery. McNamara believes that the Landscape Themes and Variations panels have an active, narrative quality. He explains, “in their solemnity they suggest the dark seriousness of our landscape. But over some of the ridges and beyond the horizons there is light which is a feeling and spirit that invites a quest.” See: McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.”

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William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 33. Colin McCahon [1967] in Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’.” 63 As Brown describes it, “a general principle gains its clarity through its reference to the particular.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 6. 64 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 88. Brown explains that the humanisation of the landscape was a rare occurrence in New Zealand painting. See: Gordon H. Brown, “The Nineteen-Forties,” in An Introduction to New Zealand Painting 1839-1967, by Gordon H. Brown and Hamish Keith (Auckland: Collins, 1969), 139. In opposition to this, McCahon’s student Wood recalls that, in his painting classes, McCahon “emphasised that the human expressive element was more important than anything else. See: Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 81. 65 Indeed, Fitzgerald believes that “how to spiritually inhabit the land was McCahon's abiding theme.” See: Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining.” These artworks certainly support such a reading. 66 Pound, “Topographies,” 131. Pound illustrates his statements with The Green Plain (1948). The simplicity and anti-‘grand view’ aesthetic can easily be applied to North Otago Landscapes, for example. 67 Pound, “Topographies,” 131. 68 Brasch to McCahon [12 Dec. 47] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 14. 69 Andrew Clifford, “Back in Black: Dark Undercurrents in Music Down Under,” in Black: The History of Black in Fashion, Society and Culture in New Zealand (Auckland: Penguin Books, 2012), 180. 70 Clifford, “Back in Black,” 180. Clifford specifically mentions the “dark mossy palette” of McCahon’s late paintings in his discussion. 71 Graham Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne,” March 19, 2001, accessed February 19, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/arts/news/article.cfm?c_id=544&obj ectid=177926&pnum=0. 72 Caselberg, “Titirangi as Art,” 51. 73 Pound, Frames on the Land, 11. 74 Pound, Frames on the Land, 15, 28. 75 Pound, Frames on the Land, 11. 76 Thomas, Possessions, 21. 77 Calder, “Getting the McCahon Message.” 78 “Twenty Who Shaped a Nation,” New Zealand Herald, January 1, 2000, accessed August 16, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1 &objectid=107572. Indeed, A McCahon painting was suggested as an artistic element that could temper Royal portraits in the Auckland Town Hall, representing the city as it is in the modern era. See: Christine Fletcher in Martin Johnston, “Council in Late Night Raid on Queen,” New Zealand Herald, March 13, 2000, accessed July 20, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&o bjectid=125139. 79 Cliff Pratt, May 14, 1999 (3:00 a.m.), comment on soc.culture.new-zealand, accessed July 22, 2011, http://groups.google.com/group/soc.culture.newzealand/browse_thread/thread/d5472d7815f1af40/a2bf60690ae5407?pli=1. 62

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Vivienne Plumb, “Vivienne Plumb” in Spiritcarvers, ed. Antonella Sarti (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998), 176. 81 Nagesh Seethiah, May 20, 2010 (6:02 p.m.), comment on “Final Giveaway: The Ultimate Art Lover's Prize Pack,” My Modern Met, May 20, 2010, accessed November 16, 2010, http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blog/show?id=21004 45%3ABlogPost%3A229342&xg_source=activity&page=2#comments. 82 Paul Ward, “Colin McCahon: The Luminary,” in The New Zealand Edge, accessed March 9, 2011, http://www.nzedge.com/heroes/mccahon.html. 83 Pratt, comment on soc.culture.new-zealand. 84 Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining.” 85 To demonstrate this in a rather literal way, McCahon provided two illustrated plates for the Shell Guide to New Zealand (1968), showing a stylised version of unpeopled scenery. See: Shadbolt, The Shell Guide to New Zealand, 273, 305. 86 “Kids See McCahon Hills,” Capital Times, March 26, 2008, accessed March 3, 2010, http://www.capitaltimes.co.nz/article/1737/KidsseeMcCahonhills.html. 87 Edmond, Dark Night, 184. 88 Albert Wendt, Black Rainbow [1992] (United States of America: University of Hawai’i Press, 1995), 65. 89 Jenny Gibbs in Ian Walker, “The NZ Paint Job,” Background Briefing, April 11, 1999, accessed November 29, 2010, http://www.abc.net.au/rn/backgroundbriefing/ stories/1999/22310.htm. 90 Gibbs in Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” 91 Buchanan, “Colin McCahon: A Time for Messages,” 40. 92 Galvan Macnamara, “Sister Galvan – Talks about Colin McCahon,” 2004, accessed February 11, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnyWRyzpS0w, 2.18. 93 Macnamara, “Sister Galvan – Talks about Colin McCahon,” 2.18. 94 Macnamara, “Sister Galvan – Talks about Colin McCahon,” 2.18. 95 Macnamara, “Sister Galvan – Talks about Colin McCahon,” 2.18. 96 Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” 97 Keith in Vangioni, “Colin McCahon: An Interview with Hamish Keith,” 29. 98 Keith, “Colin McCahon,” 61. 99 Hamish Keith in Ihaka, “Titirangi Pays Homage to Famous Son.” 100 Keith, introduction to Eight New Zealand Artists. 101 Julian Young, Nietzsche’s Philosophy of Art [1992] (United Kingdom: University of Cambridge Press, 1999), 75. 102 McCaw, “Art and (Second) Life.” 103 Denys Trussell, “Editorial: Landscape, Civilisation and New Zealanders,” Art New Zealand, accessed March 9, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to4 0/editorial07.htm. 104 Trussell, “Landscape, Civilisation and New Zealanders.” 105 Avril Bell, “‘That Strange Fissure Opened by Discovery/Invention’: The Invention of New Zealand in Art: Review Essay of Francis Pound (2007) The Invention of New Zealand: Art & National Identity, 1930-1970,” New Zealand Sociology 26:2 (2011): 101.

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Young, “Colin McCahon.” Denys Trussell, “Exhibitions: Auckland,” Art New Zealand, accessed July 23, 2009, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/exhibitions03akdt.htm. 108 Paula Savage in “McCahon – A View from Urewera,” AbsoluteArts, November 5, 1999, accessed July 8, 2009, http://www.absolutearts.com/artsnews/1999/11/05/26124.html. 109 Anthony Mackle, Colin McCahon: The Mystical Landscape (Wellington: National Art Gallery, 1983). 110 Young, “Colin McCahon.” 111 Young, “Colin McCahon.” 112 Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 113 Peter Bland, “A Last Note From Menton,” [1988] in The Colour of Distance: New Zealand Writers in France and French Writers in New Zealand, eds Jenny Bornholdt and Gregory O’Brien (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2005), 194. 114 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 250. 115 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 251. 116 Allen Curnow, introduction, The Penguin Book of New Zealand Verse, 21. 117 One might argue that New Zealand is presently perceived in terms of ‘Middle Earth’, based on the popularity of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the forthcoming Hobbit trilogy (filmed in New Zealand). These films have are internationally associated with contemporary New Zealand identity. Considering the antiindustrial message of these texts, they do not actually conflict with the landscape as presented by McCahon. 107

CHAPTER SIX NECESSARY PROTECTION AT MURIWAI

The coastal location of Muriwai is a key source of symbols and theological exploration within Colin McCahon’s oeuvre. His Muriwai artworks illuminate local landscape as both a fragile and a protective force. The land is presented as a source of spiritual nourishment that must be preserved, or at least memorialised, before it is lost. McCahon aims to show how the landscape is a site of spiritual transcendence by promoting the Muriwai cliffs as an axis mundi. They form a literal and symbolic connection between God and earth as symbolised in the Tau cross. This recurrent motif in McCahon’s oeuvre acts as a physical representation of Muriwai, a sign of transcendent spirituality, a reference to prophecy, and a bridge between Old and New Testaments.1 The overall meaning of this symbol is a gate through which sacred power and understanding may travel as a salve to spiritual darkness. Using his symbolic lexicon, McCahon reconstructs Muriwai as a lesson concerning the human soul. Depicted as a nestling, a cross, or an aeroplane, the soul is developed in the nest of ‘Necessary Protection’ and must take a leap of faith in order to mature. According to McCahon, to preserve the fragile ecosystem of Muriwai is to preserve the human connection to God and a language by which we may understand the journey of faith. McCahon’s religiosity was worldaffirming and posited environmentalism as a prophetic duty. Therefore, the complex Necessary Protection artworks are intended as a means of exposing the connection between Muriwai ecology and McCahon’s syncretic Christian theology. McCahon’s move from abstraction to realism, and his ongoing reimagining and unpacking of a symbolic lexicon, is evidence of this pedagogical drive. Building on the notion of McCahon’s artworks as lessons, this chapter examines the reactions of his audience. The complexity and obscurity of his Necessary Protection symbolic lexicon was challenging in terms of viewer engagement. Considering the high standards of reception that McCahon set for himself, superficial reactions to his imagery did not satisfy his prophetic aims.

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Symbols of Necessary Protection An important spiritual application of the New Zealand landscape is in the Necessary Protection series of the early nineteen-seventies.2 These artworks combine McCahon’s Christian faith with the spiritual power he garnered from the land.3 McCahon found the landscape to be a rich source of symbols, which he wished to share with others. In 1973, he encouraged his painting students to walk in the bushland of Muriwai so as to observe the configuration of the land and its textures. He argued that the structure of a leaf could provide ample inspiration for the colours, shapes, and imagery within an artwork.4 In McCahon’s own art, these natural forms took on a deeply religious meaning. In addition to the natural world as muse, McCahon also sees the native environment of New Zealand as exceptionally protective. He explains: Up north the manuka hangs fiercely to the land form. It is a protective skin, it protects the land it needs and the land gives it life and a season of red and pink and white flowering. Take the manuka and the land is lost. This situation is the one I refer to in all the paintings and drawings that belong to the family I call Necessary Protection.5

McCahon presents the land as something fragile and temporal. His environmentalist spirituality emerges in a warning that we may lose this protection through improper treatment.6 McCahon sources his power from the local environment, naming an indigenous shrub as the totem of protection. He describes artworks based on “what we have got now and will never have again” as “the subject of my painting for a long time.”7 He wished to achieve this before the sky turned to soot and the sea became “a slowly heaving rubbish tip.”8 Unpacking the concept of ‘Necessary Protection’ requires an understanding of Muriwai geography. McCahon’s The View From the Top of the Cliff series (1971) is a good introductory point to depictions of this region, and exemplifies the spiritual depth of McCahon’s environmentalism. The artist states that “the view from the top of the cliff” is a depiction of Muriwai and Ahipara, evidencing the geographical interchangeability of these sites.9 The piece of land this series is based upon was up for sale at the time of painting. McCahon and his wife were unable to purchase it due to a lack of funds. He lamented, “buying so often has to do with destruction and exploitation.”10 Again, we see the word of commerce and mechanism paired with devastation and placed in opposition to the gentle nourishment of the natural world.11

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The View From the Top of the Cliff no. 2 shows a realistic ocean filled with seaweed and rocks, bobbing under the luminous yellow sky of sunset. The View From the Top of the Cliff is taken from the same vantage point further into the gloaming, with the sky and the sea reflecting a deep crimson shade.12 These views, devoid of human impact, were already partially imaginary. The Muriwai cliff that inspired these works was besieged by quarrying and sullied by rubbish on the beach below.13 In McCahon’s happier rendition, the sky is filled with floating objects. These symbols can be read as birds, comets, or planes. The minute details of these artworks are consciously created and deeply meaningful. For example, the absence of foreground purposefully creates a sense of vertigo and implies the act of jumping in a very immediate sense. When McCahon’s Muriwai artworks are examined as a whole, these details may be more readily appreciated. Another vital element of the Necessary Protection series is the Tau cross, a symbol repeatedly used in McCahon’s body of work. This cross symbol originated with an event during McCahon’s childhood in which a parachutist died during a stunt on the North Otago hills. A cross was erected in memoriam, and McCahon repeated both this symbol and the hills themselves in numerous subsequent paintings.14 The Tau cross is an ancient symbol within Christianity. On a personal level, it was a symbol of life and death in Otago for McCahon, making it as local and specific as it is international and interfaith. McCahon describes the symbolism of the Tau cross and associated letters as “very simple.” He writes The I of the sky, falling light and enlightened land, is also ONE. The T of sky and light falling into a dark landscape is also the T of the Tau or Old Testament or Egyptian cross.15

By employing the letters ‘I’ and ‘T’, McCahon engages in spiritual symbolism, embroiled in the importance of light, land, and Christianity. His claims of simplicity are perhaps too optimistic. The symbology of the Tau cross is extraordinarily complex and has spawned a large amount of critical discourse. Various theorists have described the Tau cross as a symbol of the self, a symbol of transcendence, a symbol of the reciprocation between God and humankind, a symbol of prophecy, and a gate symbol. It is a multifarious icon with a great deal of scholarship assigned to its intricacies. Light travels upwards and downwards in McCahon’s vision. The cross is both the disseminating light of enlightenment from above and the earthbound soul moving towards salvation. His Tau represents the relationship between the human and God.16 Because of this, McCahon specified that

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his Necessary Protection artworks are “about the Almighty looking after us.”17 In terms of the human component, various useful readings have been offered in relation to denotations of ‘I’. It has been seen as the Roman numeral for one, the self of the artist, and the ‘eye’ of the viewer.18 It has also been read as a denotation of unity and singularity.19 Expanding this into the reciprocal divinity paradigm, William McCahon describes his father’s ‘I’ as his inner self, representing an internal journey. He thus perceives artworks such as Days and Nights in the Wilderness Showing the Constant Flow of Light Passing Through the Wall of Death (1971) as recognition of the connection between the cosmos and all humanity, which are bonded under the ‘I’ and by the ochre tones. These earthy colours remind us that we are made from the same atoms as each other and the earth, originating from the same astronomical matter, and forming part of the same greater cosmos.20 Based on these readings, McCahon’s Tau cross and his associated ‘I’ may be understood as totems of spiritual interrelativity that bind together the personal with the universal on a number of potential levels. McCahon indicates a specifically scriptural basis for his symbols. The artist writes that his Necessary Protection artworks are based on days and nights in the wilderness – a reference to the life of Christ.21 McCahon’s Tau has also been proposed as a bridge between New and Old Testaments.22 The earlier books of the Bible have indeed influenced him in his prophetic role and symbolic lexicon. In terms of the Old Testament, connections have been made between the Tau cross and the Israelites. According to some narratives, the Tau cross was placed on the doors of the Hebrew people on the night of the original Passover.23 The cross also evokes Moses as a figure of liberation and prophetic leadership. It has been read as the pillar of smoke and fire that guided the Jewish people through the wilderness in Exodus.24 The Tau has been described as the stave Moses hoisted before his journey into the wilderness and towards the Promised Land.25 The Tau also can be viewed as a gate or passageway. Indeed, Edmond points out that the Tau cross is also known as the Egyptian cross, possibly due to its similarity to the Ankh – the Egyptian symbol of life. He mentions its use as a key to unlocking the gates of death, and as a Coptic Christian symbol of the afterlife.26 Edmond sees the Tau as both obstacle and portal like the monolith in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).27 Although this analogy may seem incongruent, McCahon often presents symbols that simultaneously depict resistance and gateways.28 For those who are hampered by faith, the Tau cross—and, by extension, Christ—can be read as an impasse. Conversely, the cross and Christ are a

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means of transcending spiritual obstruction if one chooses to view them as a gateway rather than a blockade. Despite the confounding complexity of this vast range of meaning, all possible definitions should be kept in mind when approaching an ‘I’ or Tau-based artwork. A multilayered approach to symbology is best when dealing with McCahon. The small Days and Nights series (1971) are a precursor to Necessary Protection. These three artworks are thus useful in decoding the perceived functions of the Tau and ‘I’ based on their titles: The Days and Nights in the Wilderness Showing the Constant Flow of Light Passing into a Dark Landscape, The Days and Nights in the Wilderness Showing the Constant Flow of Light Passing Through the Wall of Death, and The Days and Nights in the Wilderness: A Constant Flow of Light Falls on the Land. These titles form an obvious connection to the struggles of Christ, and also signpost a connection to wilderness.29 In addition to this, the titles draw attention to the denotations of light and dark within the works. The areas of negative space are described as a black landscape and the ‘wall of death’. The orange ‘T’ and ‘I’ symbols are connected to light that penetrates darkness and falls upon the land. This dark void is a testing ground for formless spiritual matters.30 Brown calls McCahon’s ‘wilderness’ a site for self-exploration, comparable to that which Christ ventured into.31 In keeping with his prophetic duties, it is likely that McCahon wished to inspire a similar journey in his audience, or to communicate the results of his own spiritual explorations via his symbolic lexicon. In terms of the golden light in the void, McCahon describes his artworks in the inscription to The Days and Nights in the Wilderness Showing the Constant Flow of Light Passing into a Dark Landscape as “Homage to [Petrus] van der Velden.”32 McCahon was particularly inspired by van der Velden’s motto: “Colour is light— light is love—Love is God.”33 Within the darkness of human doubt and mortality, McCahon places the transcendent glory of a loving God. The Necessary Protection series formally commenced in 1971 with a highly abstracted exploration of the Tau cross, exemplified in Necessary Protection. These initial artworks, most of which carry the same name, are pared down to repetitive shapes based on this Tau. A clue as to their meaning is found in Necessary Protection Passing Through the Wall of Death, which presents a philosophy on maturation34 and connects the bright and dark spaces to the content of the Days and Nights paintings. Although it is not immediately clear from these images, the two blocks of colour represent a cliff by the ocean and a vertical stack of rocks called Motutara Island. These rocks form the well-known gannet colony off the coast of Muriwai, which is an important symbol within McCahon’s body

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of work. So meaningful was this location that McCahon’s ashes were scattered there by his family.35 McCahon did not seek or move towards abstract refinement for its own sake. Many of his artworks show a progression towards recognisable scenery, including the Necessary Protection series. This is a demonstration of the primacy of prophetic communication in McCahon’s aims as a painter. He did not wish for his message of ‘Necessary Protection’ to be lost or ignored. As such, the Light Falling Through a Dark Landscape artworks (1971-1972) help to emphasise the naturalistic elements of the Necessary Protection series. Muriwai. Rain. Light Falls Through a Dark Landscape contains the washed-out impression of a deluge. McCahon’s diagonal strokes allude to rain falling between the cliffs. Cross II shows a sunrise or sunset between the cliffs, in which a band of yellow light illuminates the sand. Light Falling Though a Dark Landscape employs realistic beachside colours. The sea and sand meet, creating turquoise foam as brown birds flutter through the vivid blue sky. Light Passing Through a Dark Landscape depicts a murky seashore, a blue and yellow sky filled with sunlight, and a flock of birds. Here, McCahon makes it clear that his ‘Necessary Protection’ dwells within nature. The metaphysical light of spiritual enlightenment is clearly correlated with the sunlight illuminating Muriwai. In 1972, McCahon produced Muriwai: Necessary Protection, an artwork clearly depicting a local beach. The ‘I’ and/or Tau cross symbol may be found in the left-hand corner. The base of this motif is the ocean, and the top is woven from the sky. The cliffs of Necessary Protection carve out its sides. McCahon clarifies his symbol by placing it in the environment from which it was spawned. This didactic migration away from abstraction is a manifestation of McCahon’s desire to teach and reform his pupils. He did not aim to explore the formalist purity of colour and form. He aimed to deliver a message that was heavily engrained in the landscape.36 Once more, the enlightenment of God is presented in the bright yellow sunshine and ocean foam. McCahon’s spiritual guidance is clearly founded in the physical world of New Zealand as much as it is in the timeless metaphysics represented by geometric patterns.37 This multi-layered series offers numerous viewpoints and readings.38 In many of the works, one’s perspective varies between a naturalistic scene and areas of pure symbolic colour. For example, from one vantage, A Necessary Protection Landscape (1972) looks like dark cliffs in a choppy ocean, offset by birds hovering in the sky. Additionally, the dichromatic rectangles recall McCahon’s blackboard style of writing with calligraphy on a plain background. Vision can shift from a reading of

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black rectangles surrounded by a white background to the inverse. The white area of the work can be seen as a distinct letter ‘I’ on McCahon’s dark chalkboard. There is no set way to view this image, and the artist officially endorses no one perspective. This allows the viewer to vacillate between—or correlate—numerous forms of spiritual significance. The Necessary Protection series is a journey towards McCahon’s spiritual views on landscape, where lessons about its power are accumulated by an evolving understanding of his symbolism.39 The aforementioned symbol of birds, represented in A Necessary Protection Landscape as small dots, is recurrent throughout McCahon’s body of work. In associated artworks, these are named as gannets and godwits.40 Importantly, McCahon has also used small dots to represent souls ascending to heaven, and the path of a soul on its journey of maturation. Birds function as his symbol of the human spirit.41 The Care of Small Birds: Muriwai (1975) shows the cliffs as protectors of birdlife, coupled with the complicated symbol of the Catholic rosary beads/string of roses/Polynesian necklace.42 This image borrows strongly from the Rosegarden series (1974), which focuses on the rosary.43 McNamara believes that the necklace beads symbolise “precious things” and reveal the birds as a “great treasure.”44 This emphasises both the precious natural world and the treasure of the human soul. McCahon also saw birds as an anti-materialist motif. He noted that the fairy terns of Muriwai are taught to fly, swim, and find food regardless of human intrusion in the area. They exist outside of the mundane world of rubbish and cliff-top parties.45 McCahon’s tiny dots form a very complicated web of symbology and implied meaning. McLeavey Sat Here (1975), a sketch made with felt pen, adds a further dimension of clarification to the Muriwai artworks. The title refers to Peter McLeavey, McCahon’s Wellington dealer. This preparatory drawing shows a ‘T’ shape made from rock formations against the ocean. McCahon writes “Necessary………..Protection” across them. The Tau emerges from the landscape, bringing protection that speaks both of natural structures and of Christ. McCahon also reiterates his Polynesian necklace symbology, refers to the dots as small birds, and explains the local origins of his ‘Moby Dick’ theme. This is a good companion piece to the sketch known as Untitled [Oaia Sits and Nibbles the Sea] (1972), which was created for Caselberg as a guide to the Muriwai landforms of the Necessary Protection series.46 The artwork claims to provide “a sense of accuracy to both views.” Landmarks are pointed out such as the black sand beach and Oaia Island, which appears to have an eye. .

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Importantly, a dashed path marks out where “a bird flies through.” In another path of movement, a figure appears to be sliding off the “ROCK WAVE.” McCahon explains “we are looking down to the Far North where my home really is.” This trajectory forms a dashed line with the caption “200 Ft.” It is clear that McCahon wished to emphasise his recurring motifs, rather than allowing them to be lost within the rhetoric of formalist abstraction. Indeed, McCahon claimed that his drawings generally follow the paintings they connect to, rather than preceding them. He describes said drawings as “just solving the problems I didn’t solve at first in the paintings.”47 Clarification of symbolic ambiguities is the cause of this revision. McCahon’s Jet Out sketches expand upon cross-based symbology used for the human soul.48 They were created in a period when McCahon was considering the ramifications of death. After one of his friends lost his wife, McCahon pondered on a gift to commemorate his viduity. It took him a year to decide on Muriwai (1974). In the meantime, he was inspired to create the Jet Out series. So ingrained is their connection, that Muriwai is usually hung with one of these drawings by its side.49 It is thus unsurprising that this series deals with symbology concerning the posthumous journey of the soul. Rowe has traced McCahon’s use of aeroplanes as a symbol of the human spirit dating back to their historically inaccurate insertion in I Paul to You at Ngatimote.50 This series is as an important development of the soul motif, which sits in dialogue with seemingly disparate portions of McCahon’s oeuvre. Many theories have been posed regarding the symbolic layering of the flying cross.51 Aeroplane and Necessary Protection of Easter 1973 helps to illuminate these ambiguities. Based on the artwork’s title, the Westernised Christian cross can be seen as a landing aircraft.52 The flight of a plane makes for an obvious comparison to the bird/soul symbol alighting from the Muriwai coast. In the related Beach Walk Series A painting, Brown observes vapour trails from aircraft penetrating through the mist of Muriwai like shafts of light. He connects these “straight and certain” pathways to aircraft, sure of their destinations, that have left the scene.53 McCahon’s plane is a dynamic symbol, connecting the human soul to Christ whilst encouraging spiritual development and experimentation. Later Might I Too Walk the Beach (1973) anticipates McCahon’s own death. It is important to note that these sketches are Easter ruminations, which connect them to the death of Christ. McCahon seems to ponder the death of prophets and the movement of the soul. It is not surprising that the Auckland Art Gallery categorises this sketch under the subject heading ‘belief & doubt’.54 The 1973 Jet Out sketch titled Rustic Bird Roost for

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Vultures continues this comparison between Christian crosses, flight, and birds. The dominant cross is protection for birds as well as a symbol for their flight. The cross is presented as a place where the soul can roost. The associated Boy, I Would Say, Get Out of Easter 1973, however, seems to be a forced ejection. McCahon appears vehement that the soul fly away from the protective cove of Muriwai. The major questions presented by these artworks are where the planes are flying to, and why is the viewer ejected from the nourishing safety of a Muriwai nest via McCahon’s ‘GET OUT’ command. The first question is answered by works such as Jet Out from Ahipara and Jet Plane to Reinga and the Three Kings. Traditional MƗori belief systems include the notion of a non-substantial part of the human being that becomes separated from the physical body after death. This entity is known as the wairua, which is translated into English as soul or spirit. This spirit migrates to an afterworld known as Reinga, which it accesses via a walk northwards. The spirit eventually reaches a leaping place, which is now known as Cape Reinga, and jumps from this point into the realm of the dead.55 Although he references MƗori concepts, McCahon presents these ideas via Christian symbols. Jet Out From Muriwai Beach shows McCahon’s aeroplane cross symbol taking off with the captions “JET OUT FROM MURIWAI BEACH” and “save yourself the walk to Spirits Bay.” Being that Spirits Bay is a small beach near Cape Reinga, McCahon appears to invalidate the necessity for a walk to the afterlife. Perhaps McCahon is claiming that the crucifixion has permitted a relaxation of the need to posthumously conduct this ritual. McCahon’s Jump series helps to further explain this strange command. His idea of ‘Necessary Protection’ is built upon the security of the Muriwai gannet colony where the nestlings are born and raised. In nature, nestlings must burst free of their protective nests as part of the maturation process. The Necessary Protection artworks are a safe place for the spirit to grow. Once this time is over, the spirit must make greater leaps of faith like a bird who has grown mature wings. On this note, there is some debate as to where the complexities of this lesson came from. William McCahon believes that the original meaning of the series was a discussion on how one’s parents are a nourishing force, and the subsequent difficulty found in leaping away from them in order to interact with God.56 This reading specifically eschews the bird allegory. William McCahon believes that his father invented this story because Barry Lett was concerned that the abstract Necessary Protection series would not appeal to buyers.57 This statement is also likely to be a dismissal of Brown’s recollections. Brown recounts McCahon’s particular observations of the Muriwai gannet

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colony, which led to this series. The artist had already determined that the rocky outcrop where the birds nested was a protective force. He then came to realise that it was also an obstacle. The gannets would have to negotiate strong offshore winds to land in their nests, and had a great height to dive from when fishing. Thus the chasm between the cliffs of the mainland and the nesting refuge on Motutara Island was a ‘necessary protection’, which also had to be conquered for the sake of survival and progression.58 In his Jump series, McCahon intended to discuss the tension between freedom and protection that was so neatly represented in the natural structures of Muriwai. Whatever the specific origin of this symbolism, McCahon clearly prioritises the need for a person to jump away from security in order to mature. This allegory also works on a personal level for the artist. After interviewing McCahon, Sheridan Keith came to the conclusion that his studio was a sacred place where his unfinished artworks were given protection. She describes it as a sanctuary where new paintings that still required his protection resided before they took on their independent lives.59 This is a clear reflection of the philosophy espoused in the Necessary Protection and Jump series. Debuting new material outside of the protective studio was a risky act for McCahon, but one that was necessary for his communication with an audience. McCahon’s art is not just about the protective side of the spirit. It is about pushing limitations for the sake of greater discovery. Larking notes a connection between McCahon and Tessai’s names in Jump E19, which are linked via a dotted line. He suggests that this represents McCahon’s “fledgling’s leap” from the departed Tessai and his respected oeuvre to McCahon’s own signature on the bottom of the panel.60 Yet again, McCahon shows the importance of moving away from the safety of other artists and leaping into one’s own representational style and communicative choices. Three Jumps (1974) provides a clear example of how this series continues on the dialogue of Necessary Protection. The middle panel shows a Tau cross, while the others depict cliff faces of Muriwai. The naturalistic choice of colours makes the scene appear dark and stormy. The structures seem to be cloaked in sea mist. The command ‘JUMP’, written in an imperative manner, is repeated on each panel. Dotted diagonal lines cut across the work, marking out the trajectory of the jump and alluding to its spiritual dimensions. The work is forceful via its direct demands, which match the complex interplay between faith and fear that can be observed in McCahon’s imagery.61 Through this artwork, McCahon asks us to take a conscious plunge from our zone of safety. Interestingly, we do not often see the end point of

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the leap. The dotted line finishes in the very corner, or goes on outside the screen. It is possible that McCahon’s advice leads the soul to crash into the ground. He explained, “[t]he jump painting’s about when the spirits going north to Reinga meets what has become my necessary protection symbol. What does he do but jump? It’s all serious but funny too.”62 It would seem that the soul’s eventual crash is a black-humoured joke. Brown considers the potentially negative readings of this series to be an important part of its meaning. He believes the ‘jump’ depicted speaks of chance and risk, not necessarily success. Nevertheless, “[h]umans must go beyond the self to survive.”63 Transcendence of the self is indeed implied via McCahon’s presentation of the cliffs as an ‘I’ symbol. He seems to imply that growth requires a gamble.64 His Jump artworks reveal varying levels of success.65 McCahon uses the landscape to make a point about doubt, fear, and giving oneself over to faith when rewards are not guaranteed. The Jump command is continued in the Comet series (1974). Inspiration may have come from the comet Kohoutek,66 which flew past Mt Taranaki on October 4, 1882. This inspired Hotere’s work,67 and would link the comet series with McCahon’s ongoing interest in the Taranaki region.68 It is also a symbol of the unknown and what ‘lies beyond’. White poses several possible connections to the celestial symbology of artists who McCahon studied including Albrecht Altdorfer’s Nativity (c.1511) and Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I (1514). These artists used symbols such as comets and flaming starts to communicate Biblical messages, and as reflection of a belief in the connectivity of heavenly and earthly life.69 This idea of a bridge between God and human is indeed an important part of McCahon’s work of this era. The comet motif helps to reconcile the impossible and unimaginable with the real. Just as the comet negotiates the unfathomable regions of outer space, so too may the individual negotiate or grasp the (potentially) unfathomable concept of religious faith.70 With his comet sailing past Earth, McCahon tries to join the spiritual with the worldly. These artworks may also be read as a personal statement, based on McCahon’s confession to Bieringa at the time of the series’ creation. The artist explained, “I still believe in my God, but he has changed a bit.”71 Responding to this, Brown describes the Comet series as a register of change and a movement in time.72 Although McCahon had by no means abandoned his interest in the Christian God, this series is a good demonstration of the way in which his belief and expression are matured via experimentation and thought. As with the Jump series, the Comet artworks expound upon the values of development and risk in order to encourage the viewer toward spiritual maturity. For example, the Comet

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Triptych (F8 F9 F10) (1974) contains a horizontal line made of many tiny dots. The first panel gives the instruction ‘JUMP’, although gravity does not seem to claim the leaper in this painted environment. Here, the bird/soul seems to be floating, unrestricted and unchallenged by gravity. No leap is possible when no ‘necessary protection’ exists. Here, McCahon demonstrates the stasis of the spiritual life without nourishment, protection, fear, and challenges.

Audience Reactions These artworks form a complex study of religious ecology and the frightening journey of spiritual growth. They need to be read as part of a cohesive whole in order to unpack the full depth of McCahon’s visual rhetoric. Responses (or lack thereof) to the above artworks and series indicate schisms in the audience reception of McCahon’s art and the ideas he wished to convey. McCahon’s Days and Nights, Light Falling Through a Dark Landscape, Necessary Protection, Jet Out, Jump and Comet series introduce and explore McCahon’s Tau cross symbol, which became a key motif in his body of work. For this reason, they have received significant academic attention. Necessary Protection in particular is a well-discussed series. It is also a highly popular series in terms of subsequent artistic quotation, as is McCahon’s ‘I AM’ motif. Many prominent artists have borrowed from the Necessary Protection symbols, such as Imants Tillers and Mervyn Williams. The importance of McCahon in the modern and contemporary New Zealand artworld should not be underplayed. The academic audience seems engaged and even moved by these pieces. For example, Bieringa warns “a sudden confrontation with works like Red and Black can leave one momentarily stunned.”73 Green reads the series as “simultaneously a landscape and a talisman,” which shows an awareness of McCahon’s double meanings.74 Representing the negative reaction, Brasch calls the Days and Nights series “blank cheques.” He labels them unconvincing and unbelievable.75 Nevertheless, this reaction still demonstrates a sincere consideration of their content. It is far harder to locate popular audience reactions.76 These works have not sparked the same degree of discussion and celebration from McCahon’s popular audience as his familiar landscapes or iconic textbased works. McCahon predicted that his Necessary Protection works were “probably hard to take,”77 which was an accurate prognostication. These images clearly fit within McCahon’s prophetic pedagogy. They form instructions to his audience, hypothesising on the journey of death and the maturation of the human soul. McCahon seems to scream out his

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message, repeating phrases in capital letters and delivering numerous versions of singular themes and viewpoints. He shows a clear desire to teach and alter the spiritual attitudes of his pupils. Despite this, few members of his popular audience seem to have listened. A few travel journalists have picked up on his use of recognisable landmarks. Marieke Hilhorst’s Northland travelogue describes “the dark light of Colin McCahon’s Ahipara” as a “Kiwi icon.”78 Peter Calder’s Muriwai travelogue romantically describes the “the Colin McCahon painting that is the view from the headland between the main beach and MƗori Bay: the whale-like hulk of the little island of Oaia and the sky, so often the massive, textured, horizontal bands you see in his canvases.”79 Similarly, Grant Smithies refers to Curio Bay by means of its “dramatic headland that could be straight out of a Colin McCahon painting.”80 These remarks draw more from a love of McCahon’s landscape elements than they do from a reflection upon the spiritual nuances of the Tau cross. Although McCahon would have been pleased to inspire appreciation of the natural landscape, he seems to have failed in his attempts to pass on the religious revelations imparted onto him by Muriwai. Even Green admits that the “[c]olour harmonies” in McCahon’s works that lack overt symbols, like those shown at Earth/Earth, are “impalpable as far as ‘meaning’ is concerned.”81 From the arrangement of McCahon’s oeuvre it is clear that he constructed a symbolic lexicon of his own. Whilst these symbols are drawn from common culture, their specific meaning within McCahon’s body of work is often unique and particular. His use of series was intended as a means of instructing his viewers and guiding them on a spiritual journey in keeping with his mantle of prophesy and evangelism. McCahon asks that we contemplate his symbols and follow them through his multifarious artworks, which are designed to teach and to lead. This request is, unsurprisingly, problematic. An example of the obscurity of these symbols can be found within the semi-abstracted forms of Muriwai: Necessary Protection (1972). On its most basic level, this painting depicts a black layer under a white stripe, under a yellow stripe. Two black rectangles stand on the left side of the image. This is observable to all, with no amount of research or extra perception required. Foss describes the basic interpretive layer of the aesthetic response as something that may be appreciated (or, presumably, scorned) based on the visual experience of colour, or shape, or texture, or tone. On this level, sensory stimuli do not imply a conscious crafted rhetorical statement.82 It is on this aesthetic level that many viewers cease their engagement with the Necessary Protection works.83

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In order to begin to penetrate McCahon’s didactic meanings, greater levels of understanding and education are required. For example, one would need to recognise McCahon’s Biblical quotations in order to understand the Christian message of his art. In terms of Muriwai: Necessary Protection, a person familiar with New Zealand geography would understand that Muriwai is a beachside locale. Suddenly the black stripe becomes volcanic sand, the white becomes foamy waves, and the yellow becomes the sky. The black rectangles will remind the educated viewer of the spire of rock off the coastline, which is known as a gannet nesting colony. Those who have not been exposed to New Zealand geography will struggle. Brown outlines the Bible, MƗori history, and knowledge of Western art as some of the “armoury of references required” to read McCahon.84 In order to understand McCahon at this level, one must possess the ability to decode his symbolic language and recognise the denotations of pertinent forms. Detailed iconological interpretation of Muriwai: Necessary Protection calls for an engagement with McCahon’s Tau cross as a representation of his unorthodox Christian beliefs and a symbol of the reciprocal relationship between human and God. This level of reading also deals with the prominence of locality in the experience of religiosity and transcendence, placing Christianity in a non-indigenous context. McCahon must be understood as man grappling with the presence and expression of religion in his homeland, and a nationalistic prophet trying to emphasise the spiritual importance of the undomesticated, local landscape. In order to achieve this level of iconological analysis, an audience member needs to have studied New Zealand art history in general, and McCahon’s body of work in particular, to great lengths. In most artworks, McCahon pitches his ultimate messages at this level. Despite numerous clear attempts to reach all subsets of his audience, McCahon’s language of expression remains obscure and impenetrable to those who have not had the opportunity to examine his oeuvre and surrounding literature in depth.85 This is, clearly, an impediment to meaning. So too is the fact that McCahon simultaneously wished to guide his audience through a complex and didactic labyrinth of symbols whilst eschewing an excessively dictatorial style. McCahon was conscious of certain elements of painting that were ineffable or recondite. He felt that arcane secrets existed within art and should not be spoken of. In 1976 McCahon stated: There’s another layer that has to go into painting before it ticks over. To me you can’t explain and I don’t think it should be talked about, actually, by anybody … you mustn’t talk about what you’re doing to other painters and other people. They have to make their own discoveries.86

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As such, his works offer clues rather than explanations. He dearly wished for his audience to understand him, but not at the cost of diluting spiritual mysteries. Reading McCahon’s works relies on an intuition of his questions, answers, and fears as opposed to simply being told of their existence. The interactive component is vital, but requires a significant amount of commitment and focus. McCahon’s high standards of reception and concurrent obscurity resulted in an often devastating misunderstanding of his message.

Conclusion The Necessary Protection paintings, and those associated with them, intend to reveal the land as a protective, nourishing force. They introduce environmental issues as spiritual concerns via an appreciation of the landscape as a sacred realm that could be lost via improper treatment. By reading McCahon’s personal statements and studying his symbology in full, a viewer can ascertain the Tau cross as a multifarious symbol that functions as a gateway between God and human. This idea of bridging the sacred with humanity (via the landforms of Muriwai) is a key prophetic aim for McCahon. He provides a lesson of faith within this web of motifs. McCahon renders the human as a bird that must jump away from protection in order to mature. His theology, written in the language of local wildlife and landforms, is an embracive blend of MƗori and Christian concepts. McCahon invites viewers of all spiritual persuasions to find the numinous in Muriwai, and gain knowledge of one’s spiritual path as a result. As a result of McCahon’s original take on symbolism and abstraction, the Tau cross motif has entered the lexicon of New Zealand art, spawning multiple appropriations. Despite this, very few audience comments can be found with regard to the aforementioned series. Although his aims were embracive, the complexity of McCahon’s Muriwai symbology seems to have excluded the broad audience who he was aiming to instruct.

Notes  A SIMPLIFIED VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER APPEARS AS ZOE ALDERTON, “CLIFFS AS CROSSES: THE PROBLEMATIC SYMBOLOGY OF COLIN MCCAHON,” RELEGERE 2:1 (2012). 1 This motif does, however, predate the Necessary Protection series and is evident as far back as On Building Bridges (1952).

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2 Interestingly, Brown uses the phrase “necessary protection” when describing McCahon’s move towards more abstracted modernism as a means of confounding his persecutors. See: Gordon H. Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” in Colin McCahon: Gates and Journeys (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1988), 15. 3 On this note, William McCahon believes they are the end point of his father’s ‘wilderness years’, which led him closer to self-understanding. He feels that all the Necessary Protection artworks are united by this quest towards understanding, and are given vitality by their increasing focus on “Spirit.” See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 19. 4 Don Solomon in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 134. Solomon worked as the director of Outreach – the art programme McCahon helped to teach in 1973. 5 McCahon, “Necessary Protection.” 6 This series is part of the vocabulary of signs McCahon created in order to rebel against the saturation of European picturesque in New Zealand art. Geoff Park believes that McCahon’s comments about being moved by the sight of Manuka reflect what Gerald Manley Hopkins described as ‘inscape’: the “filtering inward from nature to the self.” He sees this as the cause of colonial landscape destruction in an attempt to recreate the feelings induced by one’s native landscape. McCahon’s ‘inscape’ is derived from the beauty of New Zealand, not from imported ideals of naturalistic beauty. See: Geoff Park, “I Belong With the Wild Side of New Zealand – The Flowing Land in Colin McCahon,” in Theatre Country: Essays on Landscape and Whenua (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2006), 58. 7 McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. 8 McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. 9 McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. 10 McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. 11 Barry Lett’s ‘Earth/Earth’ exhibition placed McCahon as part of a “chorus of protest” against the continued destruction of the New Zealand landscape. See: McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. This is an apt reflection of his intent. 12 Pound describes the act of climbing to a vantage point and contemplating the view as a European performance. He traces the depiction of absolute space and human absorption in it to the eighteenth century when the pantheistic worship of nature allowed such a concept to become the abiding theme of an artwork. See: Pound, Frames on the Land, 11. 13 McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. 14 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 362. 15 McCahon in Curnow, McCahon's “Necessary Protection”, 12. This Egyptian connection may also account for McCahon’s early vision of an Egyptian god in the hillside. 16 Christina Barton describes it as McCahon’s sign of the “metaphysical union between heaven and earth, God and man.” See: Christina Barton, Language Matters (Wellington: Adam Art Gallery, 2000), 4.

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17 McCahon to Peter McLeavey [13 Jul. 71] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 167. 18 See, for example, McDonald, “Roadworks,” 51. 19 Brown believes the ‘I’ symbol “heralds unity, what is singular and unchanging.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 136. 20 William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 18. 21 He also connects them to the painting known as The Days and Nights in the Wilderness. See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 37. These artworks contain the letter ‘I’ or the Tau cross seen in their progeny. Their name is most likely taken from the forty days and nights spent by Jesus in the wilderness when Satan issued him with temptation. 22 Edmond explains that ‘tau’ refers to the sound of the final letter in the Hebrew alphabet, ‘X’. He remarks, “[i]n the sound transition from Hebrew to Greek some see a passing from the old to the new dispensation, Adam to Christ.” See: Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 229. 23 See: Exodus 12:22. Although the shape of the cross is not specified, it is sometimes assumed to be the Tau. See, for example, John M. Mulder, Sealed in Christ: The Symbolism of the Seal of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) (United States of America: Geneva Press, 1991), 14. 24 Pound, “Topographies,” 133. Based on Bryce Nichol, “The Smoke and the Fire,” unpublished essay. 25 See, for example, Park, “I Belong with the Wild Side of New Zealand,” 60. Park also states that McCahon’s “ancient, Biblical and oft-wielded TAU Cross of Necessary Protection leads the people of the land out of the Egypt of colonial bondage, to the Promised Land.” See: Geoff Park, “A Chart to Country,” in Urewera Mural (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1999). 26 Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 230. 27 Edmond, Dark Night, 16. 28 The obvious example of this is McCahon’s Gate series, but artworks such as On Building Bridges have similar symbolic content. Indeed, Leonard makes the comparable claim that the Tau cross symbol is “both a barrier and a way through.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 29. 29 William McCahon also believes that they may indicate the literal wilderness: a Muriwai seascape. See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 18. 30 For example, Brown believes the ‘wall of death’ may be a reference to “the personal contemplation of life after death by the vanquishment of doubt through belief in spiritual rebirth.” Nevertheless, he asks “was not that shadowy gateway where McCahon’s spirituality stumbled?” See: Brown, “Colin McCahon: Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 31. 31 Brown, “Colin McCahon: Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 28. 32 William McCahon claims that his maternal grandmother boarded with the van der Veldens in Christchurch and almost certainly communicated with her son about Petrus. See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 18.

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33 William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 18. William McCahon provides a poetic reading of these pieces, fuelled by his own spiritual philosophy. He believes these artworks are his father’s way of communicating his connection with “a Spiritual place of being.” This connection is forged by finding the spiritual forces within himself that lead to an understanding of external spiritual manifestations. William McCahon describes the ‘Wall of Death’ as that barrier McCahon transcended when he broke through “beyond desire and ego” to “a place of Genesis and potential where all things are known.” William McCahon believes that this realm of “Light and Unity” and the greater spirit is where we can go to after death. Through this permeation of the Wall of Death, William McCahon feels that his father overcame a fear of dying, but was subsequently disappointed by the lack of vibrancy in the terrene universe after his vision of a more powerful reality. See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 18. 34 It reads: “Growing up’s wonderful if you Keep your eyes closed tightly, and if you manage to forget, take your soul with you.” 35 Matthew Gray, “Symbolic Resting Place for Artist,” Western Leader, November 17, 2009, accessed May 17, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/auckland/localnews/western-leader/tales-from-the-crypt/3067877/Symbolic-resting-place-forartist. 36 In the words of O’Reilly, McCahon was “not interested in doing things with shapes, colours and textures simply for their own sakes.” See: O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 14. Green agrees, stating that McCahon’s formal inheritance is representation and meaning, not abstraction. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 35. 37 In this same year, he painted Necessary Protection. This grey and stormy image shows the letters ‘IHS’, a traditional Christogram, inside the Muriwai cliff faces. McCahon is careful to remind us of the specifically Christian components of his transcendent message. 38 Green writes evocatively of the possible impact of Necessary Protection upon the viewer: “Tau-crosses and capital Is held you till you’d seen how each image changed its references as you went over each edge, clustering symbolisms growing from one simple image. Upright Cross, light between cliffs, heavenly light falling to earth, eternal continuity of light in heaven, its momentary flash to earth, salvation, truth, path, way, a chart laid out on the floor on which McCahon sweeps paint along edges, aiming at a steadiness of motion (emotion), shifting levels of meaning, not a single easy answer. You accumulate them slowly standing there.” See: Tony Green, “Colin McCahon’s ‘Necessary Protection’ in Auckland,” Art New Zealand 11 (1977), accessed April 8, 2011, http://www.artnewzealand.com/Issues11to20/mccahonissue11.htm. 39 Congruently, Curnow believes Necessary Protection (1972) can be read as either landscape or Tau. The viewer is “offered alternate takes in which the space is either representative of real space or is purely symbolic space.” See: Wystan Curnow, “Thinking About Colin McCahon and Barnet Newman,” Art New Zealand 8 (1977-1978), accessed April 8, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand

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 .com/Issues1to40/mccahon08wc.htm. Curnow explains “[t]hese incompatibilities occur because there can be no one anecdote no complete explanation.” 40 For example, Gannets Leaving Muriwai (1977), Godwits, Muriwai (1973). 41 See, for example, Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” A possible starting point for this motif is Dear Wee June (1945). This artwork shows a tombstone with a white bird carved on top. This was modelled off a child’s tomb in a cemetery above Port Chalmers. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 44. The bird appears to signify the soul of the dead child. 42 One of McCahon’s initial forays into the creative world was via the manufacture of kitsch costume jewellery. See, for example, Keith, “Working at the Gallery,” 23. 43 Brown connects McCahon’s adoption of this symbol to an experience he and the artist had whilst walking in the evening in the late nineteen-sixties. One particular house caught their attention as it had a visible, illuminated window without drawn curtains. Upon peering in, Brown saw what he calls a “small family shrine,” festooned with photographs, flowers, and rosary beads. He was strongly reminded of this composition when first seeing the Angels and Bed artworks, and also in the loop of dots that appears in images such as McLeavey Sat Here. Congruent with his aforementioned warning against reading too much personal data into McCahon’s images, he states “a person with access to knowledge of such events or idea which exist outside the immediate perception of anyone contemplating the imagery so engendered must treat the awareness of such private or semi-private stimuli with respect, accepting them for what they are and not reading into them implications not self-evident in the painting as an integrated work of art.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 180. 44 McNamara, “Artists’ Gloom and Doom Part of Gallery Splendour.” 45 McCahon, ‘Earth/Earth’. 46 Colin McCahon Image Library Database, accessed May 10, 2010, http://mccahon.co.nz/cm001401. 47 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 29. 48 There are fourteen of these sketches, evoking the Stations of the Cross. 49 Behind Closed Doors, 10. 50 Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” 51 For example, Curnow points out the mutation of the cross symbol into that of a plane. He also sees the letter ‘T’ as an important linguistic component of the series, forming the last consonant of both words. See: Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 51. 52 For example, O’Brien believes that McCahon’s aeroplane symbol “prefigures and enacts the flight of the human soul leaving its earthly garden.” See: Gregory O’Brien, “The Dark Plane Leaves At Evening,” Sport 21 (1988), accessed June 2, 2010. http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba21Spo-t1-body-d6.html. O’Brien connects this with Patrick Hayman’s The Dark Plane Takes off at Evening (1988) where “the dark plane is a crucifix” and Malevich’s Suprematism series. See: O’Brien, “The Dark Plane Leaves At Evening.” O’Reilly reads McCahon’s use of spacecraft to an allusion of moving art beyond its usual confines. See: O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 14. 53 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 173.

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Auckland Art Gallery, “Later Might I Too Walk the Beach,” accessed June 18, 2010, http://collection.aucklandartgallery.govt.nz/collection/results.do?view=detail &db=object&id=8822. 55 R.S. Oppenheim, MƗori Death Customs (Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1973), 95. McCahon’s interest in this mythology was sparked by Matire Kerema’s Tail of the Fish. See: Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 131. 56 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 34-35. He calls this “shifting his thematic material to meet their articulate blindness.” See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 36. 57 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 35. 58 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 174. 59 Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33. 60 Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification,” 48. 61 For example, O’Reilly believes “[h]e stands for the considered, the considerate, the direct, decided and intended act; which involves faith and courage in the presence of doubt.” See: O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 9. Exploring a similar theme, Emmerling suggests that the concept of a jump “refers to the urgency of his hope that the jump from doubt to belief may succeed. It may even express the dilemma that belief is only possible through the jump, despite of and because of all doubts.” See: Emmerling, Out of This World, 37. 62 McCahon [1974] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 51.40 – 51.48. 63 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 147. 64 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 174. It is also possible that Three Jumps shows departing spirits landing in the hole in the seabed that leads to the next world according to MƗori mythology. 65 For example, Jump E22 (1974) shows a successful leap from cliff to cliff. This work is similar to the 1974 Rosegarden paintings. The dots shown in this image represent rosary beads. Jump E24 (1974) presents a Tau cross made of the stone pillar and what is perhaps a band of purple sky or cloud. Although we do not see the traditional Muriwai Cliff version of the cross, it is still present and still formed by a construction of the landscape and natural structures. The positivity of Jump E22 is mitigated by Jump E28 where the pathway of the soul ends once more off the canvas. Jump E30 is a more frightening addition to this series. The jump is without beginning or end. The backdrop is black and difficult to discern, feeding into Brown’s description of desperation where “hope is but a glimmer.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 175. There is no hint of ‘necessary protection’ here. 66 This comet spawned many pop-culture references and influenced David Berg in his prophesying of the apocalypse. 67 Paul Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka: Reflections on Spiritual Resistance in Aotearoa,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 116.

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68 Curnow calls these artworks “night watch paintings” that follow the comet Kohoutek across the beach at Muriwai. See: Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 21. 69 White, “Celestial Phenomena.” 70 Emmerling phrases this as an act of grasping the sublime. See: Emmerling, Out of This World, 41. Congruently, Brown speaks of the mind reaching out and extending in order to “grasp the implications of such a cosmic event.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 178. 71 McCahon to Luit Bieringa [1974] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 177. 72 McCahon to Luit Bieringa [1974] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 177-188. 73 Bieringa, “There is Only One Direction…” 74 Green, “Colin McCahon: ‘Natural Protection’,” 13. 75 Brasch [14 Aug. 71] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 39. This kind of response was typical of Brasch, and should not be used as a counter-example to his general support of McCahon. He often took some time to accept new works, such as his aforementioned concerns over Crucifixion With Lamp. 76 Interestingly, McCahon’s Jump painting was included in the 2011 Gow Langsford Gallery ‘Driven to Abstraction’ exhibition. According to the promotional material, this work is “indicative of the abstracted landscapes for which is [sic] well known.” See: Gow Langsford Gallery, “Driven to Abstraction,” accessed October 31, 2011, http://www.gowlangsfordgallery.co.nz/exhibitions/ pastexhibitions/2011/driventoabstraction.asp. This suggests the work is being read more for its abstracted shapes than its vitally important landscape components. 77 McCahon to Peter McLeavey [13 Jul. 71] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 167. 78 Marieke Hilhorst, “On The Road,” New Zealand Herald, April 11, 2003, accessed August 18, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/travel/news/article.cfm?c_id =7&objectid=3350976. 79 Peter Calder, “Flight of Fancy,” New Zealand Herald, January 23, 2009, accessed May 27, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id =6&objectid=10552914&pnum=0. 80 Grant Smithies, “Going Wild on the Catlins Coast,” Stuff.co.nz, May 24, 2010, accessed November 2, 2011, http://www.stuff.co.nz/travel/new-zealand/3730873/ Going-wild-on-the-Catlins-coast. 81 Green, “Colin McCahon: ‘Natural Protection’,” 13. 82 Foss, “Ambiguity as Persuasion,” 329. 83 Foss rightly notes that most engagements with the aesthetic dimensions of an artwork lead to some dimension of rhetorical engagement. Nevertheless, McCahon’s very complex layers of meaning require more than a cursory consideration of symbolism or implication. 84 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 199. 85 In defence of the meaning that may be gleaned from a more instantaneous, formalist approach to McCahon’s work, Butler and Simmons remark, “[t]here is something that even following the voice as a coherent iconolographical theme in McCahon’s work necessarily misses.” (Their study of McCahon’s ‘voice’ in

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 painting is clearly more applicable to those works that contain the written word, but is still relevant in the context of how meaning is gleaned from McCahon’s images.) Butler and Simmons refer to the voice contained in the form and colour of the very brushstrokes. They speak of “the voice we see in the very curve of the line before we realise that it marks out the figure of Mary.” Butler and Simmons argue that existing interpretations of McCahon’s work, based largely on an iconographical/iconological framework, fail to engage with this level of communication. They argue for the meaningful presence of a kind of “pure visibility,” which “comes before any attempt to describe the work or to say what it means.” See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 344. 86 McCahon [1976] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 13.43 – 14.08.

CHAPTER SEVEN WALKS AND NUMERALS

McCahon used the coastal environment as a backdrop for a lesson on spiritual maturation and leaps of faith. He also employed Muriwai as a way of engaging with death and journeys of the soul. Many of his artworks correlate the MƗori walk to the afterlife with the Stations of the Cross, based on the journey Christ took before his execution. There is a clear performative aspect to these artworks. The viewer is asked to join in and journey with the artist.1 This is an act of spiritual travel that is aimed at a refinement of the self. McCahon uses the beach at Muriwai, Ahipara, and Cape Reinga as the backdrop for a metaphoric walk, based on MƗori mythology, which bridges the living with the dead. His foggy beach environment creates a liminal space where the physical world changes form and permits a visionary experience. McCahon recounts the presence of dead friends during his beach walks, and dedicated several of these artworks to the recently deceased James K. Baxter. McCahon’s artworks dealing with beach walks and the Stations of the Cross present a disintegration of reality via thick fog and incomplete or confused mathematical equations. McCahon negotiates this zone as a site of learning and vision. His journey through liminality is geared towards the transformation of his audience via the alleviation of their spiritual blindness and grief. On one level, McCahon intended to address himself with this message. His beach walks allowed for both the healing of personal grief and the annunciation of the cyclical nature of human life via references to his family. McCahon also addresses his audiences as individuals. He attempts to teach his viewers to use the local landscape in a meaningful way, travelling with the artist as guide in an intimate and intense painted environment. McCahon also speaks to his audience as a whole, encouraging their participation in a broader worldview. His artworks advocate the development of a pluralistic faith system that encourages ecological conservation. These different levels are thoroughly intermingled and can be observed in complex relationships with one another in McCahon’s art.

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The Beach as Stage and Ritual An important factor to consider in these journey-based artworks is McCahon’s history in stage design.2 His art employs a language that is born of the theatre, the comic book, and psychogeography. Although the physical journey involved in walking past these artworks is no longer than a few metres, the mental movement involved may be compared to more traditional modes of pilgrimage with the canvas as the environment of travel. Through these artworks, McCahon presents the natural world as a background for sacred drama.3 He constructed the following images as rituals to be played out by his viewers. His symbolic lexicon, including the footsteps of Christ and number sequences,4 is aimed at moving the viewer across the image and through a spiritually oriented journey. McCahon’s consideration of Picasso’s Guernica (1937) and Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm (1950)5 is evident in the substantial length of these artworks and the manner in which they invite their audience to engage. This imaginative, pilgrimage functions as a transition from one state to another via a visual, emotive journey. McCahon produced several artworks dealing with walks along the beach at Muriwai, Ahipara, and Cape Reinga. These pieces replicate coastal conditions—themselves a transitional or liminal force—and imply a sequential journey. They also engage with feelings of grief and explore the journey towards the afterlife. McCahon takes some of his notions of the hereafter from MƗori mythology. On Going Out with the Tide (1969) quotes and elaborates upon a tract from indigenous writer Matire Kereama’s book The Tail of the Fish: MƗori Memories of the Far North (1968).6 This text is a retelling of MƗori myth in its original language. Kereama’s stories belong to the Te Aupouri group who lived in the area of Cape Reinga.7 On Going Out with the Tide introduces the concept of death as natural and inevitable. McCahon suggests that one must “Raise your hand in farewell – on Haumnj hill” and then exit as the water does.8 The repetition of the ebb and flow of the tide is correlated to passing generations of humans. McCahon concludes his work with “WHEN ONE GENERATION FALLS, ANOTHER RISES.” For Matiu: Muriwai (1969) elaborates on this concept. It reads: EINGA ATU ANA HE TETEKURA. E ARA MAI ANA HE TETEKURA when one generation falls another rises. Ours is not the death of the moon

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This is likely to have been inspired by Ecclesiastes 1:4, which reads: “generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.”9 Ecclesiastes explores the cyclic repetition of nature and concludes that everything on earth has its time. Human passing is presented as something minimal in the grand scheme of creation. The MƗori text is a quotation from Kereama, which is translated as “one chief falls, another rises and takes his place.”10 There are very personal elements to this statement. For Matiu: Muriwai is dedicated to Matiu Carr, McCahon’s grandson. This idea of filial birth and death was subsequently emphasised in 1973 when McCahon’s mother died.11 This became further motivation to consider the journey of life and grief for those left behind. His beachside ruminations on death can be viewed as supra-cultural synchronisations of New Zealand mythologies and deeply personal ruminations on the cycle of human life. The natural world provides McCahon with a rich vocabulary for his spiritual explorations. The 1973 paintings titled A Piece of Muriwai Canvas and A Piece of Muriwai Canvas: I am Walking North introduce McCahon’s ‘beach walk’ theme. The shapes featured in these artworks are intended as cogent symbols. A Piece of Muriwai Canvas: I am Walking North presents four beige panels floating on a dark surface. McCahon indicates the presence of transcendent light through the darkness. Hints of Tau crosses can be observed in the contrast of tones.12 The unstretched canvas is meaningful in its own right. It feeds into McCahon’s desire for an unpretentious voice and his suspicion of frames. It also reflects the purpose of these beach walk images. They are ruminations on landscape, death, and friendship. McCahon did not categorise these particular works as ‘paintings’ and wished for them to remain unframed. He described his pieces as “just bits of a place I love and painted in memory of a friend.”13 The notion of memory is important within McCahon’s beach walk imagery, as these pieces are designed to conjure those who have passed. The Walk artworks also present a journey along the beach, coupled with spiritual rumination.14 Series A (1973) uses mist on Muriwai beach as a way of discussing spiritual blindness and the opportunities of illumination that lie beyond it.15 McCahon acts as guide, taking the viewer along his metaphorical Muriwai.16 The works read like comics, although they are generally devoid of text or human form. Instead the comic-style partitioning speaks of a moving narrative, guiding the audience on a progressive walk. The canvases that make up McCahon’s journey are filled with haze. McIvor explains this fog as ‘white-out’, a sensation caused by low cloud.17 On a metaphorical level, Brown calls this mist the ‘wall of death’ that McCahon’s aforementioned works discuss. He

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believes this wall must be penetrated as “a veil of sorrow is slowly parted.”18 In one sense, this is a metaphysical discussion of the redemptive power of Christ to transcend death like a shaft of light in a dark void. It is also a record of the light passing through the daytime fog of Muriwai, which brings hope and happiness to a grieving mind. Both are ways of overcoming grief: one theological and the other physical. The transparency of these worlds, constructed by the mist, supports this overlayed meaning. The foggy shapes emerging from the A4 panel reveal McCahon’s typical depiction of Oaia Island – a gannet nesting colony. He offers us a subtle reminder of the human soul and the struggles of faith via this landform. The layers of colour on A5 show the froth of a breaking wave. The churning ocean spray blends into the domineering fog. Further nuancing the meaning of the fog, Rowe sees this ‘white-out’ as a theme of blindness, and the source of visionary experiences.19 This paradoxical reading reveals the tension between artist and his perception of his community. On one hand, McCahon alludes to spiritual blindness and the inability of his audience to see what is placed before them. On the other, he uses this sensory deprivation as a means of transcending physical reality and communing with the dead. McCahon was known to experiment with sensory deprivation as a means of establishing a new way of seeing. He was influenced by the psychology lecturer T.H. Scott who told him of the visual effects caused by the restoration of sight after deprivation for a week. A person in this circumstance would be initially blinded by brightness, then experience vague and colourless shapes after some minutes. Following this, colours would appear with exaggerated intensity. With Scott’s teachings in mind, McCahon experimented by running outside upon waking so that the surrounding bush would be his first vision after the night’s blindness.20 McCahon took the religious dimensions of these works very seriously. In 1972, he painted Jim Passes the Northern Beaches as a tribute to the recently deceased Baxter.21 It has been commonly read as a means of posthumously healing their troubled friendship.22 This roughly hewn image depicts birds leaping from their nests, fluttering through the sky like the human soul that moves on from ‘necessary protection’ to what lies beyond the familiar. McCahon also pays tribute to a fellow prophet via the symbolism of the vivid orange light.23 The artist uses the beach as a place to commune with the dead and to mythologise their journey out of life. Similarly, a poem McCahon dedicated to the memory of Rita Angus contains the lines “Rita going north./Northland./Kauri.”24 He also felt the presence of Brasch and Mason on walks during white-out.25

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McCahon’s belief in the beach as a site of communion with the dead may have been inspired by traditional MƗori ideas. Barry Mitcalfe recounts a local legend in which the voices of the dead can be heard “[o]n white, misty days when the cloud is lying close to the land.” He describes it as Te Reo Irirangi – a high singing that signifies the passing of spirits.26 Anyone who has walked through thick, low cloud will be familiar with the heaviness and tactility of the air. Dense fog creates a liminal zone where the familiar world is swallowed up by whiteness and remains deconstructed and unformed until the weather passes. Baxter was deeply engaged with MƗori culture, making this mist a fitting posthumous tribute.27 Series B of the Walk artworks (1973) carries on the final walk with Baxter.28 B1 depicts Muriwai beach as a black strip of volcanic sand. The liminal atmosphere of ‘white-out’ is evident in the foggy sky. The painting is over two metres long, requiring the viewer to walk past it and thus to play their own part in the ritual. The viewer is invited to participate in this rumination on death and the journey to the hereafter. The rough canvas sackcloth that the works are painted on is generally read as a sign of mourning for Baxter.29 The Biblical notion of ‘wearing sackcloth and ashes’ denotes penitence and grief. This may reflect McCahon’s regret over losing Baxter before their differences could be reconciled. Similarly, Pound reads McCahon’s use of non-art materials such as unframed hessian as a means of expressing “unmediated emotion.”30 This artwork aims, in keeping with McCahon’s style, for a direct and sentimental statement. Series C (1973) seeks to unite McCahon’s physical beach walks, the steps of Baxter’s life, and the steps of Christ before his death. It is a clear reflection of the multiple meanings and lessons behind McCahon’s Walk series. On one level, this artwork depicts various viewpoints from a walk by the ocean. McCahon shows us different patterns in the ocean and sky that could be experienced on this journey along the coast. He also memorialises the life of a dear friend. Brown explains how this image uses the appearance of the surf and the conditions of the weather to reflect the phases of Baxter’s earthly existence, including obstacles that he overcame.31 The number of panels—fourteen—is a conscious attempt to link the coastal environment and the MƗori walk after death with the Christian Stations of the Cross. McCahon felt that the Christian and MƗori walks had much in common.32 He also used this as an opportunity to help Baxter posthumously combine the MƗori and Catholic worldviews that he admired and subscribed to in life. McCahon accepted Baxter “as a new MƗori” who would perform the customary beach walk. He continues, “I put the barriers of the stations in his way.”33 In this sense, the work

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becomes a means of recording Baxter’s ability to meet and overcome struggles. The presence of the Tau cross suggests that the beach walk is a gateway. A similar cross is created by the hanging arrangement of Series D (Ahipara) (1973), which mandates that the panels be hung in a Tau shape.34 This Tau provides a gate into the landscape, a gate to a connection with the dead, and represents the gateway to salvation that was created through the sacrifice of Christ. There is a two-way flow implied by the gate, which allows a reciprocal relationship between the human self and the divine. As with most of McCahon’s artworks, these meanings are all interlinked and simultaneously implied. The use of Roman numerals furthers this syncretic reading. For example, Caselberg sees McCahon’s Roman numeral X as the cross of Christ and the sign that erases life.35 The progression of the Stations and the progression of a human life (before and after death) are linked in McCahon’s symbology. The Walk series repeatedly engages with the notion of blindness and fog. The implications of this complex symbology are further unpacked in Blind (1974). Consisting of five panels, Blind is painted onto the surface that provides its name. The use of blinds as a canvas was part of McCahon’s experimentation with the post-object genre, which was influential in the New Zealand art scene during the creation of this work.36 Burke illuminates the demotic nature of the movement, which aimed to challenge the exclusive zone of the art museum via the employment of media belonging to the industrial and impoverished sphere.37 This would have suited McCahon’s views on the role of paintings as humble media. It also engages with the notion of layered meaning and visual witticisms. On this note, Rowe points out the pun created by this medium. He describes the artworks as a reference to “an endemic national blindness to spiritual values.”38 McCahon’s reference to blindness works on multiple levels. In support of Rowe’s assertion, the information accompanying this work at its Christchurch Art Gallery location states that the work denotes an “absence of vision” and “inability to see the real essence and value of things.”39 This material suggests that ‘blind’ refers to New Zealanders who could not appreciate the land around them. Because McCahon tied spiritual values to values of conservation, he saw his fellow citizens as simultaneously blind to spirituality and blind to the benefits of a reciprocal relationship with the landscape as axis mundi. Brown takes this even further, calling the blindness a reference to the “spiritual void” of those who cannot see beyond the surface of things. He argues that this shallow mindset is like a “veil cutting off the beauty” of the landscape.40 Simpson also agrees with

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Rowe’s reading of spiritual blindness. He sees the blurred shapes as a representation of how the landscape would appear to someone with visual difficulties.41 Based on Simpson’s approach, the Blind panels can be read as beach landscapes, much the same as the Walk artworks. The panels connote the beach in fog and can be experienced as a sequential journey through the scenery. It is possible to see yellow sand, black sand, and smudges that allude to drenching water. Brown calls this liquid technique an allusion to the elements weeping for those who cannot or will not see.42 Furthering this tactile vision, the black horizontal lines swell out and look like mountains on the horizon of a foggy ocean. Indeed, Caselberg reads McCahon’s horizons as important symbols for an island nation. He sees them as a line dividing the self from the other, the local from the elsewhere, and “the sorrowing earth from the jubilant air.”43 The ambiguity of what is land or sky seems to mutate and delineate these basic laws of nature. Instead of the horizon’s usual disambiguation, we are left with a liminal and near-fantastic scene. Again, the world and the self are deconstructed in this journey through the beach landscape and through the boundaries between life and death. McCahon suggests that the deconstruction of reality can lead to greater understanding. Blindness can become a visionary experience. Like a person on a beach walk during fog, a lack of stimulus can lead to hallucination. Rowe puts forth a connection between this series and the blindness of Paul on the road to Damascus.44 These optimistic works imply that blindness need not be permanent. It may instead be a state that leads to revelation. Another reading offered by Simpson is that the squares may be windows covered by blinds with the horizontal lines as their sills.45 This intimates that the blinds can be raised to let in the light. From the negative comes the positive. McCahon does not condemn the spiritual blindness of his community. He offers a way out through the artistic journey he structures. To engage with McCahon’s work is to hear his prophecy and to emerge from the fog. Perhaps, in doing so, one may also transcend the ghosts who tie them to grief. Read alongside their sister artwork, Song of the Shining Cuckoo (1974), the Blind panels are further illuminated. The Stations of the Cross are overtly evident in this artwork, making another connection between the beach walk of the Blind series (both mundane and mythological) and the journey taken by Christ to death. The Song of the Shining Cuckoo is influenced by Tangirau Hotere’s poem ‘Te Tangi o te Pipiwhararua’, based on a traditional chant.46 Hotere mailed a copy to McCahon, explaining that the text “refers to the spirit on route to Te Reinga & resting

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for a bit on a sand bank in the Hokianga harbour.”47 McCahon also provided a personal translation in his workbook, which reads as follows: The Song of (Grief of) The Shining Cuckoo Glow Glow & tell us Te Tui: pierce us and Join us together Bird: alight on the beach alight, my friend alight, my friend alight and rest

Once more the act of grieving is connected to McCahon’s painted journey. The cuckoo is a meaningful symbol in this regard. Caselberg recalls McCahon hearing the sound of the cuckoo towards the beginning of spring. He believes that his friend may have also heard the hokioi cuckoo call that some MƗori groups once identified as a presager of death.48 This element of the cuckoo call evokes the beginning and ending of earthly existence, which the MƗori journey to the afterlife helped McCahon to ponder. Importantly, Caselberg translates the phrase “TUIA TUI” as a call for the dead to assemble.49 He feels that Mason, Baxter, and Brasch50 are summoned by this work in order to irradiate the living with wisdom and make the path of death less fearful.51 The beach functions as a locus for this reunion with the sand banks acting as a place where the soul may rest.52 In addition, Lynn offers a political reading of The Song of the Shining Cuckoo based on MƗori dispossession. He asks if the panels are windows or tombstones.53 The grief felt for lost friends may also be a statement on the loss of land and the slaughter of historical MƗori figures. McCahon implies that the blending of MƗori and PƗkehƗ cultures may be a way around the divisions created by an aggressive colonial past. The untranslated phrase “Te Tui” can mean sewing or stringing on a thread.54 This relates to the subsequent verbs “pierce” and “join.” The line of dots across the artwork looks like a row of stitching, creating a horizontal journey across the vertical progression of the Stations. The dots also represent birds and the human spirit. McCahon explains, “I’ve painted the bird flying through the panels and although all panels are fenced in I’ve left gates.”55 He presents the journey of birds along the beach, and souls in the footsteps of Christ, as a mechanism for healing the rifts of death and cultural turmoil. As a statement of biculturalism, his artwork combines the language of two traditions.56 The MƗori phrases painted on the work are a chant to welcome visitors to a Northland marae.57 By using

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this chant, McCahon invites his viewers into a sacred space. His language is embracive and warm, anticipating a future of cultural harmony. The beach and the bird-souls give vigour to the dry, numerical Stations. They inject a feeling of ongoing life and lived experiences of a sacred site. McCahon suggests that the Stations of the Cross have vitality and purpose. They merge within the cycle of life and death, exist as part of a primal landscape, and function as an ointment to sorrow.

The Numeral Works as Landscape The Song of the Shining Cuckoo also bridges stylistic variations and helps to unify McCahon’s beach walk images with those exploring the Stations of the Cross in a primarily numerical manner. One such example is the Clouds series (1975). These paintings generally contain numerals counting up to fourteen. The use of weather phenomena anchors the numbers to the land. Clouds 6 is even subtitled ‘Muriwai’ so as to make this connection as overt as McCahon thought reasonable. With this framework of perception in mind, images such as the Walk With Me I and Walk With Me II artworks (1974) can be understood on a deeper level. These canvases have the same brown frame as images such as A Piece of Muriwai Canvas, A Piece of Muriwai Canvas: I am Walking North and the Walk Series B. McCahon clearly intends for us to engage with them in the same manner and to remember their inherent connection to the New Zealand landscape. In these paintings, the white fog becomes a Tau cross gateway and a representation of Christ (and enlightenment) transcending through the darkness. Expanding on this, Brown calls the Clouds motif an ethereal “veil of tears” that may also reflect the light of the sun in a dark sky.58 McCahon suggests that the fog of blindness may become visionary light when rendered through Christ. The letters INRI emphasise this oft-made correlation between Christ and the light in the darkness. This symbology also relates back to Baxter, the ‘candle in a dark room’. The artist’s command of “WALK WITH ME” indicates his role as a guide along the Stations of the Cross and a psychopomp who points out a posthumous journey. He writes with light like words on a blackboard, revealing the didactic nature of his spiritual belief. Through the Walk With Me artworks, McCahon bridges his beach walks with older Stations of the Cross artworks such as Numerals (1965). This artwork takes the viewer on a journey as they count upwards from zero (nothingness) to ten. The painting is nearly nine metres long, inviting a physical journey in the gallery space that encourages a congruent mental voyage. McCahon states that this artwork functions “as a painting and as

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an environment. They are where we are in one way; and, in another way, if we could walk on from 10 where we would get to.”59 Through this dense and ambiguous explanation, McCahon seems to connect the artwork to temporality and the human condition. It is a reflection of humanity’s environment in a psychological or moral sense, as well as in the physical. McCahon also raises the possibility of walking beyond the familiar. The last four Stations—not represented in this painting—involve the actual death and burial of Christ. This particular walk ends at the Station where Jesus is disrobed for his execution. Comment has been made on the meaning of this ending. The panel reading ‘123’ is illuminated, most likely as a reference to the Trinity. This could lead to a simple reading of divine figures as a source of light in the darkness, certainly a reading that McCahon has insinuated before. For example, he once suggested to Brown that the final spot of X is where enlightenment is arrived at.60 This artwork may also be read as an incomplete journey. For example, Brown points out repetitious elements in the numerals such as the “ever continuing circumference of a circle” that is very clearly indicated at the start, middle, and end of the artwork. Brown feels this reinforces a sense of a continuum.61 Spiritually speaking, he calls it “the monogram of God everlasting.”62 This may indicate the perpetual renewal that one finds in the Stations ritual, and also in the ritual of constructing nationhood. Another reading, which fits within McCahon’s aforementioned statements about this artwork, is that is deals with a ‘move beyond’. O’Reilly sees McCahon’s numbers as “congealed energy,” created by human acts of counting, measuring, and computing. Working on Brown’s hypothesis that McCahon’s numbers refer to cybernetic activities, he sees them as a possible reference to missiles and spacecraft. He feels they allude to a journey beyond the “usual confines of art.”63 In asking us to walk beyond ten—the end of the artwork—McCahon concedes that he can only lead his audience towards the finishing point of his lesson. He brings us to the brink of death and constructs an environment in which his audience, as individuals, must consider what follows. McCahon also connects the Stations of the Cross to the terrestrial landscape of New Zealand’s rolling hills. Just as the beach provides natural metaphors for spiritual events, so too does the inland terrain. This may be observed in The Way of the Cross (1966). Here, the severe hills and valleys of the painting indicate the arduous journey of Christ. Black bars, representing McCahon’s ‘gate’ symbol, appear intermittently along the composition. These bars indicate a ‘way through’ to salvation. The final Station depicted in this image is “JESUS is laid in the Sepulchre.”

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This stone burial place is imagined as a black mound, highly reminiscent of McCahon’s symbol for Oaia Island. The work requires viewers to pass each Station like one would in a church. They must walk for over six metres to view the entirety of this artwork. Importantly, the painting was exhibited as part of The New Vision Gallery’s ‘Christian Art’ exhibition (1967) in which artworks were required to have liturgical functions and be used for public worship.64 McCahon engages his viewers as real participants in a religious act as they cross the sacred terrain he has laid out for them. In 1974, McCahon designed Perspex numerical floor indicators for a stairwell in the University of Auckland’s Grafton campus. These artworks were practical tools, designed to help people using the lifts or stairs. Natural light and translucency is an important part of this functional artwork, as is the idea of a progressive journey from number to number. Although the stair indicators are not specifically delineated art objects, this should not mean they are excluded from consideration as part of McCahon’s body of work. Indeed, Michael Dunn argues that these stairwell indicators are linked to McCahon’s Stations of the Cross.65 Although the correlation may seem trite considering their primary utilitarian purpose, these indicators were a means of placing numerals in the real world and highlighting their importance in human navigation. This may have appealed to McCahon in his efforts to illuminate the Stations as vital tools for daily life, rather than simply metaphysical ideas. This has congruence with Brown’s argument that McCahon’s painted numbers should be connected to everyday tools such as calculators, cash registers, and the deadly countdown of a nuclear device.66 Numbers ticked in a deadly fashion in the artist’s apocalyptic vision, but were also a practical tool with which he hoped to guide his audience down a more enlightened path. As well as indicating a journey, the Stations of the Cross feed into McCahon’s fixation with numbers as a communicative device. McCahon’s artworks dealing specifically with numerals started in 1958 with an unused commission for the publication Landfall. He described this group of drawings as the beginning of a new form of expression, corresponding to the end of his paintings of Titirangi.67 As evidenced in the above artworks, McCahon’s number paintings are all tied to the landscape and the spiritual dimensions this entails. The artworks based around the number one are of particular interest as they confirm the duality of the ‘I’ symbol meaning both a number and a personal pronoun. As McCahon himself stated, “The I of the sky, falling light and enlightened land, is also ONE.”68

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This correlation is made clear in One (1965). This artwork is often read as a site of interconnectivity between the human self and the divine.69 Here we see the effects of McCahon’s strong desire to involve his audience, in a direct manner, with his spiritual teachings.70 This symbolism is combined with oblique references to the landscape. As well as functioning as a set of letters and numerals, this painting presents a backdrop for imaginative audience response. Reid calls it a landscape in which the viewer could disappear, evidencing the manner in which one’s mental engagement with the image can take place. He also describes the black, negative space of the ‘I’ as a keyhole to unlock understanding.71 This feeds in to a recurrent view of McCahon’s images as doorways into greater understanding; a view that is validated by the artist himself in works such as the Gate series. Thus McCahon’s “enlightened land” draws the audience in to a mini-narrative in which they are instructed on the connection between God and the self, and the way in which the natural world may function as a doorway to divinity. McCahon also experimented with the idea of numerals in his Necessary Protection series. In 1973 he created two Stations-based sketches made from crayon on paper, titled Stations of the Cross 1,2,3 and Stations of the Cross 4: Doesn’t Christ Meet His Mother. These artworks are specifically dated as ‘Easter’, connecting them to the death of Christ. Although they cannot be categorised amongst McCahon’s major artworks, they offer a connection back to the Necessary Protection and Walk series. McCahon did not always place important symbols within important artworks. The ephemeral nature of these sketches was unlikely to have deterred him from using them as an important communicative aid in bridging this symbology. In the first artwork, the number three becomes a bird hovering over the Muriwai ocean. The number morphs into a living element of the landscape. The second sketch shows a Tau made from Necessary Protection cliffs, which are labelled as such. The numeral ‘3’ is more overtly a bird now. The caption of the sketch reads “a small sea bird wonders who he is.” Perhaps said bird is confused about his numerical progenitors. These sketches indicate the idea of the Stations as a living force, residing in the sacred landscape like a bird in the sky. They also connect McCahon’s symbol of the human soul with numerals. McCahon’s ‘blackboard-style’ number paintings also belong within his beachside theology. Although they may seem to be entirely devoid of earthly terrain, these images are part of McCahon’s guided walk through spirituality. They contain numerous symbolic clues that reveal their obtuse landscape elements. In these works, McCahon uses the visual structure of a blackboard to indicate his position of teacher.72 He experiments with the

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Stations of the Cross, exploring their theological meanings, truncating them, rearranging them, and playing with possibility. In turn, he provides his audience with lessons gleaned from his trials, hoping to convey a similar feeling of expansiveness and spiritual experimentation. Such an act renders Christianity as a real and living force; something to engage with and understand as opposed to a fixed and distant tradition. His allusions to the landscape help to anchor faith in lived experience. McCahon looked upon his ‘failed’ artworks as “good and proper teachers.”73 These paintings can be read as a means of building constructively upon a lack of success. McCahon’s mathematics and renditions of the Stations may not always be perfect and logical, but they intend to share a story of personal and dynamic faith. McCahon’s Teaching Aids series (1975) is a clear example of his number play and guided lessons. William McCahon explains that his father used the “imagery of pure logic,” that is, numbers and binary colouration, as a means overcoming a lack of audience comprehension.74 In person, McCahon was cryptic about his artworks and rarely explained them.75 Artworks such as the Teaching Aids series were intended to instruct by themselves. Displayed like giant blackboards filled with mathematical equations, the Teaching Aids series turn the art gallery into a schoolroom where McCahon makes his intentions as a spiritual tutor quite apparent. Indeed, Brown believes these artworks refer to the sacredness of the learning process itself.76 The salient feature of the images is the stark contrast of white text on a black backdrop. This is an obvious nod to a classroom blackboard with white chalk. It is also a representation of the transcendent light of Christ breaking through darkness as knowledge is gained. A similar technique is employed in the aforementioned Necessary Protection Passing Through the Wall of Death and in the Waterfalls series. Curnow sees McCahon’s black backgrounds as a palimpsest and a “ground for signs of all varieties.”77 He asks, What does the dark ground of the ‘blackboard’ series—Teaching Aids and Noughts and Crosses—signify? The deep space of night, the Tomb, or the flat plane of the blackboard?78

As well as conjuring a chalkboard, McCahon evokes the resurrection as the light of Christ breaks through his entombment.79 McCahon remarks that he painted Teaching Aids “for ‘children’ who could see.”80 Although they are concerned with an abstracted mental landscape, the Teaching Aids paintings offer clues that tie them to the

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notion of a walk along the beach and a journey out of spiritual blindness. Just as the Beach Walk series can be viewed as a physical journey with a spiritual counterpart, Teaching Aids can be viewed as a spiritual journey that comes out of the physical landscape. Signs of the Muriwai coastline can be most clearly observed in the July Teaching Aids 2. The blurry smudges contained therein suggest erasures on a blackboard. As well as connoting ideas of doubt and revision, these smudges also evoke a feeling of fog. They remind us of the clouds above Muriwai and the liminal zone of ‘white-out’, conditions that McCahon presents as potentially visionary and connected to the Stations of the Cross.81 Christianity, particularly Catholicism, is clearly evoked through the repeated crosses and numbers counting up to fourteen; representing the Stations of the Cross.82 This journey is not, however, a clear one. McCahon’s numerals are disorderly and confusing – something that has been noted by many commentators on these works.83 McCahon’s sums are aimed towards the construction of an uncanny realm in which the viewer reads, divides, and plays with the stages of the crucifixion. This deconstruction reflects the liminal phase of our journey through the artwork and through the unknown equations of a human life. McCahon has created the Teaching Aids series as a space in which the viewer becomes absorbed and altered. It is an experimental zone where religious doubt is permitted.84 His Stations have no clear answers or directives. They represent both McCahon’s spiritual flexibility and also the uncertainty that plagued him, particularly in the latter stages of his life.85 Nevertheless, McCahon expressed joy in painting beyond the stations, discovering he knew more of them than he had anticipated.86 These artworks are an act of spiritual intuition and progression into new knowledge. McCahon teaches himself as well as his audience.87 As these images are unorthodox spiritual tools in their own right, it is tempting to read Teaching Aids as a critical statement against the Catholic Church. McCahon did indeed have personal problems with this institution. The vernacular nature of the paintings is certainly an anti-authoritarian statement. In keeping with McCahon’s desire to make his paintings humble, the paper that the Teaching Aids series is created on was left unframed. Inspired by a newspaper photograph, McCahon opted to hang the works in a large rectangle with no gaps. William McCahon points out the use of nails and pins in the hanging of these works.88 He sees these as a representation of the body of Christ.89 McCahon mounts his images to the gallery wall in a heterodox manner that befits his rejection of frames. As a result, his work appears direct and raw. This matches the tone of the

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crucifixion and also the nature of McCahon’s pedagogical style, which promotes the idea of an artwork acting beyond the surface of its canvas. Here, the brutality of the crucifixion finds its mirror in the pinning of theological discourse to the wall. William McCahon also makes a connection to Martin Luther nailing his challenge to the Catholic Church upon their door.90 Despite this, McCahon did not desire to construct a hostile or critical statement. He did not think that he had been rude to the church.91 Supporting this, William describes his father’s positive experiences with Father Michael Shirres who inspired Teaching Aids 3.92 He suggests that the colours black and white represent the clergy.93 This would align them with a teaching role, perhaps emphasised by the addition of Roman numerals to Teaching Aids 3. The Noughts and Crosses series (1976) also employs the ‘blackboard’ style and its associated pedagogical denotations. Reminiscent of a schoolyard game, these paintings contain smears and hand-drawn lines.94 McCahon was inspired after watching Carr play this game with her young son. He viewed it as a metaphor for life in which an individual negotiates between rules and chance.95 Importantly, the crosses resemble crucifixes rather than typical ‘+’ style markings. Browne believes the noughts represent “the possibility of the abyss; a primordial void from which there is no hope of escape.”96 Interestingly, crosses usually triumph over noughts with the latter not managing a single victory throughout the series. The ‘worst’ result is that of a tie. This message appears to be a generally uplifting one. The number zero does not often appear in McCahon’s numeral-based artworks. Here it exists primarily in the form of defeat. Some artworks from this group, including Noughts and Crosses, Series 2, No. 3, show transcendent light flowing through the game. This suggests the reciprocal relationship between humanity and God as explored in the Days and Nights and Necessary Protection artworks. The smudges that litter these images depict the ‘white-out’ at Muriwai seeping in, and all that this phenomenon entails.

Audience Reactions The question remains as to whether McCahon’s audience participates in his imaginative, spiritual games. Edmond, for example, certainly heeded the artist’s call. His biographical and autobiographical text Dark Night: Walking with McCahon (2011) recounts a Stations of the Cross-style walk he took around Sydney, replicating McCahon’s final visit to the city.97 Through this ritual inspired by McCahon’s art, Edmond believed he could imaginatively venture “into the obscurity that had swallowed him up” and

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project his consciousness “into the dimension of spacetime where [McCahon] had lost his.”98 This popular text has gone on to inspire others in making a similar journey, such as ‘Robyn’ of the Christchurch City Libraries blog. Robyn remarks, “if I am ever in Sydney I am making a pilgrimage to these stations of the Cross,” indicating at least a pseudoreligious reaction to the stimulus.99 New Zealand artist Wayne Youle has was awarded a 2012 grant to enact a creative project in Sydney based on Edmond’s book. His artistic journey sought to investigate shared mythologies linking Australia and New Zealand.100 Again religious language is employed, implying at least a nominal connection with McCahon’s spiritual journeys. These are, however, rather recent reactions. The exhibition history of the pieces discussed in this chapter reveals the hostile response often engendered during McCahon’s lifetime. Lett recalls the difficulties experienced when McCahon’s Numerals series was presented in his gallery. He believes that McCahon’s audience in the nineteen-sixties was “very small.” Lett remembers some members of the public making a “conversion to his work,” and feeling delighted by Numerals. To these viewers, the idea of this series containing “tough paintings” was an advantage and seen as a positive quality. Many other viewers, however, were simply baffled and unimpressed. Some became antagonistic. Lett had catalogues ripped up and thrown at him. People coming in off the street would look at the paintings and ask where the exhibition was.101 Green’s recount of the 1977-1978 exhibition of the journey-based Muriwai artworks similarly reports success and failure. He believes that “[m]any citizens walked with McCahon a Muriwai of the mind. Some jumped for joy.” This is countered by that statement that “[s]ourpusses crept from the room.”102 An interesting case study on this topic is Stead, who provides a vivid example of the schism between intent and reception. He shows an illuminating self-awareness of his misinterpretation of McCahon. Stead considers the validity of responses that deviate from an artist’s intended meaning via a description of his unfolding understanding of Rocks in the Sky, Series 1, Number 1 (1976).103 Not realising that the numbers painted on the work represented the Stations of the Cross; Stead used his imagination to intuit their meaning.104 Referring to the numerals that perplexed him, Stead remarks “they were arcana. They were mystery. They were the presence of the artist—Colin being Colin—permitting me to be myself in what I made of them.”105 Stead enjoyed reading Rocks in the Sky, Series 1, Number 1 in a manner of his choosing, but also realised that McCahon was potentially unsatisfied by this. Of McCahon’s art, Stead

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writes that he remained “relatively indifferent to the messages they carried—which means I was probably not the kind of admirer Colin was happiest with.”106 This common propensity for misunderstanding was the drive behind McCahon’s obsession with making his symbology clear to his audience by continually altering and refining his modes of expression for the sake of illumination. McCahon strove for clarity, but even his schoolroom mathematical language seemed unable to bridge the gap between author and audience. For example, Caselberg sees the sublime majesty of the environmental content of Song of the Shining Cuckoo as potentially difficult to digest, and rare to have experienced first-hand in nature. He suggests that the statement of life and death contained within the artwork may also be too profound for easy acceptance.107 With a little less tact, Cartwright calls the act of repeating numerals on canvas “a quality normally only found in the autistic.”108 Another persuasive case study of failure is the audience reaction to Teaching Aids. As per usual, McCahon was let down by the public response to this series. He spoke of the “deathly silence” and claimed to feel “a bit sad about it, I thought I was saying something.”109 Here McCahon overtly confesses to negative emotions as a result of misunderstanding or disinterest in his artworks. He reveals a genuine desire to reach and affect his audience, connected to his prophetic impulse and interest in social reform. McCahon viewed his artworks as sacred objects, not merely items to be bought and sold. Therefore, the artist hoped that the purchase of Teaching Aids 3 was an act of understanding, not commerce.110 This does not seem to be the prevailing audience attitude.111 Teaching Aids requires the audience to make a connection between numbers and a spiritual journey. McCahon’s symbolic Stations are sufficiently distant from the signified object that a viewer may fail to recognise them at all. The lukewarm response to his audience-oriented journey-based artworks was an obvious disappointment. Positive, enthusiastic reactions are hard to come by.112 The most touching and deeply considered response to these numerical landscape pieces comes from within the artist’s own family. McCahon’s daughter appears to have engaged with his art in a way that he intended. Carr burst into tears the first time she saw the Beach Walk series because they reminded her of experiencing the same walk with her parents. The paintings evoked phases of light and water in a vivid and emotionally dramatic way. She feels as though she made the journey again in her mind via the artwork.113 Carr was able to penetrate this symbology and personally connect with its content. She understands her father’s lexicon of symbols, his context of

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grief, his depiction of the coastal environment, and the synthesis of these positions into a sequential journey. Intuitively comprehending the artworks as images that ask for direct participation, she was imaginatively transported back to Muriwai during fog. Carr’s response fits neatly within the framework of meaning that McCahon intended to convey, and shows her understanding of the more complex layers of visual rhetoric employed within the artwork. This level of reaction was rare. The divide between perception and intention was upsetting for McCahon – an artist who was so concerned with pedagogic audience engagement that he phrased his religious teachings as sums on a blackboard.

Conclusion McCahon’s symbolic exploration of Muriwai epitomises both the serial nature of his communication, and the problems presented by such a complex means of addressing his audience. McCahon was devoted to his Christ-centred message of peaceful social change and environmental conservation. The special redemptive powers of nature are emphasised in his approach to Muriwai and connected locales. If a viewer is able to engage with McCahon’s body of work as a whole, the subtle and multifarious dimensions of symbols such as the Tau become apparent. So too is his social conscience made clear in the long, engaging ‘paintings to walk by’. McCahon’s beach walk messages work on three levels, which may be summarised as follows: i) Addressing the self: McCahon uses his spiritual walks as a way of expressing and coping with his own grief and frustrations as a prophet. The beach environment is a language through which he reforms his relationship with Baxter, comes to terms with the endless cycle of human life and death, and the difficulties in transmitting information across generations.114 ii) Addressing the audience as individuals: McCahon speaks to his viewers in a personal fashion. His beach walk artworks teach the viewer to use the New Zealand landscape as a way of coping with their own spiritual concerns. His paintings create an intimate space—a mental stage—in which an audience member is asked to open their eyes and receive a vision of Christ and sacred terrain. McCahon acts as a psychopomp who journeys with the viewer through death and the afterlife. iii) Addressing the audience as a whole: McCahon’s artworks speak to the citizens of New Zealand en masse. His synchronisation of Christian and MƗori belief systems blends an appreciation of the local environment as sacred with a less terrestrial soteriological narrative. The Stations of the

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Cross are a gateway into a pluralistic faith system that promotes crosscultural identity and ecological preservation. McCahon attempts to tell his audience that the Stations of the Cross are a dynamic life tool, providing a ritual to bond us with the dead. His construction of a misty liminal zone, using the beach, can be read as a genuine imaginative pilgrimage. So too are his numerical landscapes intended as didactic spiritual pieces with important lessons on the journey of faith. Considering the high standards of reception McCahon attached to his visual rhetoric, it is unsurprising that he was let down by the nature of his audience response. While the complexity of his symbols constructs an extraordinarily detailed theological and social discourse, including a call for attitudinal change, his abstruse message is inherently difficult to grasp.

Notes  A SIMPLIFIED VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER APPEARS AS ZOE ALDERTON, “OUT WITH THE TIDE: COLIN MCCAHON AND IMAGINATIVE PILGRIMAGE,” JOURNEYS AND DESTINATIONS: STUDIES IN TRAVEL, IDENTITY, AND MEANING, ED. ALEX NORMAN (UNITED KINGDOM: CAMBRIDGE SCHOLARS PRESS, 2013). 1

Keith notes the prominence of the ‘journey’ in New Zealand art, connecting it to comparatively recent European colonisation. See: Keith, “Towards Auckland,” 6. 2 For example, McCahon and Rodney Kennedy designed and constructed stage sets for ‘The Insect Play’ and ‘Professor Mamlock’, performed by the Dunedin Left Book Club, while they were art students. See: Rachel Barrowman, A Popular Vision: The Arts and the Left in New Zealand 1930-1950 (New Zealand: Victoria University Press, 1991), 72. McCaw agrees that his work in the theatre is important in terms of style and approach. She writes, “[i]t is both the realization of the auratic nature of the landscape, and its potential role as a theatrical set in which richer meanings can be played out that informs McCahon’s particular vision.” See: McCaw, “Art and (Second) Life.” 3 Curnow views McCahon’s depiction of time as a passage and a sequence. See: Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 50. As he remarks in reference to On the Road (1976), “sequence leads to narrative.” See: Wystan Curnow, McCahon Gimblett Motherwell (Auckland: Gow Langsford Gallery, 2005). Curnow makes particular note of McCahon’s number painting as a storytelling tool. See: Curnow, “Colin McCahon.” 4 On this note, Jonathan Turner sees the Stations as an integration of McCahon’s interests in “landscape and symbols, time and space, and the progression from birth to death and beyond all in the one Christian motif.” See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 222. 5 McCahon saw these artworks on his trip to New York in 1958. See: Simpson, Patron and Painter, 30.

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6 Matire Kereama, The Tail of the Fish: MƗori Memories of the Far North (Auckland: Oswald-Sealy, 1968). 7 Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” 8 The spiritual significance of Haumnj Hill has been known to PƗkekƗ historians for some time. In his 1867 recount of the conversion of the MƗori, the bishop William Williams mentions this sacred site. He writes: “[t]he last resting-place of the spirits was on a hill called Haumnj, from whence they could look back on the country where their friends were still living, and the thought of this caused them to cry and cut themselves.” See: William Williams, Christianity Among the New Zealanders (London: Seeley, Jackson and Halliday, 1867), 206. 9 We can be certain that McCahon eventually read this verse as he quotes from Ecclesiastes 1:10 in his final paintings such as Is There Anything of Which One Can Say Look This Is New? (1982). 10 Curnow, “The Shining Cuckoo,” 43. 11 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 174. 12 These Tau crosses are also reminiscent of a reel of film or comic strip. The artist indicates the idea of a sequential journey via the use of frames. Simmons declares that McCahon’s work “rejoices in the cartoon effects of the film frame.” See: Laurence Simmons, “Paintings to Pan By: A Documentary on Colin McCahon,” Art New Zealand 51 (1989): 86. Here we see this applied in an imaginative journey through Muriwai. 13 Colin McCahon to Peter McLeavy in Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 19. 14 The existence of a specific Walk series is debatable. I have chosen to conglomerate the works of 1973 that deal with beach walks, expressed as sequential and individual panels, under this umbrella heading. The Colin McCahon Image Library Database (http://www.mccahon.co.nz/) categorises the works in this segment as being part of series titled Blind, Series A, and Series B. Other variations are possible. McCahon’s intended mode of categorisation is not clear. 15 The delicate and undefined application of pigment and the presence of floating rectangles are reminiscent of Rothko. While both artists evoke a similar sense of the sublime, McCahon’s images are tied to the physicality of the beach. 16 This kind of journey is conveyed through the progression of one-dimensional images. Green refers to this technique as a manifestation of the modernist inclination to flatten out a picture space. He highlights McCahon’s supposition that an observer is on the move. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 30-31. 17 McIvor, “Remembering Colin McCahon,” 99. 18 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 173. 19 Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” 20 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 59-60. 21 The work was dedicated to Baxter’s daughter, Hilary. See: McCahon to Ross [March 1972]. Perhaps this is another statement on the rise of a next generation as the one before it falls. 22 See, for example, Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 20.

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The connection between orange panels and the journey of the prophet is explained in the chapter ‘Gates and Waterfalls’. 24 Colin McCahon, “(IV) Titirangi,” in Rita: Seven Poems by Colin McCahon, ed. Peter Simpson (New Zealand: Fernbank Studio, 2001). 25 Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” Baxter, Mason, and Brasch all died within nine months of each other. 26 Barry Mitcalfe, “Te Rerenga Wairua: Leaping Place of the Spirits,” Te Ao Hou: The New World 35 (1961): 38. 27 Baxter is associated with the commune Hiruharama, the MƗori word for ‘Jerusalem’. This open community was based around his synchronisation of MƗori and Catholic belief systems. For a detailed account, see: Lucy Sargisson and Lyman Tower Sargent, Living in Utopia: New Zealand’s Intentional Communities (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 38ff. Baxter is also known for his character ‘The MƗori Jesus’ who appears in a poem of the same name. This Jesus reflects the blindness of society to a divine message. The poem runs backwards though the Christian creation myth, ending as light is removed from the earth. 28 McCahon never actually walked the Muriwai beaches with Baxter in life. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 194. 29 See, for example, Green, “Colin McCahon’s ‘Necessary Protection’ in Auckland.” 30 Pound, The Space Between, 62. 31 Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 19; Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 174. 32 McCahon to McLeavy in Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 19. 33 McCahon to Brown [August 1973] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 174. 34 The inscription on D5 reads: “D5 HANG UNDER D3.” 35 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 407. 36 Another such example is Untitled (Cupboard Door) (1972). This artwork shows a green hillside and subtle Tau cross. It is painted on the unusual canvas that informs its title. It is quite reasonable to believe that this piece is intended to function as a door into the landscape. In terms of the post-object genre, McCahon is described as reinstating art objects to replace the inertia surrounding them. See: Wystan Curnow, Christina Barton, John Hurrell and Robert Leonard, introduction to Action Replay: Post-Script, (New Plymouth: Govett-Brewster, 2002), 10. 37 Burke, “River Deep, Mountain High,” 14-15. 38 Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” 39 Christchurch Art Gallery, accessed February 22, 2010, http://collection.christchu rchartgallery.org.nz/search.do?view=detail&field=id&keyword=2517. 40 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 178. 41 Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’.” 42 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 178. 43 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 404. 44 Rowe, “Notes Towards a McCahon ABC.” This is reasonable, as McCahon had employed Paul as a symbol previously. The figure of Paul is also connected to long missionary journeys, which provides a pleasing continuity with the idea of a spiritual walk as explored by McCahon.

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Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’.” The inscription at the top of the work states that Tangirau Hotere (Ralph Hotere’s father) allowed the sacred words contained in the artwork to be used. See: Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 407. 47 Ralph Hotere to McCahon in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 161. 48 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 405. 49 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 406. 50 McCahon wished to donate the painting to Hocken, a gallery to which these friends were connected. He named it as a gift in their honour. See: McCahon to Caselberg [16 Mar. 76] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 40. 51 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 408. 52 It is easy to tie this in with aforementioned artworks. The idea of a bird alighting on the beach as recalled in the poem suggests the journey of the departed soul across the beach, the jets over Muriwai, and the final leaping point of Cape Reinga. To be understood fully, these beach artworks must be read as part of a unified whole. 53 Lynn, “Colin McCahon: The View From Across the Tasman.” 54 Jasper Buse and Raututi Taringa, Cook Islands MƗori Dictionary, [1995] eds Bruce Biggs and Rangi Moeka’a (Suva: Ministry of Education, Government of the Cook Islands, 2006), 520. 55 McCahon to McLeavey [13 Oct. 74] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 178. 56 For example, Pound draws our attention to the insertion of classical European culture in the landscape via Roman numerals. See: Pound, The Space Between, 95. 57 See: Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 405. 58 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 140. 59 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 32. 60 See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 154. McCahon would not elucidate his meaning. 61 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 135-136. 62 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 44. Brown also refers to the ‘I’ below this symbol as part of McCahon’s ‘I am’, which he correlates with “the One God and the imminent First Clause as the Creator.” Brown also notes that McCahon does not ascribe these numbers “any ideas based on their mystic or astrological use.” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 147. Rather, they are firmly tied to his personal, Christian-influenced, theology. 63 O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 14. 64 Johnston, “Christianity in New Zealand Art,” 105. 65 Michael Dunn, “Modernism at the Medical School: Colin McCahon’s Numerals,” Art New Zealand 100 (2001): 84. 66 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 136. 67 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 26-27; McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 9. 68 McCahon in Curnow, McCahon's “Necessary Protection”, 12. 69 For example, Reid enthuses over the intimate space created between the viewer and the noun ‘I’. See: Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” Fitzgerald agrees, 46

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 writing, “it’s the way McCahon has interlocked “ONE,” the first person singular, with the massive God-like ‘I’ that suggests a more personal rumination: the relationship one holds with a higher being.” See: Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining.” 70 Indeed, Christopher Marshall’s art guide for students suggests that “[i]f it wasn’t in a gallery, One could almost be imagined as a sign stencilled on a slightly faded reflective yellow board out somewhere on a back-road.” See: Christopher Marshall, Macmillan Interpreting Art: A Guide for Students (South Yarra: Macmillan Education Australia, 2001), 87. 71 Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” 72 The particular history of McCahon’s blackboard style is explored in detail in ‘The Word Paintings’ chapter. 73 McCahon, “19 Painters & Their Favourite Works,” 397. 74 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 29. 75 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 131. 76 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 181. 77 Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 53. 78 Curnow, “Thinking About Colin McCahon and Barnet Newman.” 79 Alex Sutherland also finds McCahon’s use of black and white in his representation of the Stations important. He sees the contrast between the two tones as another symbol in its own right. He describes it as a “light/life, dark/death dichotomy,” unconsciously picking up the imagery of the prophet Isaiah and the words of Jesus. The passages he notes are: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. They lived in a land of shadows, but now light is shining on them.” (Isaiah 9:2) and “I am the light of the world; whoever follows me will have the light of life and will never walk in darkness.” (John 8:12). See: Alex Sutherland, Stations of the Cross: An Exhibition Based on the Passion of Christ (New Plymouth: Govett-Brewster Art Gallery, 1981). While McCahon may not have intended to evoke these passages specifically, his symbolic lexicon certainly demonstrates engagement with Christ as a figure of illumination, and places value on breaking through blindness. 80 Colin McCahon to Wystan Curnow [1975] in Teaching Aids (Auckland: The NEW Gallery, Auckland Art Gallery, 1995), 10 81 William McCahon believes that all these markings are purposeful. He sees forms repeated from North Otago Landscapes, Paddocks for Sheep (this artwork was later remodelled and renamed On Building Bridges), and the Walk series. See: William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 3. 82 Interestingly, William McCahon presents the numerals as overt symbols, which he traces to the Catholic Catechism. This source contains numbered segments about leading a life as part of the church. William McCahon decodes several of the panels found in the June Teaching Aids 2 (1975). For example, panel nine represents Christ’s descent into Hell. The prominent number is fourteen, representing the final burial/entombment station of the cross. William McCahon views the white lines as a rugby goal in a sky of stars, a prominent cultural symbol of New Zealand. The Trinity sit to one side. See: William McCahon, “Teaching

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 Aids,” 5. This possible reading highlights a wry cultural comment about the place of religion in New Zealand and the prominence of sport as a devotional concern. 83 For example, Bloem suggests that his numerical symbols have a focus on the creation of mood, as opposed to a direct representation of fact. Bloem in Crow, “Spreading the Word.” Amusingly, McIvor disliked his numerical artworks and could not see them as proper symbols. She blames this on her talent for mathematics. See: McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 131. As Hurrell writes, “Teaching Aids were about using numbers to get viewers walk a zigzagging mental path. There no track was laid other than their ability to make connections themselves ... and ‘join the dots.’ Like the Elias work there was a sense of thought processes at work, with elements of hesitancy, at times erasure.” See: John Hurrell, “Can Paint Save Us? Will Words?,” Artbash, September 13, 2006, accessed September 9, 2010, http://www.artbash.co.nz/article.asp?id=822. 84 Leonard accurately describes McCahon’s Stations as a marriage of the absolute with the provisional, “affirming faith as a hankering, a coming to terms.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 32. 85 This reading of spiritual experimentation is popular. For example, Woollaston believes that McCahon’s work is about testing and discovering rules, trying them out for the sake of himself and his viewer. See: Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” Curnow observes the drive towards movement, like the devotional exercise in church of following and pondering each station. He sees McCahon’s version as limitless, as the stations do not follow their correct order. See: Curnow, “Devotions Unlimited,” 9. 86 McCahon to Curnow [1975] in Teaching Aids, 10. 87 Leonard agrees, claiming that McCahon’s Stations “invite and confound our hermeneutic zeal.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 32. Like an engaging mentor, the artist permits his audience to explore the practice of Biblical interpretation. 88 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 2. 89 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 2. 90 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 2. 91 McCahon to Curnow [1975] in Teaching Aids, 10. 92 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 7. 93 William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 8. 94 As Christina Barton explains, McCahon employs symbols from a “common cultural store.” This childhood game matches that category; describing spiritual victory in the form of a competition nearly all his audience members would have played. See: Christina Barton, “after-words: Conversation Around McCahon,” in after McCahon (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1989), 8. 95 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 181-182. 96 Martin Browne, “Noughts and Crosses, Series 2, No. 5, 1976,” Deutscher and Hackett, accessed November 2, 2011, http://www.deutscherandhackett.com/node/1 8000016. 97 In Dark Night. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 21 for an introduction to his Stations of the Cross journey. 98 Edmond, Dark Night, 25.

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‘Robyn’, “The Stations of the Cross,” Christchurch City Libraries Blog, December 22, 2011, accessed January 18, 2012, http://cclblog.wordpress.com/2011 /12/22/the-stations-of-the-cross. 100 “Artist Humbled at Being Awarded Artist Residency Line,” Scoop Culture, March 24, 2012, accessed March 28, 2012, http://www.scoop.co.nz/stories/CU120 3/S00388/artist-humbled-at-being-awarded-sydney-artist-residency-line.htm. 101 Lett in I Am: Colin McCahon, 40.03 – 40.57. 102 Green, “Colin McCahon’s ‘Necessary Protection’ in Auckland.” 103 Stead purchased this work with prize money from his poetry. As such, he had time to consider the imagery in great detail. See: Stead, “Colin McCahon,” 90. 104 The name of the artwork is indeed obscure. McCahon borrowed this phrase from his grandson who was worried by an oncoming storm. He described the clouds he saw as “rocks in the sky.” Brown believes that these rocks are also spiritual stumbling blocks, which “impede life’s feeling of well-being and the urge to carry on.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 140. 105 Stead, “Colin McCahon,” 90. Within this particular artwork, Stead sees a great cloud and the dark sea, framed by a veranda rail upon which he visualises the artist looking out. He also sees an echo of Nolan’s Ned Kelley series. Stead admits that all of these images are spawned from his own mind and may have nothing to do with McCahon’s original vision. 106 Stead, “Colin McCahon,” 88. 107 Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 405. 108 Cartwright, Sweet As, 24. 109 McCahon to Curnow [1975] in Teaching Aids, 10. 110 McCahon to Curnow [1975] in Teaching Aids, 10. 111 Bail notes the potential for offense in McCahon’s presumption that he is a teacher to his audience. This stance is certainly implied by Teaching Aids. While he believes that McCahon’s evangelism has “a humble vanity,” he points out the unusual and urgent clumsiness of a modern artist trying to preach. See: Murray Bail, “I Am: On Colin McCahon,” Heat 4 (2003): 44. 112 Appreciation can be found in unexpected (and often modern) quarters. For example, One is employed by a University of Queensland creative media production blog, which studies texts and the way in which they engage an audience. This source uses One as an example of the “power of fonts to move, excite or command us.” See: Liz Ferrier, “Fffffonts,” collabr8, March 2, 2010, accessed June 18, 2010, http://collabr8.wordpress.com/2010/03/02/fffffonts. 113 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 50.31 – 50.54. 114 This is comparable to artists such as Grace Cossington Smith who used the waves at Thirroul as a means of expressing and negotiating her psyche after the death of her mother in the painting Sea Wave (1931). Bruce James describes it as “a life-cast of the psyche, subtly paraded as landscape.” See: Bruce James, Grace Cossington Smith (Roseville: Craftsman House, 1990), 86-87.

CHAPTER EIGHT MOSES AND MƖORI CULTURE

McCahon’s exploration of local mythology in the Necessary Protection series was supported by his burgeoning understanding of MƗori culture and religion. So too are there clear links between his beach walk artworks and traditional MƗori perspectives of the afterlife. These ideas assisted in his promotion of the natural world as a source of identity and community formation. He conceived of European culture as destructive, in opposition to the nourishing and peaceful MƗori culture that he observed around him. McCahon’s appropriation of indigenous belief systems came to influence his journey as a prophet and inventor of culture.1 It also expanded his formative experiences of Christianity into a syncretic Christ-oriented religious viewpoint that impacted upon his entire subsequent body of work. In terms of audience reaction, McCahon’s viewers form part of a bicultural negotiation across the past forty years. MƗori cultural appropriations have polarised McCahon’s audience, leading to vocal complaints but also the belief that his vision of New Zealand is sacred and should be treasured. In particular, the various motivations behind these statements will be observed in a case study of the theft of the Urewera Mural (1975). When explaining McCahon’s relationship with indigenous culture, he should be viewed as a figure reflective of his particular socio-cultural context. Although present-day studies of art history take into account issues of cultural studies and are informed by discourses on indigenous rights, McCahon is a figure who pre-dates this approach.2 Seminal postcolonial concepts such Edward Said’s ‘Orientalism’ were not available to McCahon.3 Indeed, theorists such as Turner believe that McCahon’s “sympathy for the struggle of MƗori culture against the white Protestant ethic” was “ahead of this time.”4 During the nineteen-seventies, a new wave of artists arose with a more heightened awareness of cultural and theoretical issues of representation. Politics of artistic production and reception were foregrounded.5 Although McCahon’s later work falls into this era, he was of a generation who were not as firmly grounded in the political issues of appropriation. McCahon’s relationship with MƗori

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culture was informed mainly by his familial ties rather than scholarly debate on racial issues.6 McCahon came to appreciate indigenous culture in the late nineteensixties when his daughter Victoria married a MƗori man. An obvious example of this inspiration is The Canoe Tainui (1969), upon which McCahon inscribed the genealogical whakapapa of his grandson's father.7 Carr’s marriage broadened her father’s understanding of New Zealand culture. McCahon began to appreciate the role of New Zealand’s land in the MƗori belief system, realising that other cultural groups embraced their native soil.8 He saw this as an alternative to material, secular Western society.9 McCahon believed that MƗori communities were a strong and beneficial grouping. He felt that “we [PƗkehƗ] have all been on our own too long. We need a change in this direction.”10 With this new mindset, McCahon withdrew from European culture, which he associated with destruction,11 and moved towards MƗori ideas that he considered more peaceful and harmonious in his search for the Promised Land.12

Nationhood and Indigenous Culture McCahon was deeply engaged with issues of nationalism and the construction of New Zealand as a culturally autonomous state. His use of MƗori narrative and spiritual ideas feeds into an ongoing adoption of indigenous concepts into settler culture as a point of difference between New Zealand and the United Kingdom. Pound believes that ‘primitivism’ was acceptable in the nineteen-thirties and nineteen-forties if it might “usefully be applied to Nationalist concerns.”13 The adoption of MƗori art should be read in a similar fashion. The actual role of MƗori people in defining nationhood is contentious. Calder explains that in the late eighteen hundreds, MƗori were included in the New Zealand creative arts as a testament to a dying race.14 When these indigenous inhabitants were seen to have survived the colonial period, their role in literature and the rhetoric of nationhood changed. In the modern era, Barclay suggests that a system of “civic nationalism” operates in New Zealand, focusing on the notion of “building an identity from the ground up.”15 She does not see this as an invitation for engagement with MƗori groups, but rather an expectation that they should be complicit in this shared project of nationhood.16 The MƗori voice is often lost or absent in this act of cultural appropriation.17 This can result in PƗkehƗ ‘ownership’ of MƗori culture. Anna Yeatman argues that nativism18 has a large impact on how MƗori are absorbed into the cause of nationalism. She believes they are seen as “our MƗori” who

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helped to define a distinctive PƗkehƗ identity by means of their own cultural renaissance and efforts to maintain tradition.19 As a result, MƗori are often treated as a tool of cultural definition rather than instigators of postcolonial identity. Indeed, Allen Curnow mentions many PƗkehƗ of his era as feeling “enriched and dignified by association with those older Pacific navigators and colonists.”20 Co-opting MƗori culture was a means of escaping the perceived blandness or cultural emptiness of the postcolonial era. Morris suggests that PƗkehƗ who reject the imperialistic, racist, and colonist culture of Europe that forms their ethnic roots are often left feeling as though they have no culture at all. He notes that in the nineteen-seventies (the period in which the majority of McCahon’s MƗori artworks were created) many PƗkehƗ were observed trying to make MƗori spirituality their own.21 This is certainly a means of acquiring a sense of cultural authenticity. Concurrently, it is an act of erasure as MƗori identity may be denuded by this PƗkehƗ acquisition. As Ngahiraka Mason explains, “[w]hen you have somebody else that speaks for you, it’s really hard to assert your own idea of who you are.”22 Thus primitivism23 was used as a means of instigating a new tradition specific to New Zealand, which inherently displaces pre-existing cultures. It is difficult to construct nationhood when a distinct group of people already live within the land one has colonised. Terry Goldie explains how the Caucasian population of New Zealand must grapple with indigenous populations who are considered ‘alien’ and ‘Other’.24 By definition, these peoples cannot literally be alien as they are indigenous. One means of resolving this contradiction of perception is to incorporate indigenous culture into the dominant settler discourse. Another is the rejection of indigenous history, acting as though one’s country began with colonial settlement.25 The idea of inventing New Zealand from scratch fits within the rubric of this second approach, while McCahon’s attempts to synthesise elements of MƗori culture into his body of work fits into the former.26 This act of a PƗkehƗ becoming imaginarily autochthonous was not incongruous in McCahon’s era.27 Discourses of invasion were commonly erased in favour of the view that all New Zealanders were true locals, including PƗkehƗ. This drew attention away from MƗori grievances and meant that this group were no longer the exclusive owners of their cultural heritage, which was left open for PƗkehƗ to discover and embrace.28 Easton believes that McCahon “contributed to the MƗori renaissance,”29 demonstrating the disassociation between MƗori people and MƗori culture. McCahon emerged from a period that often failed to acknowledge ownership debates over traditional MƗori culture, whilst simultaneously promoting a

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sentiment of great, personal appreciation for indigenous narratives and spirituality. As a result, MƗori have been imbued with a problematic mantle of ‘difference’. Crane states that early New Zealand literature frequently highlighted the lazy and ‘savage’ quality of MƗori people in order to categorise them as ‘Other’ and contrast them with the perceived nobility of the settlers.30 Conversely, this concept of the indigenous community as a more basic and naturalistic people also led to celebration within settler culture under the paradigm of a ‘noble savage’.31 McCahon’s xenocentrism often objectified MƗori society, presuming a high level of pacifism and pantheism that he considered to be largely absent within his own cultural group. This setting apart of indigenous groups as inherently different to PƗkehƗ created a feeling of the MƗori community as more spiritual than their Caucasian counterparts.32 The perceived ‘magic’ of the autochthon has also been ascribed more specifically religious implications within the settler discourse. Goldie suggests that indigenous people were often considered to possess different systems of understanding and operate on a different level of consciousness. This idea of ‘native’ mysticism can reflect upon the perception of settler culture as somehow spiritually inadequate.33 Morris, Ricketts, and Grimshaw confirm that many New Zealand poets conceive of New Zealand spirituality as a kind of “bush theology” centred on pre-colonial MƗori, seen as superior to urban habitation.34 On this note, Grimshaw describes McCahon as a figurehead in the movement away from the perceived failure of Christianity, and the subsequent call for indigenous spirituality as an alternative.35 This also fits into the rubric of contemporaneous new religious movements. Many of these groups involved appropriation of indigenous belief systems, often with an emphasis on pantheistic and conservation-based lifestyles.36 McCahon’s reading of MƗori culture in a xenophilic light thus sits within a broader discourse of searching for alternative settler identities.

MƗori Concepts in McCahon’s Oeuvre McCahon’s artworks are the clearest example of his relationship with MƗori culture and its synthesis with Christianity.37 For example, in 1969 and 1972, McCahon created several artworks based on the poem ‘The Lark’s Song’ from Kereama’s The Tail of the Fish. Catherine McCahon brought this text to her father’s attention,38 helping to weave MƗori content into the family narrative. The Lark’s Song (1969) contains a MƗorilanguage poem, which McCahon concludes with “CAN YOU HEAR ME

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ST. FRANCIS.” A similar version of this poem can be found on the scroll painting of the same name and date. Leigh Davis translates the text as a story of humans on a riverbank whose song matched that of a lark singing above, thus creating a round. He sees McCahon as a participant in this song, adding his own voice to the chorus.39 McCahon is adamant that The Lark’s Song be read for its music, as it is composed of the words to a song. He advises his viewers not to worry about translations, but simply to read for the sake of sound. He sees it as a joyful piece, born of an ongoing artistic relationship with Kereama’s words.40 McCahon was especially pleased when Kereama herself engaged with the artwork during a showing in Auckland. McCahon recalls the poet waiting until the gallery was nearly empty, and then chanting her song. He found this an illuminating experience that assisted his feel for the sound and rhythm of the text.41 In addition to a call for participation, this work is also the lament of an ignored prophet. Through a quotation from the poetry of Peter Hooper, McCahon asks “Can you hear me St. Francis,” a plea of doubt to a Catholic figure. By evoking St. Francis, he pays tribute to the saint’s correlation between nature and God.42 St Francis is said to have preached to tame birds (treating them indiscriminately to people), and introduced a love of the natural world into medieval worship.43 McCahon makes an interesting connection between the lark as mentioned in Kereama’s text and Saint Francis’ magical connection to birds. Yule sees this as an act of desperation.44 He provides a Christian reading of this artwork and its context, stating “McCahon felt that secular New Zealanders were not listening to him. He compares himself to St. Francis, who preached instead to the birds!”45 McCahon was indeed highly frustrated by his inability to communicate to a receptive audience. This work is a discourse on unsatisfactory interactions and the search for a new way of speaking.46 Another interesting example of McCahon’s combination of MƗori and Christian spirituality is in May His Light Shine (Tau Cross) (1978-1979). At first glance, this work seems overtly Christian. It refers to the light of God, represented by a golden backdrop to the clouds. The text is taken from a faith-based poem by the Catholic writer Gerard Manley Hopkins.47 This painting shows the Tau as a salient image, leading the viewer to presume that ‘HE’S THE ONE’ refers to Christ as Messiah. Despite this, the reference to kumara inserts a very non-Christian practice of worship.48 Kumara are considered a sacred, ceremonial food within some MƗori groups. A man named Rongo is said to have stolen them from the heavens. He concealed the vegetable in his penis and impregnated his wife who gave birth to a sweet potato.49 In keeping with this transmogrification,

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Brown describes the Tau as a symbol of light and life that, itself, becomes a kumara god.50 McCahon employs this mythology in a manner that seeks to embody a supra-cultural nationalist movement. His depiction of the Tau as something that can grow from the earth is important.51 Pound draws attention to this soil as a sign of “nativeness” and “MƗoriness.” It is both potential nourishment and present dryness. Pound reads it as a wilderness space, awaiting fructification. He sees this artwork as an archaeological site where McCahon digs for roots.52 These roots are then nourished by a Christianised representation of the divine. The idea of light shining down from God to benefit humanity (indicated here by the Tau) is metaphorically expressed in McCahon’s image of light shining down to make the kumara grow. This painting applies McCahon’s fascination with the symbol of light to the nourishment of his beloved homeland, which was once cultivated exclusively by the MƗori people. He appears to value their engagement with the land, and thus searches for a point of convergence between MƗori roots and his Christian-inspired worldview.

The Impact of MƗori Prophetic Movements McCahon’s engagement with MƗori culture is strongly rooted in his fascination with the Parihaka community of the Taranaki region, who are remembered for their pacificism in the face of colonial aggression under the leadership of Te Whiti O Rongomai and Tohu Kakahi – prophets guided by Christianity. Te Whiti was the pupil of a Lutheran missionary who connected MƗori people to the Hebrews and claimed that God would liberate them as his chosen people. Te Whiti was closely acquainted with the book of Revelations and used it as a source of millenarian prophecy.53 He saw himself as a vessel of God and would preach in an ecstatic trance. He also correlated the Bible to New Zealand, comparing the twelve tribes of Israel with the twelve tribes of Taranaki and Waikato.54 Te Whiti would not allow his people to take up arms against invasive settlement and instead resisted through passive obstruction. Tohu studied with Te Whiti under the Wesleyan missionaries and shared his vision for the Parihaka community.55 It is unsurprising that these leaders would resonate with McCahon.56 Carr states that her father was fascinated by Te Whiti, especially his endorsement of peace.57 He and Tohu provided an influential and relevant style of prophetic leadership.58 The story of Parihaka takes place during the late eighteen hundreds, a period in which land was confiscated from its indigenous owners by European settlers. This narrative was inspirational for McCahon, and

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defined a significant portion of his body of work. Under the leadership of Te Whiti and Tohu, Parihaka was founded in 1867 as a refuge for MƗori dispossessed by this invasion.59 Disproving the validity of a paternalistic attitude towards indigenous affairs, the village overtly invalidated perceptions of MƗori as savage and basic.60 Working under the tenets of Christianity, Parihaka was a peaceful community with a rigorously maintained code of morality. Te Whiti opposed injustices such as economic greed. Under his leadership, the Parihaka community became modernised and self-sufficient with its own electricity and water supplies.61 The powerbase of Parihaka upset parliament, and increasing demands for farmland led the Grey government to survey their land for PƗkehƗ settlement. During this scrutiny of their resources, citizens of Parihaka removed survey pegs, worked on surveyed land, and marched silently along tribal boundaries.62 Crops were planted on land set aside for new roads.63 They opted to be imprisoned as a punishment for these legal violations, filling up the colonial gaols. This resulted in an embarrassing situation for the government. Te Whiti and Tohu also tested the legality of land confiscation through litigation.64 From 1880, armed soldiers were moved in to patrol the region.65 The confrontation came to a head on November 5, 1881 when the settlement was invaded by militia and volunteers under the control of the Native Minister. Tohu and Te Whiti continued their policy of non-violence in the face of this aggression.66 The invading troops were met by small children singing and older girls skipping rope. Despite aggression from the soldiers, they could not be convinced to move.67 Verbal abuse was countered by the quotation of Biblical verses.68 Te Whiti and Tohu were subsequently arrested and many residents of Parihaka were detained indefinitely. Several died due to the rough conditions of their imprisonment and hard labour. Those who were not captured had their homes, crops, and livestock destroyed. As such, Savage describes Parihaka as one of the “most shameful episodes” in New Zealand colonial history.69 The legacy of this shame continues to impact upon national culture in a variety of ways. The story of Parihaka and its invasion has become a motif for peace and also functions as a pilgrimage destination. As early as 1902, Parihaka was referred to as a “Mecca.”70 The community still welcome pilgrims, described as equivalents to those visiting Mecca or Jerusalem.71 Reflecting an ongoing interest in the area, the Parihaka International Peace Festival was started in 2006. It has become a sacred location in which rituals of pacificism are regularly enacted, and particular lenses of national identity are strengthened. Bärbel Czennia reports that the story of Parihaka has gained “almost mythic status in the New Zealand consciousness.”72 This

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mythos is revivified through ritualistic remembrance. For some MƗori, Parihaka keeps alive a history of cultural struggle, forms a sacred site, and represents past trauma. PƗkehƗ such as McCahon have also been deeply touched by this mythology. Czennia explains Parihaka as a location and story of importance to PƗkehƗ “in search of a postcolonial collective identity.”73 She believes that Parihaka is a site where collective identity is negotiated by the descendants of both victims and perpetrators.74 As Calder explains, colonial land disputes do not necessarily detract from the supposedly ethical construction of a PƗkehƗ New Zealand culture: This version of history – settlement founded on “encroachment,” on injustice – is not an obstacle to New Zealand nationalism, but an enabling and enduring feature of it ... Military resistance of MƗori … would excuse the large-scale and indiscriminate confiscation of land.75

The story of Parihaka and other colonial battles have been used by PƗkehƗ who wish to colour MƗori of this era as worthy opponents who lost a fair fight. Others, such as McCahon, see the confiscations as an act of aggression that has caused ongoing sorrow. In both cases, Parihaka is used as a mythology to explain, celebrate, or dismiss colonial New Zealand culture. McCahon was well positioned to comment on this mythological narrative, as poetry and painting have functioned as the means of expressing this cultural construct. Czennia illuminates poetry as an important medium for enacting memory and reflecting back on to a culture of commemoration. Poetry is used as a way to illuminate suppressed opinions and the memories of minority groups. Czennia speaks of the mythologising power inherent in poetry, which can take real social conflict and turn it into powerful symbols to be inherited through a community and shared with younger generations. This creates an artistic dialogue between texts speaking on the same topic.76 Creative expression becomes a site of reconciliation and social negotiation.77 McCahon was an early participant in the reimagining of Parihaka after visiting the region in 1977. Highly affected by his surroundings, McCahon wrote that he felt “responsible for past terror.”78 McCahon’s art attempts to commemorate the peaceful leaders of this region. He imagines himself more as the MƗori prophets than the invading European forces. Morris notes that the Parihaka community had a genuine and deeply felt spiritual life.79 This devotion to faith and peace would have impressed McCahon. Carr believes that engaging with MƗori spirituality expanded her father’s personal views and made him confront his relationship with Christianity.80

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His art shows a resonance with dispossessed people trying to find a spiritual homeland such as the MƗori in colonial times or the Jewish people in the Old Testament. In addition, McCahon adds in his own story and emotions to assuage the guilt of his ancestry and commemorate the prophets who came before him. Morris feels that “[t]he prophetic insistence on the centrality and sacrality of the land is the lesson of Parihaka.”81 This would have certainly touched McCahon who was deeply impressed by the perceived connection between MƗori and their native land. McCahon described Parihaka as an “awful place” of “little hope” filled with “bashed spirits.”82 He tried to make the following artworks as a gesture of recompense and healing, recognising a common bond with the prophets who had gone before him. A salient application of MƗori prophets can be found in Confrontation of the Two Prophets, Te Ua and Te Whiti (1972) and The Two Prophets Te Ua and Te Whiti (1972). These artworks feed directly in to the Necessary Protection series. The works show typical imagery for McCahon paintings of this time. Each cliff appears to represent a prophet, depicted as a staunch block with a cross inside. As per usual, the negative space between the cliffs forms a Tau. A dotted line representing the need to jump, the rosary, and the flight of birds joins the two. Parihaka, Taranaki, Looking Towards the East (1972) offers a similar image, replacing Te Ua with Tohu and deemphasising the idea of confrontation between prophets. Both monuments claim that the leaders stood for peace. Mane-Wheoki likens the stone monoliths to gravestones.83 McCahon’s monuments, despite being cliffs off the coast of New Zealand, are made from very traditional Western Christian crosses. Despite the discussion of MƗori sovereignty, McCahon opts for a symbol of spirituality familiar to Western culture in his painting. We are to presume that McCahon’s naturalistic and indigenous-inspired views of the landscape ultimately inform a Christian perception of salvation, moral conduct, and a relationship with the heroes of one’s nation. There are numerous similarities between these prophets and McCahon’s own experiences as a pacifist. He too saw New Zealand as a space in which the story of Moses could happen once more, and a realm in which angelic visitations were possible. They also form part of the nationalist paradigm under which newly constructed parochial New Zealand culture was grounded in a PƗkehƗ adoption of the MƗori past. McCahon participates in Pound’s “hunger for precursors,” a thoroughly PƗkehƗ artistic activity.84 References to figures such as Te Ua, Te Whiti, and Tohu assisted McCahon in providing “a deeply rooted past, and a legitimising genealogy of ancestral figures.”85 In doing so, he could

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provide what Brasch called “soil for our rootless behaviour.”86 Again, adoption of MƗori motifs, figures, and culture is able to function as a meaning-making system within a culturally denuded postcolonial settlement. The Parihaka Triptych (1972) was commissioned by James Mack for his Waikato Museum and Art Gallery exhibition on Te Whiti and Parihaka. McCahon was already familiar with the prophet, and enthusiastically took on the task.87 The Parihaka Triptych was created without payment and was considered as a gift to the people of Parihaka after the exhibition.88 It is McCahon’s attempt to bridge cultures and find spiritual similarity as a way of healing past injustices. This work displays Necessary Protection crosses on its peripheries, a Tau as its centre, and is meant to be hung in a formation that mirrors the Tau symbol. This arrangement of panels borrows from the European tradition of Christian triptychs. As such, it is marked out as a spiritual object. McCahon uses his chalk on a blackboard style of painting, signifying that the audience is to listen and learn from the words conveyed. The first portion of the triptych reads “an ornament for the PƗkehƗ” and “TOHU I stand for Peace.” The second reads “a monument to TE WHITI”, “I TE WHITI,” and “to people throughout the world and to the people of Parihaka.” The final panel reads “war shall cease and no longer divide the world,” and “Adam’s race has fallen over many cliffs, but the cliffs have disappeared by numerous landslips and none shall fall over those cliffs again. The one cliff that has not been levelled is death.” Te Whiti made this final remark in 1880 as part of his prophecy. The notion of peace and salvation is prominent within the painting. Appropriately, Curnow categorises it as part of the cliff-based Necessary Protection series.89 The ‘monument to Te Whiti’ functions as a protective cliff of the New Zealand landscape. Mane-Wheoki believes that McCahon uses this Te Whiti quote as a way of indicating this prophet as the new messiah. He also connects the speech and the central white cross to Gerard Manly Hopkins’ ‘cliffs of fall’ from the poem ‘No Worst, There is None’. Mane-Wheoki feels the cross indicates a ‘way through’ “to salvation and redemption.”90 Christ does indeed stand at the heart of McCahon’s vision. This painting brings together, not for the last time, Hopkins and MƗori spiritual history under the umbrella of Christianity manifested in New Zealand. McCahon describes the triptych as a ‘monument’ to Te Whiti and an ‘ornament’ for the PƗkehƗ. This idea is emphasised in the linked artwork An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ (1972). These dual purposes seem to preempt the cross-cultural dramas of the Urewera Mural by suggesting that

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meaning and interpretation are not always shared across communities. His use of the word ‘ornament’ seems to criticise the PƗkehƗ perception of his work as commercial goods or mere decoration. McCahon’s view of Parihaka citizens is more positive, presuming that they will understand its spiritual and functional purpose as a devotional item. Curnow believes that the ‘ornament’ for the PƗkehƗ indicates this community is to share in the gifting of this artwork, encouraging a spirit of generosity as opposed to commodity.91 This would imply some level of hope for mutually beneficial cross-cultural exchanges. Mane-Wheoki adopts a more negative reading. He states that An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ cross stands for violence and war, as it is oppositional to the upright Tau that McCahon uses to symbolise the peaceful link between heaven and earth. Mane-Wheoki sees the sideways cross as violent and “swordlike,” a symbol of sin within McCahon’s pacifistic theology.92 If McCahon’s Tau is taken to be dissemination of God down to humanity, then a sideways cross does indeed indicate a breakdown in this relationship. McCahon appears to value MƗori culture as possessing the more functional and transcendent manifestation of Christianity in New Zealand, as opposed to PƗkehƗ culture where religion is seen as decoration. The alienation between MƗori and PƗkehƗ cultures is explored from a different angle with Scared (1976).93 Simpson explains that the painting was a response to a photograph of nervous MƗori viewers entering the “alien environment” of the art gallery to view posters for the Urewera Mural.94 Mane-Wheoki likens this action to an “‘invasion’ of the gallery’s ‘sacred’ precincts,” an apt contrast to the invasion of Parihaka.95 He describes the colloquial voice in McCahon’s painting as that of urbandwelling MƗori who were often dislocated from their heritage.96 As with his ornament to the PƗkehƗ, McCahon pays tribute to the differences and similarities between MƗori and PƗkehƗ culture, understanding that colonialism and its after-effects had severed many MƗori from their traditional relationship with the land and sense of stability. This artwork is part of the Scared series, which deals with the anxiety of nuclear war.97 McCahon bonds himself with urban-dwelling MƗori who felt nervous in their surroundings, imbuing the artwork with his own fear as well as the fear of the anxious visitors to his exhibition. A Song for Rua, Prophet (1979) is an artwork comprising three canvasses, which deals with the recent spiritual history of the Tnjhoe community.98 The Tau is immediately apparent, as is the warm landscape that McCahon uses to symbolise Egypt.99 Above the Tau is a bulbous black form representing the pillar of cloud that guided Moses and his people on their journey.100 In Exodus 13:21 God manifests as this cloud by

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day, and as a pillar of fire by night, in order to guide his people through the wilderness. I Talk of Goya (1976) contains a similar symbol, which functions as a mushroom cloud. A Song for Rua, Prophet may well be referencing this hint of the apocalyptic, emphasised by the barren, hot landscape that forms the backdrop to this piece. The first panel, with its bubbling black smoke is particularly evocative of such a reading. The dedication of this artwork to a MƗori New Zealander bonds the ancient history of the Jewish people with the more recent struggles over land in McCahon’s locale. McCahon demonstrates a personal, empathetic relationship with the prophet Rua, allowing the work to function as both a broad, international symbol and as a personal statement.101 Rua experienced hostility from both the European settlers and fellow Tnjhoe community members who disliked the grand changes he brought forward.102 He used the story of Exodus as a symbolic, inspirational narrative. Rua spoke of a MƗori exodus, in the style of Moses, from the colonialist government’s ‘Egypt’.103 The idea of a prophet who sparked disharmony and rejection must have been familiar to McCahon. Rua shared McCahon’s desire to make the Bible relevant for his contemporary New Zealanders, and both saw themselves as an antipodean Moses. This artwork does not just continue McCahon’s exploration of Exodus. It also explores another modern-day prophet who felt compelled in a similar direction. Shaw draws attention to the subtitle of the work: “DREAMING OF MOSES”. He sees this as a reference to Rua’s incomplete success. He never quite upheld the Mosaic mantle, leaving some of his goals as nothing more than a fantasy.104 McCahon’s failure to transform New Zealand and its community into a Promised Land weighed heavily upon him too. Perhaps he mentions the dream as the furthest he will go.

Audience Reactions and the Urewera Mural McCahon realised that his MƗori artwork was often ill received. For example, he decided that his PƗkehƗ audience were unlikely to understand or enjoy the Parihaka Triptych and informed McLeavy that it was “[a]nother unsaleable good one.”105 McCahon believed his cross for the PƗkehƗ “annoys some people & could restore faith to some others,” demonstrating an awareness of audience polarisation.106 When considering the era in which McCahon was raised, this level of consideration for a MƗori audience seems more sustained than one might expect. Despite this, McCahon still produced images that were often viewed as culturally insensitive or inappropriate for the context in which they were displayed.

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McCahon borrowed from a marginalised culture, stealing their voice and re-presenting their ideas in a way that spoke to PƗkehƗ but denied the agency of traditional owners. Audience reaction to McCahon’s MƗori imagery is most clearly demonstrated by the extreme actions taken against the Urewera Mural. This artwork was commissioned for the Urewera National Parks Board visitors centre by MƗori architect John Scott.107 McCahon’s mural makes a substantial attempt to acknowledge the Tnjhoe people, the original owners of the Urewera region, who were violently dispossessed of their land. The painting is a triptych of unstretched canvas, showing the dark and undulating Urewera hills under a foreboding, stormy sky.108 The work is suggestive of great power and appears to depict an ancient landscape, devoid of human figures or built objects. The centre panel is dominated by a huge form which is simultaneously a Tau suggesting the sacrifice of Christ, a great fall of light showing what the spirit gains from the land, and a tree trunk symbolic of nature and growth. This symbol has been read as the ancestor Tane Atua with his feet holding up the sky,109 the congruence between Tane and Christ,110 a boundary marker for MƗori territory,111 and a pillar of light.112 There is no simple reading for this symbol and it is likely that all those supplied above are simultaneously intended. The Tau is syncretic, linking the illuminative Christ with Tane. It also provides a ‘way through’ into a MƗori view of the landscape, highly valued by McCahon. The three panels speak of the passing of time, the nature of the land and the spirit that imbues it. In the first panel we see the massive rhythm of hills and the distant golden gleam of the lake water. William McCahon draws attention to this radiant light off the waters of Waikaremoana, which he calls a Garden of Eden. He believes it to be a reference to Genesis, meaning that the Urewera Mural depicts a compressed spiritual time from Biblical creation to the present.113 This spiritual landscape is clearly broader than the Christian tradition. Chris Saines, amongst others, notes the dominance of Tane who is master of the forests and birds.114 The text on the artwork refers to the inheritance of land and prestige from named ancestors. McCahon evokes the genealogy of the Tnjhoe iwi and mentions the prophets Rua Kenana and Te Kooti. William McCahon identifies the red glow of the horizon as the bloodline of Tnjhoe ancestry.115 The third panel makes specific reference to the Tnjhoe people with emblems of prophets whose values still resonate. The six-pointed star belongs to Te Kooti.116 It is remarkably similar to the Jewish Star of David. The sacred mountain Maungapohatu is also drawn and named in text.

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McCahon seems to have been aware of the impact of the sacrosanct names and images he included to some degree. O’Brien likens statements like ‘THEIR LAND’ to a farm gate reading ‘KEEP OUT’. He believes that these words must be acknowledged before the viewer can explore the less salient aspects of the work such as the deep bushland itself.117 This reading is certainly in keeping with McCahon’ stage design background. The mural broaches landscape in McCahon’s traditional style, informed by a Biblical understanding of time and a notion of civilisation as separate from the spiritual essence of country. Although Christianity is an important and often affirmative movement within recent MƗori history, the idea of a PƗkehƗ applying his or her own viewpoint of this faith within the context of the Ureweras is contentious. It is important to query who has the right to tell these stories.118 The mural is a small theatre of a complex national debate over land ownership, dispossession, and the right to cultural appropriation. Conflict first appeared during the commissioning of the mural when McCahon presented certain MƗori phrases he wished to include. The park board forced alterations, worried about potentially offensive inaccuracies in some of his choices.119 Brown received a letter from McCahon in which he stated, “[I] have no intention of playing down to any Tourist Dept or Forest Ranger.”120 Perhaps he did not consider these people to be reliable authorities on the kind of spiritual discourse he wished to evoke in the artwork. Whatever his intent, the MƗori content of McCahon’s mural has been viewed by many as inappropriate. The people of the Urewera region were able to voice their dissent via the theft of this artwork. The Urewera Mural was stolen from the Department of Conservation Centre in the Urewera National Park by Tnjhoe activist Te Kaha and his associates in June of 1997.121 Alan Webb, Te Kaha’s lawyer, states the painting was taken as a protest against the “removal of the lakes and mountains from the Tnjhoe people.”122 Te Kaha maintains that he temporarily removed the painting as an act of compensation, aiming to make a point about deprivation of land from his people. He views the mural as a treasure of European New Zealand and saw its removal as retribution for colonisation of his traditional land.123 Grimshaw describes this act as one of “symbolic terror associated with MƗori radical movements.”124 He notes that the painting was selected as something prestigious, but “prestige that is perceived as an affront.”125 This is an apt summary of the cultural position of the Urewera Mural. Created in the latter stages of McCahon’s career, it was embraced as a moving cultural treasure, seen by many as an artwork for the Tnjhoe people and visitors to their land. Conversely, this image can be read as a treasure

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for PƗkehƗ, which intrudes upon MƗori land and symbol as opposed to giving this community a voice. There is a divided consensus over the validity of the mural and the right for McCahon to use the themes and personalities explored therein. The artwork has been perceived by some as a moving bicultural statement. For example, Saines believes McCahon was attempting to educate himself about what was important to the MƗori people so that he could “speak with two voices” – a difficult artistic task.126 He sees it as “heroic stand across the divide of belief systems;” a meeting place for cultural definition.127 Dunn claims that McCahon’s use of MƗori language acknowledges diversity and celebrates difference.128 These commentators locate the mural as an act of cultural harmony. Similarly Penelope Jackson employs a MƗori spiritual concept in her report on the hanging of the artwork. She believes the atrium of the gallery was a space that “commanded a piece with mana.”129 It has even been implied that the mural is made for the Tnjhoe people themselves.130 Interestingly, I have been privy to rumours that a reproduction of the mural was painted while the original was held hostage. If it still exists, this reproduction may be functioning as a Tnjhoe treasure. Hopefully we will one day know more about this duplicate mural and its use. Other responses to the Urewera Mural present it as a spiritual treasure for the PƗkehƗ community alone. For example, Park draws attention to its location in the chapel of nature conservation that is the visitor’s centre. He believes that McCahon painted for a disturbed society; a people who were not at home in the land they tried to transform into an image of Western cultivation.131 This mural is able to speak for the bond McCahon helped to form between the land and its modern-day colonisers. In addition to the theme and placement of the mural, McNamara finds its formal qualities to be deeply moving. He writes “[t]he sombre colour among the hills is immensely subtle, lends its own power to the painting.” McNamara believes that the mural is evocative in a multitude of contexts. He states that the work “retains its power even out of its context in Waikaremoana and its raw exposure on a broad white wall in the gallery. Abducted, damaged and restored, it still stands as a great national treasure.”132 This positions its meaning as beyond location and physicality. As seen in the reaction to many of McCahon’s landscape pieces, the artist is celebrated for presenting an ineffable essence of New Zealand identity. In keeping with this, Walker explains that the painting Wasn’t your average colonial portrait of Queen Victoria, it was a PƗkehƗ treasure much stranger and more powerful than that. It’s … long, dark and brooding, a difficult … work, more dreamscape than landscape.133

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His words illuminate the work as something emotionally stirring and distinctly spawned of New Zealand. Comparatively, Park views the mural as “one of New Zealand’s most precious human creations.”134 Remembering his own interaction with the piece, McNamara states “I regard as the single most memorable painting I have seen in my 30 years of reviewing art for the New Zealand Herald … it is ours. It is the work of a man born in Aotearoa and whose art focuses on this land.”135 Close encounters with the work often emphasise its perceived spiritual powers. For example, McIvor remembers her first viewing as poignant, mysterious, and unforgettable.136 The actual physical presence of the work is highlighted as an important factor in its power. Julian Kuzma writes that “reproduction would inadequately convey the power and the glory of McCahon’s ‘liturgy’ to land and identity.”137 The Urewera Mural is treasured as a venerable image, helping to inform New Zealanders of their cultural and spiritual essence as an independent nation. Critiquing this attitude of adoration, Skinner writes that McCahon’s work “sits at the centre of the discourse of appropriation in which Indigenous systems of meaning are exploited or erased in the process of creating PƗkehƗ identity.”138 Indeed, the Urewera Mural is viewed by many MƗori as an offensive or meaningless image. For example, when Te Kaha was ruminating on how to deal with the painting he heard numerous requests to burn the artwork or rip it into small pieces to be returned one by one.139 McCahon’s work suggests that the imported discourse of Christianity is intrinsic to the landscape, ignoring the meaning it held long before this time within MƗori culture. McCahon’s mural is rarely praised as a MƗori or cross-cultural item. It is a treasure of PƗkehƗ New Zealand, a representation of their land and the way in which it is cherished and described. Sympathy in the indigenous community is limited. While PƗkehƗ may see a powerful, spiritual, and local portal into landscape and self-awareness, MƗori commentators are often disengaged by McCahon’s visual rhetorical choices. Mason, a Tnjhoe member, remarks “the landscape is so denuded of forestation that it seems kind of weird, you know, because it doesn’t look like people belong to this place.”140 Pou Temara, MƗori Studies academic, agrees that McCahon’s mural is devoid of belonging and affinity to land, making it nonmeaningful and lacking in depictions of the primal connection to land felt by many Tnjhoe.141 These responses emphasise the notion of McCahon speaking for a community he does not fully understand or have the right to speak for, leading to an alienation of from his original source. This difference in reaction can also be seen as reflection of a different cultural perception of art. As Young explains, the culture from which an

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idea or image is appropriated may not consider the original object or concept as art.142 As a subjugated community, MƗori conceptions of what is art and what is appropriate for indiscriminate display are not always given the appropriate consideration. Problems of relative worth are also present. Wedde explains that the traditional MƗori system of valuing art was based on “the social value of what is represented” in terms of genealogy and place. Therefore, he warns that the Urewera Mural’s increase in economic value brings increased competition with Tnjhoe ownership of the themes depicted.143 Not only does the mural fail to speak for many Tnjhoe respondents, it also negates their ownership of the Urewera region in the public eye.144 This difference in the place and nature of the art object is highly important. The issue of appropriation obviously informs this debate, although there is little agreement as to how. Interestingly, Pound argues that criticism of McCahon’s MƗori appropriation: tended to be confined to the publications of a handful of people, both MƗori and PƗkehƗ, connected, as teachers or as students, with the University of Auckland; and no such opinion is recorded before 1986. It seems that these people have imported the rhetoric of an American debate145 whole and intact, completely uncritically, and without any regard for the particularities of local circumstance, or the specificities of different historical times.146

Pound suggests that a critique of appropriation is often employed as “the aesthetic reactionary’s latest and most up-to-date alibi” for the dismissal of works that are too strikingly modern or post-modern.147 He cites Paratene Matchitt, Arnold Manaaki Wilson, and Sidney Moko Mead as examples of MƗori artists and scholars who feel that McCahon’s use of their cultural motifs is respectful and enables bicultural dialogue.148 Pound believes that the use of MƗori imagery should be received in the same way as the verbal appropriation of culture via the pervasive, and generally accepted, employment of the MƗori-language ‘kia ora’ as a local greeting.149 Indeed, not all academics agree with the idea that McCahon’s Urewera Mural is an act of appropriation at all. O’Brien sees it as one of transmission. He believes that McCahon does not presume to speak on behalf of the Tnjhoe ancestors. Instead he intends to communicate their message in his own way. O’Brien believes that McCahon’s refusal to depict any humans figuratively is an important factor in the meaning of the mural. Connecting this with Jean-Francois Lyotard’s “allusion to the unrepresentable,”150 O’Brien argues that McCahon’s mural only suggests rather than depicts a nation of people, their emotions, and their history.

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Through this lens, McCahon takes the viewer to a holy site, but does not invent it or claim ownership.151 Usefully, Anita Callaway explains the Australasian axiom that Aboriginal people are able to ‘borrow’ from the tradition of Western art, but ‘appropriation’ of indigenous motifs by non-indigenous people is ethically inappropriate.152 A similar situation is observable in New Zealand where Western art history and Western art perspectives have been inherited by mainstream culture as default and generic. For example, it is presumed that paintings and drawings will follow certain trends such as one point perspective, or, in the case of movements such as Colour Field, purposefully and explicitly reject this technique as an assumed norm. The idea of a MƗori artist employing such a technique or showing imagery from Western culture is not unexpected or offensive. In MƗori culture, art has traditionally been produced for different purposes, often tied to religious rites or family totems. Many artistic trends are only to be shared and reproduced amongst specific groups. Even the display of MƗori art in a secular gallery can be problematic. For example, Mane-Wheoki points put the ethical difficulties in showcasing MƗori imagery and references to tupuna on public display, as these graphical elements often have a special cultural significance.153 This significance has not always been understood or respected. White, male artists such as McCahon are socially powerful and are allowed to invent and construct mainstream nationalistic culture. Conversely, indigenous people have lost power due to European settlement. While MƗori culture is generally seen as important to national identity, it is frequently co-opted by interested PƗkehƗ who recontextualise cultural artefacts and often neglect the associations of who ‘owns’ an image or name and who has the right to see and reproduce it. MƗori and PƗkehƗ cultures have inherited and promoted different conceptions of art and ownership. The idea of an artwork as an image to be displayed publically for the sake of culture and personal expansion is an inheritance from European society. Genealogy, while important to European cultures, is not usually private and can be referred to by people outside of one’s lineage without fear of trespass. In addition to this tension concerning what can and cannot be visually represented, MƗori artists have often struggled for autonomy and legitimisation in a version of history that prioritises European perspectives. In 1995, Mane-Wheoki maintained “the mainstream recognition accorded to PƗkehƗ who have appropriated motifs from MƗori sources has eluded MƗori artists working from the same sources.”154 This can be connected to a pervasive art historical discourse that favours PƗkehƗ cultural narratives

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and PƗkehƗ definitions of the art object. Mane-Wheoki’s examination of seminal art history texts reveals that the ‘start’ of a New Zealand tradition is usually dated back to a variety of points at which Europeans visually recorded the area. He illuminates this highly problematic starting point as a means by which one can assume “the idea of art arrived with the Europeans.”155 Showing a lag in acceptance of indigenous perspectives, Whitecliffe dates the emergence of a widespread, autonomous MƗori art movement to the nineteen-nineties, although this development has its roots in the MƗori cultural renaissance of the nineteen-fifties. MƗori art advisors were placed in schools from 1946. Despite this, a syllabus that formally included MƗori contributions did not emerge until 1974.156 Only at a very late stage has MƗori art achieved recognition as a vital part of New Zealand artistic identity. Mane-Wheoki draws attention to the profound importance of the ‘Te MƗori’ exhibition, which toured in New Zealand as ‘Te Hokinga Mai’, meaning ‘the return home’. This domestic leg of the tour took place between 1996 and 1997, after which MƗori art became “absolutely essential” in the presentation of New Zealand’s cultural image. Mane-Wheoki believes no representative or survey exhibition could be “considered credible or authentic” without MƗori content after this unprecedentedly popular show.157 He also argues that this exhibition seemed to complete the shift away from MƗori art as ethnographic artefact, although he reasonably believes the ethnographic lens still binds curatorial decisions in terms of customary art.158 Illuminating the basis for this criticism, Whitecliffe explains that MƗori art after European colonisation was usually confined to ethnographical museums or “garishly flaunted for the titillation of tourists.”159 Pound agrees that until the late nineteen-forties, describing MƗori rock drawing as ‘art’ “was to put oneself so outside the pale of normal discourse as to leave oneself open to the accusation of insanity.”160 This emphasises the extreme disconnection between art and MƗori creative output to European eyes. Usefully, Morris believes that this disconnection may be based on religious perceptions. He notes the aforementioned perception of MƗori as “more spiritual,” and believes this attitude is apparent in the staging of cultural artifacts.161 Morris uses the PƗkehƗ ‘Parade’ exhibition as an example of the presentation of Western culture as “secular, changing and temporary.” He contrasts this to Te Papa’s marae and MƗori exhibitions, which present a culture that is “spiritual, permanent and fixed.”162 MƗori customary art is often upheld as a reflection of local spiritual culture, but is unrealistically presented as something wholly historical and divorced from contemporary life. To make up for the ever-shifting currents of PƗkehƗ culture, MƗori

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culture is employed as an ancient, wise, and immovable counterpoint. These are not necessarily pejorative terms, but one must consider if they are realistic. On the topic of Whitecliffe’s ‘tourist titillation’, MƗori art has often been seen as an item of commerce rather than autonomous artistic expression. Ruth B. Phillips and Christopher B. Steiner describe the colonial trade in non-Western art as evidence of contact with ‘Others’, and a tool of imaginative engagement with a foreign culture via ‘relics’ and ‘specimens’. Phillips and Steiner note that these objects have, as of the late nineteenth century, been categorised as either ethnographic specimens by the discipline of anthropology, or as works of art by the school of art history. They believe these classifications mask the true purpose of ‘indigenous art’ as items of commerce, fuelled by Western consumer culture.163 Admitting to this arguable mistreatment of MƗori cultural products is, of course, difficult. Mane-Wheoki explains some of the tensions inherent in a change of definition: The recontextualization of MƗori art from museum artefact to aesthetic object — represents an admission that the dominant culture’s habitual Eurocentric imaging of New Zealand art is an unsustainable fiction. This concession has exposed a legacy of disingenuity in dealing with MƗori culture, while highlighting PƗkehƗ insecurity about their own culture.164

In a country where indigenous art has been perceived as either a museum specimen or a commercial souvenir, McCahon’s mainstream artistic success with the Urewera Mural reflects his privileged position as a creator of culture as opposed to a cultural object. This inherent difference in treatment and cultural location of MƗori and PƗkehƗ artists explains why the Urewera Mural can be viewed as either an offensive, meaningless, or precious item. McCahon’s other ‘MƗori’ artworks have been commented on in a similar fashion. For example, A Song for Rua, Prophet has been categorised as a positive example of bicultural artistic relations. The 2010 ‘Te Huringa—The Turning Point: PƗkehƗ Colonisation and MƗori Empowerment’ exhibition featured McCahon’s work as part of an exploration of “art and historical responses to a new social order, and consequent reclaiming of old values, as viewed by contemporary artists.”165 A Song for Rua, Prophet was included in the ‘Whawhai/Protest’ category. This segment of the exhibition deals with post-colonial protests over land rights and “hopeful participation in partnership deals between MƗori and PƗkehƗ.”166 The painting is presented as a multi-cultural exploration of human spirituality as a whole.167

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Usefully, Hassan draws attention to the conflation of spiritual dilemmas that McCahon’s bicultural experimentation achieves. He writes, “Christian story and MƗori myth ¿nd a way, in paint, of raising stupendous questions that no religion can answer.”168 This is not, however, phrased as a negative. Instead. McCahon’s cultural blending is celebrated for the strange mysteries it creates. McCahon has indeed provided numerous mysterious and spiritual ornaments for the PƗkehƗ.169 O’Brien recalls how he was unable to include one of the Te Whiti artworks in the Parihaka show because the elderly lady who owned it considered the work to be “intrinsic to her well-being.”170 She examined and contemplated it daily. O’Brien sees this as a demonstration of McCahon’s desire to make “paintings for people to live by.”171 Some audience reactions are actively negative, picking up on McCahon’s presumptions that a descendent of recent immigrants has the right to ‘invent’ a country that was already inhabited by an indigenous community. For example, Scott Hamilton describes McCahon’s “crucifixions, angels and miracles” as representative of “the tendency to see New Zealand as an historically and culturally barren land ripe for myth-making.” He criticises this view as one that annihilates the spiritual significance given to the New Zealand landscape by the MƗori people. In reference to the original inhabitants of New Zealand, Hamilton asks, “[d]id they really need melancholic PƗkehƗ intellectuals to teach them how to see their homeland?”172 He accuses McCahon and Brasch of a “desire to cast off the status of settlers or ‘second people’ and become autochtonous [sic].”173 Hamilton blames such figures for the “construction of myths which deny the real history of these islands.”174 Interestingly, comments left on his blog post all defend McCahon against Hamilton’s supposed misrepresentation, claiming that his contribution to the cultural conception of New Zealand is valid. The differences between PƗkehƗ and MƗori culture should also be considered in terms of the themes that McCahon selects in his representations, and the appropriate locale for such content. To this end, Mane-Wheoki explains cultural differences exacerbated by pieces such as the Parihaka Triptych. He states that MƗori may find artworks relating to the prophets fearful. He also suggests that discomfort may be caused by the theme of death running through the images.175 McCahon’s bicultural negotiation can be read as inconsiderate or ill-informed, alienating a large portion of his audience. For example, te Awekotuku reports being bombarded with various explanations from “McCahon disciples” about the validity of The Canoe Tainui in terms of the genealogy it displays. She feels that it takes this information and places it in an uncomfortable and

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inappropriate context. Although she admits that this genealogical information is available in published books, she feels that the power of the painted word in an art object context is far less appropriate. Te Awekotuku describes the impact of a painting as “immediate, visual, strong, forceful.”176 She argues that a painting can be turned into a slide, which may then be broadcast anywhere such as a school or a person’s home where the genealogy does not belong. Te Awekotuku also argues that the power of a painting takes that same power away from the MƗori community. Even though the Taunui whakapapa is publically available, te Awekotuku draws our attention to the very important issue of context.177 The way a visual object is perceived, and what is appropriate to visually reproduce, may be very different in terms of MƗori and PƗkehƗ cultural perceptions.

Conclusion McCahon’s place in the political and racial history of New Zealand is reflected in the content and reception of these artworks. In terms of the Nationalist Project, MƗori culture was conceived of as a beneficial tool for framing differences between New Zealand and Britain and allowing the nation to feel culturally autonomous. On a personal level, McCahon saw MƗori culture as spiritually in tune with the natural world and thus potentially more receptive to his teachings. His art demonstrates a correlation between himself, traditional MƗori communities, and the Biblical Hebrews; focused around creation of the Promised Land. McCahon’s artworks explore a resounding empathy with MƗori prophets and their application of Christianity. Indigenous culture had a substantial impact upon McCahon’s Christian views and modes of expression. MƗori culture gave him hope that people could indeed respect the land and benefit from its transcendent spiritual dimensions. It also added a localised element to his exploration of prophets and their tortured lives. McCahon saw himself as an outsider empathising with those who were ‘Other’ in the New Zealand community. His artwork pays tribute to the spiritual power they were able to garner from the landscape and engages with an alternative, localised version of Christianity that spoke more to his spiritual needs than its mainstream counterpart. Political discomfort has overshadowed many of these artworks. Audience members of the present era are aware that a PƗkehƗ is a problematic speaker for the MƗori community, especially when acting outside of their jurisdiction. Although his mural is described as deeply moving, it is primarily recalled as the object of a heist. In the Parihaka

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Triptych, McCahon implied that his art was an ornament for the PƗkehƗ and a monument to Te Whiti. The first prediction rings true. Conversely, numerous members of the MƗori community find these artworks troubling as opposed to moving. McCahon’s artistic appropriation has been read as part of a new wave of cultural imperialism. Although he clearly intended to bridge social divides and celebrate MƗori culture, the offense he caused is understandable. McCahon was a middle-class, Caucasian male with the privilege of exercising his voice in the public sphere. His references to MƗori land, ancestry, and prophetic movements diminished the indigenous voice and ownership of this history.178 In terms of McCahon’s personal artistic goals, these images created a mixed set of achievements and failure. His artworks aimed to encourage a love of local terrain in an immigrant community who too frequently looked back to Britain and found their own home lacking in contrast. McCahon clearly achieved a greater valuation of the New Zealand landscape through artworks such as the Urewera Mural. Despite this, his religious overtones failed to win converts to his spiritual worldview and associated compunctions. Audience reactions do not reflect an enhanced desire to live in peace under a Christian system. Yet again, McCahon seems no closer to his Promised Land. This is a sad reality that he openly acknowledged. A Song for Rua, Prophet is the lament of a prophet who begins to see his goals as nothing but a dream with war as their backdrop. MƗori culture allowed for the rejuvenation and mutation of McCahon’s personal relationship with Christianity. Despite this, it caused more contention than harmony within his audience. This was, essentially, a failure of his artistic/prophetic aims. As can be seen in the artworks that follow, peace seemed an increasingly elusive goal for McCahon.

Notes  THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF JONATHAN MANE-WHEOKI WHO SADLY PASSED AWAY DURING ITS CREATION. WITHOUT HIS FINE SCHOLARSHIP ON MƖORI ART, SO MANY OF THE IDEAS WITHIN WOULD STILL BE OBSCURED AND UNKNOWN. 1

The appropriation discussed in this chapter is ‘cultural appropriation’. Cultural appropriation within the visual arts is the adoption of themes, motifs, techniques, et cetera from other cultural groups. James O. Young explains that appropriation of art is often tied to appropriation of land. He describes this as a power imbalance that often leads to “morally suspect” appropriation. See: James O. Young, Cultural Appropriation and the Arts (United Kingdom: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 2-3. Considering the colonial history of New Zealand, this ethical dilemma is an important dimension of the PƗkehƗ appropriation of MƗori arts and culture. Within

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 this context, the power structures of appropriation are entwined with colonisation and the denial of indigenous voice. For a comprehensive and thought-provoking discussion of appropriation, its history, and its semantics (with a useful focus on the MƗori art situation) see the chapter ‘Homage or Appropriation? Colonisation or Interaction?’ in Pound, The Space Between, 103ff. 2 For this reason, Pound believes commentators must be careful when critiquing McCahon’s appropriation. He states that the historical context of this act is important, as McCahon largely pre-dated the MƗori renaissance “when no declaration of offense existed, and such work was positively welcomed.” Pound feels that the nature of the artworld and the place of the MƗori voice when McCahon painted means that it is unhelpful to retrospectively apply postrenaissance viewpoints to his contentious appropriation. See: Pound, The Space Between, 122-123. 3 The idea of ‘Orientalism’ occurred to Edward Said during the Arab-Israeli Wars of 1967 to 1973. See: Edward Said in James Paul, “Orientalism Revisited: An Interview with Edward W. Said” in Interviews with Edward W. Said, eds Amritjit Singh and Bruce G. Johnson (United States of America: University Press of Mississippi, 2004), 45. It is quite likely that McCahon never was never informed of this now-popular discourse, or thought to apply it to his actions. 4 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 222. 5 See: Burke, “River Deep, Mountain High,” 14-15. 6 McCahon was first inspired by MƗori art while working at the Otago Museum and the Dominion Museum in Wellington. This occurred in the nineteen-thirties and nineteen-forties, prior to the bulk of the artworks discussed in this chapter. For example, one of McCahon’s earliest interactions with MƗori art was during his construction of natural history dioramas for the Otago Museum in 1940. Although he was interested by what he saw, his engagement was guided by the highly problematic lens of ‘primitive’ art. Brown feels that this early interest became a contributing factor to his style. He suggests that the MƗori association of words with art objects may have helped McCahon in his use of speech bubbles and captions within his early religious paintings. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 34, 155. 7 McCahon himself claimed to be part-MƗori through his cousins. He also told his friend Chris Cathcart that he had Jewish ancestry. See: Chris Cathcart [1994] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 16-17. 8 William McCahon, “Colin McCahon: A Simple View,” 7. 9 Simpson, Candles in a Dark Room, 5. McCahon was not the first Caucasian male modern artist to engage with so-called ‘primitive’ artworks. André Derain encouraged a craze of collecting non-Western art within the avant-garde. Fauvism has its origins in an appropriation of the ‘primitive’, and André Breton encouraged the surrealists to value supposedly non-oppressive indigenous cultures as an alternative to restrictive Western society. Artists such as Gauguin and Van Gough appropriated non-Western traditions, synthesising these styles into the Avantgarde. Many artists and collectors took works out of their original context and presented them as pieces for Westerners to admire and appropriate at will, not as

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 important cultural artefacts that already had an association of meaning and ritual. Pound aptly criticises this kind of behaviour, writing “the interest of primitivists is generally not so much in the qualities specific to each of the very various arts called ‘primitive’, as it is in how those arts may be made to serve in a critique of the West.” See: Pound, The Space Between, 13. 10 McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 155. 11 His 1961 Gate series dealt with the fear of nuclear destruction and the greed felt towards these weapons. The pacifistic McCahon began to see Western culture as a dangerous and destructive force under the shadow of the Cold War. 12 North, “In the Coil of Life’s Hunger,” 43. 13 Pound, The Space Between, 26. ‘Acceptable’ primitivism was that which did not threaten the mimetic basis of the Western artistic tradition. Pound argues that “the distinctiveness of the MƗori tradition” impressed mid-century PƗkehƗ commentators. See: Pound, The Space Between, 55. Similarly, Nicholas Thomas describes “the fashioning of white identity via indigenous emblems and references” as a paradigm of settler colonialism. See: Nicholas Thomas, “Kiss the Baby Goodbye: “Kowhaiwhai” and Aesthetics in Aotearoa New Zealand,” Critical Inquiry 22:1 (1995): 96. 14 Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 168. 15 Barclay, “Rethinking Inclusion and Biculturalism,” 121. 16 Barclay, “Rethinking Inclusion and Biculturalism,” 121. 17 For further details on this negotiation, see: Zoe Alderton, “The Secular Sacred Gallery: Religion At Te Papa Tongarewa,” in Secularisation: New Historical Perspectives, ed. Christopher Hartney (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014). 18 Nativism in this sense refers to the celebration of indigenous customs and culture as opposed to those of the foreign world. 19 Anna Yeatman in Radhika Mohanram, “Biculturalism, Postcolonialism, and Identity Politics in New Zealand: An Interview with Anna Yeatman and Kaye Turner,” in Postcolonial Discourse and Changing Cultural Contexts: Theory and Criticism, eds Gita Rajan and Radhika Mohanram (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1995), 192. 20 Allen Curnow, introduction, The Penguin Book of New Zealand Verse, 20. He does, however, qualify that “the feeling has not always been happily or becomingly expressed.” 21 Morris, “New Zealand Spirituality,” 185-186. 22 Ngahiraka Mason in Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” 23 Primitivism, in the case of art history, refers to a Western gaze through which certain ethic groups and their cultural products were valued for their perceived exotic difference. These ‘Othered’ cultures, such as those of Africa and Oceania, were often explored as points of engagement with an ancient version of ‘precivilised’ humanity. 24 The concept of the ‘Other’ is taken from Continental philosophy and is intended to mean the opposite of ‘Self’. Functioning as a reference to colonial ‘Othering’, Goldie’s statement feeds into the seminal work of Franz Fanon and Said. Fanon

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 “shows how the ‘exotic’ colonial Other simultaneously provided a source of fascination and fear, evoking contradictory emotions of desire and dread in the mind of the colonizer.” Said connects the idea of ‘Otherness’ to the Western construction of the Orient. See: Peter Jackson, “Other/Otherness,” in The Dictionary of Human Geography: Forth Edition, eds R.J. Johnston et al (United Kingdom: Blackwell: 2000), 568. 25 Terry Goldie, “The Representation of the Indigene,” in The Post-Colonial Studies Reader [1995], eds Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin (London: Routledge, 2003), 234. 26 Goldie uses the word ‘indigenization’ to describe this “impossible necessity of becoming indigenous” felt by Caucasian settlers and their descendents. Indigenisation is discernible in the treatment of Caucasians as ‘natives’, found in colonial literature like Australia’s The Bulletin. Goldie states that this act of becoming native is a common symptom of settling into a new region where the pre-exiting population are seen as having “greater roots.” See: Goldie, “The Representation of the Indigene,” 235. 27 Indeed, Terry Sturm believes that the nationalist paradigm emphasised difference from the United Kingdom leading to the marginalisation of internal cultural differences. This erasure of MƗori concerns prompted the “construction of an inclusive settler/national identity in an essentially unpeopled, unhistorical landscape.” See: Terry Sturm, “New Zealand Poetry,” in A Companion to Twentieth-Century Poetry, ed. Neil Roberts (United States of America: Blackwell, 2001), 295. Here it is apt to consider Brasch’s New Zealand where “the plains are nameless and the cities cry for meaning” or McCahon’s bare Takaka Night and Day discussed in earlier chapters. 28 For example, Sturm believes that poets of the nineteen-fifties onwards, such as Baxter, came to employ MƗori spirituality “as if he had at least found the master narrative whose absence had driven him to poetry throughout his life.” See: Sturm, “New Zealand Poetry,” 296. 29 Brian Easton, “Is There a Place for New Zealand in a Globalising World?,” Brian Easton, April 17, 2008, accessed August 16, 2010, http://www.eastonbh.ac.n z/?p=888. 30 Crane, “Out of the Centre,” 392. 31 This term was coined by John Dryden in his play The Conquest of Granada (1672). This fed in to Anthony Ashley-Cooper’s Inquiry Concerning Virtue (1699) in which he proposed that morality was a natural state within humanity as opposed to something bequeathed specifically by religious indoctrination. Eighteenth Century sentimentalism resulted in the popularisation of the ‘nature’s gentleman’ trope. Popular works of fiction, most notably Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719), assisted in the spread of this idea. McCahon never uses or alludes to the term ‘noble savage’, nor do any of his peers. It is not a phrase with particular social currency in his era. Nevertheless, this rejection of ethnocentrism is mirrored in the PƗkehƗ appreciation of MƗori culture as somehow more meaningful, less corrupt, or more spiritual than their own.

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32 Indigenous groups have often been presented as somehow magical or more deeply connected to the earth, in contrast with the descendants of colonial invaders. For example, the TV Tropes website contains a comprehensive list of ‘Magical’ Native Americans in popular culture. Although this is linked to a specific ethnic group, similar depictions may be found of indigenous people more broadly. See: TV Tropes, s.v. “Magical Native American,” accessed April 11, 2012, http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MagicalNativeAmerican. Goldie believes that the “white self as subject in discourse” leaves the black ‘Other’ as object. See: Goldie, “The Representation of the Indigene,” 233. For this reason, it was easy and common to view MƗori as a deviation from generic humanity and to imbue people of this heritage with extra-ordinary skills and knowledge. Congruently, Australian Aboriginal scholar Michael Dodson argues that members of his cultural group have been used as “a counterpoint against which the dominant society can critique itself; we become living embodiments of the romantic ideal which offers a desolate society the hope of redemption.” Dodson states that Aboriginality has been connected to ideas of community by Australians who wish to critique individualism, and as an original conversationalist culture for those who are troubled by environmental issues. See: Michael Dodson, “The End is the Beginning: Re(de)finding Aboriginality,” (Wentworth Lecture, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, 1994). McCahon, concerned by both the breakdown of fraternity and the destruction of the natural world, celebrated both these traits in the indigenous history of New Zealand. 33 Goldie, “The Representation of the Indigene,” 236. 34 Morris, Ricketts, and Grimshaw, introduction, 10. 35 Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 178. 36 Emma Hardinge-Britten and George Adamski are credited with success in the promulgation of spiritualism and UFO movements within New Zealand. Robert S. Ellwood explains this success as a result of their ability to indigenise these faiths by referring to MƗori and settler folklore, which “appealed to motifs deeply ingrained in the New Zealand experience.” See: Robert S. Ellwood, “Spiritualism and UFO Religion in New Zealand: The International Transmission of Modern Spiritual Movements,” in The Gods Have Landed: New Religions from Other Worlds, ed. James R. Lewis (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 167. Neo-shamanism is a further example of indigenous cultural appropriation, which is useful to consider in this context. McCahon is situated in a similar context to New Zealand Neopagan groups who, according to Nicola Hoggard Creegan, saw mainstream Christianity as “anti-nature and violent.” See: Nicola Hoggard Creegan, “Jesus in the Land of Spirits and Utu,” Pacifica 18:2 (2005): 141. 37 This has already been demonstrated to a degree in the ‘Walks and Numerals’ chapter in terms of syncretic afterlife mythology. Applying a similar reading to The Lark’s Song, Johnson poetically describes the text floating above the landscape as MƗori souls drifting over the ocean after death. She feels that McCahon helps to keep the poem alive by encouraging the viewer to enunciate the words. See: Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 195. This reading is supported by the presence of clouds within the artwork.

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Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 157. Leigh Davis, “Richochet,” notes prepared for Wellington Readers and Writers Week panel, March, 2008, accessed October 14, 2009, http://www.jackbooks.com/ Leigh/artknowledge/ricochet.pdf, 6-7. 40 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 36. Butler and Simmons argue that McCahon’s request that we read his “words for their sound” reflects upon his desire for his writing to convey his voice. They suggest that McCahon aims to “testify the force of his conviction” so that the audience may identify and interact with the painting, interpolating from its content. Butler and Simmons believe this experience of direct voice intends to move the spectator from a passive position into action. See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 341. 41 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 230. 42 Hoggard Creegan agrees that MƗori spirituality has a resonance with the nature theology of St Francis. See: Hoggard Creegan, “Jesus in the Land of Spirits and Utu,” 147. 43 Rosemary Ellen Guiley, The Encyclopedia of Saints (New York: Facts on File, 2001), 116. 44 Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 45 Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 46 As such, the use of MƗori language is important in these artworks. Crane describes the use of untranslated MƗori words in the nationalist poetry tradition as a way of PƗkehƗ suggesting some experiences cannot be reproduced in the language of an Anglocentric tradition. See: Crane, “Out of the Centre,” 397. (Despite this, it is important to note that McCahon uses English script in order to convey MƗori language). 47 ‘Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord’ (1889). Interestingly, this poem speaks of spiritual doubt and the theological question of why sinners prosper while the endeavours of the righteous fail, an enduring theme within both McCahon’s latter images and Catholic art, film, and literature. 48 This may also be a reference to Sanat Kumara, an advanced being and head of the spiritual hierarchy of Earth as espoused by the Theosophical Society. There is also an intriguing connection to be made between McCahon’s phraseology and the Hindu KumƗras who are referred to in Guy and Edna Ballard’s Theosophical offshoot of the nineteen-thirties, initially referred to as the ‘I AM Activity’. As interesting as this connection could be, there is no evidence that McCahon was in any way associated with, or influenced by, Theosophy. 49 F. Allan Hanson and Louise Hanson, Counterpoint in MƗori Culture (London: Routledge, 1983), 24. 50 Gordon H. Brown, “Exhibitions: Auckland,” Art New Zealand, accessed May 5, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues11to20/exhibitions16ak.htm. 51 As an interesting side note, Pearson wrote of the vegetable garden as a main vehicle for channelling the New Zealand creative urge. See: Pearson, “Fretful Sleepers,” 345. 52 Pound, The Space Between, 96-98. This sense of discovering roots is part of the borader Nationalist Project. See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 50ff. 39

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53 Hans Mol, The Fixed and the Fickle: Religion and Identity in New Zealand (Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1982), 30. 54 Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 110. 55 Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 109. Te Whiti and Tohu have equal standing, although some of McCahon’s artworks would suggest otherwise. See: Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 136. 56 The Parihaka community were not the only MƗori group to embrace Christianity and Biblically inspired prophecy. Karen Sinclair names numerous prophets; many of whom, such as Mere Rikiriki, are described as notable leaders who bridged together the Bible, traditional MƗori beliefs, European culture, and post-colonial MƗori community practices. See: Karen Sinclair, MƗori Times, MƗori Places: Prophetic Histories (New Zealand: Bridget Williams, 2002), 36. Morris explains that colonised indigenous populations were encouraged to identify with Israel and to see themselves as “‘Old Testament Christians’ – but not yet fully Christian.” This had the unintended effect of creating local prophets who rejected and challenged colonial rule whilst awaiting a new era of peace via a millennial judgement. See: Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 106. Charismatic leaders were useful in the negotiation of new social trends post-invasion. Hans Mol states that they were able to forge a new identity after the old one had been lost. See: Mol, The Fixed and the Fickle, 28. The first prophetic movement of this kind was Papahurihia in 1833, called so after a man of the same name. Papahurihia was fascinated by the serpent of Genesis, and his followers were known as Jews. See: Mol, The Fixed and the Fickle, 28. Te Ua Haumeene had a visionary experience of himself as Abraham or Moses, bringing his people back to their land. In 1862 he started the Pai Marire or ‘good and peaceful’ movement to deliver MƗori from European dominance of their territory. See: Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 109. He was against racial discrimination between MƗori and PƗkehƗ. See: Evelyn Stokes, Wiremu Tamihana: Rangatira (Wellington: Huia, 2002), 405406. Te Kooti Arikirango founded Ringatu in 1868 to fight against land confiscation in the Ureweras. See: Judith Binney, Gillian Chaplin and Craig Wallace, Mihaia: The Prophet Rua Kenana and His Community at Maungapohatu [1979] (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1990), 55. In 1905 Rua Kenena stated that he was the MƗori messiah foreseen by Te Kooti. See: Jean E. Rosenfeld, The Island Broken in Two Halves: Land and Renewal Movements Among the MƗori of New Zealand (United States of America: Pennsylvania State University, 1999), 251-252. It is suspected that he discouraged the Tnjhoe people from enlisting in the army during World War One. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 211. Tahupotiki Wiremu Ratana, who is recalled as a prophet, founded the Ratana Chruch in 1918 after a visitation from the Holy Spirit and an angel. This faith is based upon the principles of Christianity and rejects tohungas. See: Mol, The Fixed and the Fickle, 33-34. See: These are but a few of the New Zealand prophet movements that came before McCahon and are likely to have pre-conditioned his ideas of spiritual leadership. 57 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 46.40.

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The term ‘prophet’ was also employed by PƗkehƗ government officials, often with derogatory overtones. Hazel Riseborough explains its implications of “religious fanaticism, superstition, even madness.” This label was used as a means of diverting attention away from the legitimate grievances of the MƗori community. See: Hazel Roseborough, “Te Pahuatanga O Parihaka,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 23. The prophetic movement was not, however, overwhelmingly damaging or erasing. Prophetic movements assisted in the formation of supra-tribal bonds. Richard S. Hill describes these new faiths as a greater defence against marginalisation than traditional indigenous worldviews. See: Richard S. Hill, State Authority, Indigenous Autonomy: Crown-MƗori Relations in New Zealand/Aotearoa 19001950 (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2004), 139. Sinclair agrees that they were an effective response to a loss of land and autonomy, representing continuity with the past. See: Sinclair, MƗori Times, MƗori Places, 91. These alternative MƗori versions of Christianity contained elements that would have resonated strongly with McCahon. Their prophets were misunderstood and abused by PƗkehƗ authorities. Connection to the land was paramount in their struggle with colonial forces, yet many still opted for peaceful resolutions. Here McCahon would have seen an example of prophets defending New Zealand against violent external forces through the power of Biblical inspiration. 59 Paula Savage, “Parihaka: The Weighty Legacy of Unfinished Business,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 10. 60 Indeed, Morris suggests that Parihaka angered the colonial government due to its political and spiritual autonomy, which disproved the perception of MƗori as lazy and incapable. See: Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 113. 61 Anne Salmond, Hui: A Study of MƗori Ceremonial Gatherings [1975] (Wellington: A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1983), 25. Tohu and Te Whiti believed that European technology was necessary in order to survive in a colonised New Zealand. See: Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 109. 62 Savage, “Parihaka,” 11. 63 Hilary Mitchell and John Mitchell, Te Tau Ihu O Te Waka: A History of MƗori of Nelson and Malbourough, volume 2, “Te Ara Hou: The New Society,” (Wellington: Huia, 2007), 412. 64 Savage, “Parihaka,” 10-11. 65 Dick Scott, Ask That Mountain: The Story of Parihaka (Auckland: Heinemann, 1975), 69. 66 Savage, “Parihaka,” 10-11. 67 Scott, Ask That Mountain, 113-114. 68 Bärbel Czennia, “Historical Trauma, Lieu de Mémoire, Source of Collective Renewal: Parihaka in the Collective Imagination of Aotearoa New Zealand” in Shared Waters: Soundings in Post-Colonial Literatures, ed. Stella Borg Barthet (Netherlands: Rodopi, 2009), 84. 69 Savage, “Parihaka,” 10-11.

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Oscar Thorwald Johan Alpers in The Progress of New Zealand in the Century, eds Robert Francis Irvine and Oscar Thorwald Johan Alpers (London: R & W Chambers, 1902), 430. 71 Savage, “Parihaka,” 10. 72 Czennia, “Historical Trauma, Lieu de Mémoire, Source of Collective Renewal,” 85. Indeed, Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance is introduced with the statement that “the teachings of Te Whiti and Tohu of mutual respect and understanding are important lessons for all New Zealanders. See: Mahara Okeroa, Paul Rangi-Punga, and Paula Savage, “Acknowledgements,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 14. 73 Czennia, “Historical Trauma, Lieu de Mémoire, Source of Collective Renewal,” 86-90. 74 Czennia, “Historical Trauma, Lieu de Mémoire, Source of Collective Renewal,” 86-90. 75 Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 168-169. 76 The legacy of Parihaka was first expressed by a contemporary artist with Gordon Walters’ Te Whiti (1964). Poets such as O’Brien, Wedde, Barry Mitcalff, and Baxter have written on the theme. Taranaki has been painted by the British immigrant Christopher Perkins, Wollaston, and Judy Darragh. Hotere, Michael Smither, and Tony Formison are also known for their artistic explorations of this region and its history. When considering the participants in postcolonial appropriation, it is interesting to note that the majority of these artists are White men. In 1968, a few years after Walters’ painting, Tomory noted “it is only those living in Egmont’s radius who admire its form—outsiders tend to use it as a surveyor’s pole to measure distance.” See: Peter Tomory, “Imaginary Reefs and Floating Islands,” Ascent 1:2 (1968): 8. In this same article he mentions Heaphy’s Mount Egmont (c. 1841) as an early example of the Taranaki region in PƗkehƗ art, but does not ascribe to it any political significance. 77 Czennia, “Historical Trauma, Lieu de Mémoire, Source of Collective Renewal,” 100-101. 78 Colin McCahon to Ron O’Reilly [18 Jul. 77] in Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 137. 79 Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 110. 80 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 46.55. 81 Morris, “The Provocation of Parihaka,” 116. 82 McCahon to O’Reilly [18 Jul. 77] in Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 136. 83 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 132. 84 Pound, The Space Between, 57. 85 Pound, The Space Between, 56. 86 Brasch, “The Silent Land,” 113. 87 James Mack, “Ko Taranaki Maunga Anake ki te Mohio: Taranaki Saw it All,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 117, 119-120.

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88 Unsurprisingly, theorists such as Curnow believe this charitable act is central to the meaning of the painting. See, for example, Wystan Curnow, “Muriwai to Parihaka,” in Parihaka: The Art of Passive Resistance, eds Miringa Hohaia, Gregory O’Brien and Lara Strongman (New Zealand: City Gallery Wellington, 2001), 139. 89 Curnow, “Muriwai to Parihaka,” 141. 90 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 134. Brown expands upon the ‘cliffs of fall’ quotation, explaining that it also relates to the Dan Davin novel Cliffs of Fall in which the cliff motif takes on a double meaning. The protagonist performs an act of murder, which leads him to a spiritual fall. Concurrently, Davin’s cliffs refer to actual geological structures in a Dunedin suburb. In addition to this allusion, Brown maintains that McCahon adds on his own nuances of meaning when employing this phrase in various artworks. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 171. 91 Curnow, “Muriwai to Parihaka,” 139. 92 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 134. 93 This artwork goes by various names. It is also referred to as Am I Scared Boy (EH) and Am I Scared. As the inscription of the work reads ‘Scared’, this title will be used. The other inscription, ‘CRY FOR ME’, quotes a letter written by Wiremu Hiroki on the eve of his execution. Hiroki had taken shelter in Parihaka before his arrest. See: Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 129. 94 Peter Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’.” 95 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 129. 96 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 130. This use of vernacular was a technique commonly employed by McCahon in his Word Paintings, as will shortly be explained. Murphy accurately describes McCahon’s script as “antiformal, demotic.” See: Murphy, “Antipodean Montages,” 85. He does not seek to alienate or intimidate. Quite the opposite, he seeks to embrace his viewers through language. 97 A more thorough explanation of this meaning can be found in the chapter ‘Gates and Waterfalls’. 98 Rua also refers to the number two. See: Jo Diamond, “Colin McCahon 19191987,” in Te Huringa/Turning Points: PƗkehƗ Colonisation and MƗori Empowerment (New Zealand: The Fletcher Trust, 2008), 82. 99 Other examples include The Flight From Egypt (1980). 100 This observation is agreed upon by other commentators. See, for example, Peter Shaw in Te Huringa/Turning Points: PƗkehƗ Colonisation and MƗori Empowerment (New Zealand: The Fletcher Trust, 2008), 82. 101 Diamond proposes Rua as a representation of human spirituality in general. He is a figure of human spiritual need and investment in land. See: Diamond, “Colin McCahon 1919-1987,” 82. 102 Binney, Chaplin, and Wallace, Mihaia, 9. 103 Diamond, “Colin McCahon 1919-1987,” 82. 104 Shaw in Te Huringa/Turning Points, 82. 105 Colin McCahon in Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 135.

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106 McCahon to O’Reilly [18 Jul. 77] in Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 136. 107 For a critical perspective on issues associated with the Urewera National Parks visitors centre see: Ngahuia te Awekotuku and Linda Waimarie Nikora, “Nga Taonga o Te Urewera,” report prepared for the Waitangi Tribunal's Urewera District Inquiry (August), wai 894, doc B6. 108 As with many of McCahon’s images, this painting is often described as ugly and unappealing. Park believes that it is McCahon’s attempt to free his viewers from a narrow, cultivated version of naturalistic beauty. See: Park, “I Belong with the Wild Side of New Zealand,” 58. This is consistent with his eschewal of the touristic gaze. 109 William McCahon, “Urewera Mural, 1976,” in Urewera Mural (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1999). 110 Park, “I Belong with the Wild Side of New Zealand,” 58. Park sees this as a dual representation of Tane’s traditional tree symbol and the body of Christ. 111 O’Brien believes the Tau represents a pou whenua: a boundary marker. As such, its position in the front and centre of the artwork asserts “the integrity and ownership of what lies beyond it.” See: Gregory O’Brien, “Big Tree Transmission: McCahon’s Tau Cross,” in After Bathing at Baxter’s: Essays and Notebooks (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2002), 202. Similarly, Edmond suggests that this Tau functions as a gateway to “a land, and a dispensation, that must be approached with respect and honoured in its own terms.” See: Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 231. 112 Pound agrees with some of these above-mentioned views, and also suggests the Tau is a light pillar. See: Pound, The Space Between, 94. 113 William McCahon, “Urewera Mural, 1976.” 114 Chris Saines, “Living in a Bicultural Landscape: Colin McCahon’s Urewera Mural, 1975,” (keynote address, Museums Australia Conference, 1999). 115 William McCahon, “Urewera Mural, 1976.” 116 Claudia Eyley, “Colin McCahon as a Teacher,” Art New Zealand, accessed November 30, 2009, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues1to40/mccahon08ce.ht m. 117 O’Brien, “Big Tree Transmission,” 202. 118 A comparable artist is the Australian Margaret Preston who appropriated colours, forms, and symbology from Aboriginal art. Her use of Indigenous motifs is contentious. 119 Department of Conservation, “Urewera Mural—Colin McCahon,” accessed November 29, 2010, http://www.doc.govt.nz/conservation/historic/by-region/eastcoast-hawkes-bay/aniwaniwa/museum/urewera-mural. 120 McCahon to Brown [8 May 75] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 162. Brown suggests that McCahon was willing to appropriate symbols that he found useful to his artistic aim, even if they upset what was considered politically correct. He criticises the method of intercultural dialogue used in the creation of the mural. See: Gordon H. Brown, “Urewera Mural and Issues of Intercultural Identity,” in Urewera Mural (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1999). Conversely, Mane-

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 Wheoki reports that McCahon was indeed sensitive to the cultural ramifications of his artworks and, for example, gave serious consideration to how he might gift the Parihaka Triptych so that it could serve its purpose without causing offense. See: Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 135. McCahon was conscious of his ignorance and stated, “I don’t know enough.” See: Colin McCahon to James Mack [Jun. 1972] in Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 135. Pound believes that the mural was “the product of a fertile interchange between MƗori and PƗkehƗ.” See: Pound, The Space Between, 108. 121 Perhaps as a comment on this theft, the Adam Art Gallery displayed Te Kaha’s art next to Storm Warning in a 1999 exhibition. See: Tom Cardy, “McCahon Back for Opening,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed May 13, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/sc holarly/Ba23Spo-fig-Ba23Spo010a.html. 122 “Te Kaha ‘To Make Restitution to Art World’,” New Zealand Herald, December 19, 1998, accessed November 29, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/n ews/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=431. 123 Te Kaha in Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” The mural was recovered after fifteen months thanks to negotiations involving Jenny Gibbs, Te Kaha, and Tnjhoe member Tame Iti. Its value jumped from NZ$1.2 million to NZ$2 million as a result of the ordeal. See: Louisa Cleave, “Stolen Mural Will Return to Urewera,” New Zealand Herald, March 17, 1999, accessed November 29, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=3821. The theft highlighted ongoing racial tensions, and the artwork was removed for storage at the Auckland Art Gallery in 2008. See: Department of Conservation, “McCahon Mural Moved to Safe Storage,” January 23, 2008, accessed November 29, 2010, http://www.doc.govt.nz/about-doc/news/media-releases/2008/mccahon-mural-mov ed-to-safe-storage. 124 Mike Grimshaw, “Religion, Terror and the End of the Postmodern: Rethinking the Responses,” International Journal of Baudrillard Studies 3:1 (2006), accessed November 25, 2010, http://www.ubishops.ca/baudrillardstudies/vol3_1/grimshaw. htm. 125 Grimshaw, “Religion, Terror and the End of the Postmodern.” 126 Chris Saines in Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” 127 Chris Saines, foreword to Urewera Mural (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1999). 128 Dunn, New Zealand Painting, 2. 129 Penelope Jackson in Genevieve Helliwell, “McCahon Masterpiece for Art Gallery,” Bay of Plenty Times, March 24, 2011, accessed July 20, 2011, http://www.bayofplentytimes.co.nz/local/news/colin-mccahon-masterpiece-for-artgallery/3945743. 130 For example, Park sees the mural as a pro-MƗori statement about the convergence of land and people. See: Park, “A Chart to Country.” William McCahon describes the mural as a non-judgemental history of the Tnjhoe’s interaction with land and spirit. See: William McCahon, “Urewera Mural, 1976.” Taiarahia Black sees the work as an exciting “juxtaposition between Tnjhoe autonomy and the power of the State,” suggesting that McCahon may have created

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 it as a revelation of past injustices. See: Taiarahia Black, “Is There a Relationship?,” in Urewera Mural (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1999). These viewpoints value the connections made between the land and its MƗori owners. The mural can thus be read as a celebration of MƗori history and a way of negotiating two cultures. 131 Park, “I Belong with the Wild Side of New Zealand,” 64. 132 T.J. McNamara, “Renovations Bring in the Masters,” New Zealand Herald, November 1, 2008, accessed June 17, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/entertainm ent/news/article.cfm?c_id=1501119&objectid=10540832&pnum=0. 133 Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” 134 Park, “I Belong with the Wild Side of New Zealand,” 55. 135 McNamara, “Renovations Bring in the Masters.” 136 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 85. 137 Julian Kuzma, “Review of Geoff Park, Theatre Country: Essays on Landscape & Whenua, Environment and Nature in New Zealand,” Environment and Nature in New Zealand Journal 2:4 (2007): 9. 138 Damian Skinner, “Colin McCahon at the NGV: Mixed Messages,” Art + Australia 39:2 (2001): 233. 139 Te Kaha in Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” 140 Ngahiraka Mason in Walker, “The NZ Paint Job.” 141 Pou Temara, “My Te Urewera,” in Urewera Mural (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1999). 142 Young, Cultural Appropriation and the Arts, 3. 143 Ian Wedde, “Living in Time: A Day at the Footie,” New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre, 1997, accessed November 21, 2010, http://www.nzepc.auckland.ac. nz/authors/wedde/living.asp. 144 It has also been claimed that the Urewera Mural steals much-needed time and attention from the visitor’s centre itself – a piece of MƗori-designed architecture. Online commenter ‘Mark’ writes, “just to clarify, the McCahon painting wasn’t the “largest cultural item” on the premises. That prize goes to the premises itself: that acclaimed architectural gem from the late Haumoana architect John Scott – New Zealand’s first MƗori architect … one has to ask just how Scott’s heritage piece fell into such disrepair.” See: ‘Mark’, “DOC Knock Scott,” Bay Buzz, January 28, 2008, accessed November 9, 2011, http://www.baybuzz.co.nz/archives/744. 145 The debate here mentioned is that which followed MoMA’s 1984-1985 ‘Primitivism in Twentieth Century Art: Affinity of the Tribal and the Modern’ exhibition. Interestingly, Gauguin’s 1895 drawings of MƗori carvings could be seen in two locales during the 1984 New York art season, displayed both in ‘Primitivism in Twentieth Century Art’ and in the seminal ‘Te MƗori’ exhibition. See: Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” 9. 146 Pound, The Space Between, 113. 147 Pound, The Space Between, 114. 148 Pound, The Space Between, 114-115. 149 Pound, The Space Between, 116. He describes the rejection of visual bicultural negotiation as a manifestation of “classically Western logocentrism.”

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150 See: Jean-Francois Lyotard in The Lyotard Reader [1979], ed. Andrew Benjamin (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997), 78. 151 O’Brien, “Big Tree Transmission,” 206-207. 152 Anita Callaway, “Australia and New Zealand 1900 – 2000,” in Atlas of World Art, ed. John Onians (London: Laurence King, 2004), 315. 153 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 136. 154 Jonathan Mane-Wheoki, “The Resurgence of MƗori Art: Conflicts and Continuities in the Eighties,” The Contemporary Pacific 7:1 (1995): 11. 155 Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” 6. Mane-Wheoki does, however, demonstrate numerous examples in which MƗori art was given consideration in European historiography. For details, see: Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” 7. 156 Whitecliffe, “Issues of Multicultural Art Education in New Zealand,” 213-216. 157 Mane-Wheoki, “The Resurgence of MƗori Art,” 3-4. 158 Mane-Wheoki, “Art’s Histories in Aotearoa New Zealand,” 7. 159 Whitecliffe, “Issues of Multicultural Art Education in New Zealand,” 213-216. 160 Pound, The Space Between, 45. 161 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 248. 162 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 249. 163 Ruth B. Phillips and Christopher B. Steiner, “Art, Authenticity, and the Baggage of Cultural Encounter,” in Unpacking Culture: Art and Commodity in Colonial and Postcolonial Worlds, eds Ruth B. Phillips and Christopher B. Steiner (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 3. 164 Mane-Wheoki, “The Resurgence of MƗori Art,” 3. 165 “Te Huringa – the Turning Point PƗkehƗ Colonisation and MƗori Empowerment exhibition travels to Te Tai Tokerau,” Tangata Whenua, January 20, 2010, accessed May 20, 2010, http://news.tangatawhenua.com/archives/2901. 166 Jo Diamond and Peter Shaw in Whangarei Art Museum, “Te Huringa/Turning Points: PƗkehƗ Colonisation and MƗori Empowerment,” accessed May 20, 2010, http://www.whangareiartmuseum.co.nz/exhibitions/te-huringa.php. 167 Diamond, “Colin McCahon 1919-1987,” 82. 168 Hassan, “Painting a Continent,” 165. 169 Interestingly, Mane-Wheoki believes that the Parihaka Triptych has no authority to speak for the community it mentions. Despite this, he believes it serves its purpose well as an ornament for the PƗkehƗ in the PƗkehƗ realm of the art gallery where it acts as a “deeply respectful, pioneering bicultural, visually powerful and even politically unnerving painting” that can “speak volumes to and for PƗkehƗ.” See: Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 137. 170 O’Brien, “Widening Horizons and Worlds Regained,” 91. 171 O’Brien, “Widening Horizons and Worlds Regained,” 91. 172 Scott Hamilton, “Dance of the Autochthons,” Reading the Maps, January 24, 2009, accessed June 21, 2009, http://readingthemaps.blogspot.com/2009/01/danceof-autochtons.html. 173 Hamilton, “Dance of the Autochthons.” 174 Hamilton, “Dance of the Autochthons.”

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Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 136. te Awekotuku, “Ngahuia Te Awekotuku in Conversation with Elizabeth Eastmond and Pricilla Pitts,” 49. 177 te Awekotuku, “Ngahuia Te Awekotuku in Conversation with Elizabeth Eastmond and Pricilla Pitts,” 49. Te Awekotuku admits that drawing distinctions between what is good and bad appropriation can be problematic. She appreciates PƗkehƗ artists such as Chris Booth for his ability to depict the land “as his space.” She also describes McCahon’s Waterfall as “exquisite” and “beautiful.” Te Awekotuku believes that artworks should be assessed individually and admits that it can be difficult to dismiss the merits of a problematic work that has positive features. See: te Awekotuku, “Ngahuia Te Awekotuku in Conversation with Elizabeth Eastmond and Pricilla Pitts,” 50. 178 It is also important to note that art created by MƗori women has often been treated as even less important or credible as MƗori art created by men. This was especially true in the era in which McCahon’s MƗori-inspired artworks were created. Ngahuia te Awekotuku, academic and curator, summarises her complaints about this era in Ngahuia te Awekotuku, “Ngahuia Te Awekotuku in Conversation with Elizabeth Eastmond and Pricilla Pitts,” Antic 1 (1986). 176

CHAPTER NINE GATES AND WATERFALLS

The identification of barriers to the Promised Land, and the search for a way past them, is a major element of McCahon’s artistic output. He used the prophets Moses and Christ as a means of enunciating his search for the Promised Land and the failure and uncertainty surrounding the quest. The artist shares their determination, confusion, and fear. His paintings of this era emphasise moments of doubt where the prophets wondered if the Holy Land would ever be found, and if God was truly merciful and omnipotent. In addition to raising questions, McCahon also seeks answers via series that function as problem solving exercises and practical lessons. The search for a ‘way through’ is epitomised in the Gate series, which is a manifestation of Cold War anxiety and McCahon’s compulsion to assist in the betterment of society. This series is a means of grappling with social obstacles and the problems of painting itself. McCahon’s solutions to these pressing concerns are evident in the Waterfall series, which encourages an ecological solution to wartime aggression. His anxiety, replete throughout the work examined herein, was exacerbated by audience reaction. McCahon did not live to see the social changes he envisioned, nor have they yet come to pass. These works elucidate the mounting fear and disappointment that can be observed towards the end of his prophetic career.

Further Statements on the ‘Promised Land’ While the aforementioned The Promised Land (1948) is resoundingly positive, McCahon’s subsequent explorations of this theme reveal frustration. This is epitomised in the 1962 series Was This the Promised Land. The use of past tense suggests that the culturally advanced New Zealand McCahon prophesised had failed to arrive in the manner he expected.1 His call for a peaceful fraternity and a loving unity with the environment did not eventuate. Fourteen years on from his observation of a glimmering Golden Bay, McCahon’s vision of the landscape itself is also less optimistic. Hints of apocalyptic anxiety reside within this series. The

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Gate motif is present in these images, hovering over the rounded forms that suggest the New Zealand hills.2 Rather than the peaceful, natureoriented society McCahon had hoped for in his earlier works, his world was overshadowed by impending human-made disaster. When they were first exhibited at the Canterbury Society of Arts Gallery in 1962, each of the Was This the Promised Land paintings was given a distinct name. For example, The Promised Land Gold & Black Sky elucidates the work as a landscape piece containing a darkened atmosphere. The Promised Land of the title appears to be under threat. Despite this, there are glimpses of hope in the artwork. As with all of McCahon’s gates, a ‘way through’ is implied. These images are a negotiation through obstacles. The chain of dots are a clear reference to taking a leap of faith, while the bright yellow and white on a dark background can be read as the transcendent light of Christ and spiritual illumination. McCahon still shows an engagement with faith and sacred lambency as part of his troubling prophetic quest. The Flight From Egypt (1980) is one of McCahon’s final statements on the Promised Land. This multi-panelled artwork is a visual pun, collating the Old Testament narrative of the Jewish people escaping slavery in Egypt with the impression of being inside a modern aeroplane. Painted on six sheets of paper, this artwork shows pockets of orange light on a black background. Their rounded edges look like aeroplane windows overlooking a sparse desert or apocalyptic skies.3 The writing under these panels of light asks questions such as “WHEN DO WE START” and “Is THIS the PROMISED LAND.” This text mirrors the bored remarks of a child on a long-haul flight and the struggles of a displaced people waiting for the revelation of their homeland. In regard to the Nationalist Project, The Flight From Egypt can be read as a vehicle by which the Promised Land is reached.4 Nevertheless, the last panel seems no different to the first despite finally claiming an arrival. This lack of distinct ending has led Pound to declare it a flight of uncertainty and potential failure that “must perpetually be renewed.”5 He calls it “a flight even now not properly begun.”6 McCahon does not record a delivery into the Promised Land. His journey seems to go nowhere, which reflects upon the idea of a truncated or impossible quest. It may also be related to the perpetual deferment of the Nationalist Project. As Morris explains, a nation state must always invent and re-invent itself, claiming continuity and authenticity at all stages.7 This endless recreation of the authentic state is mirrored in McCahon’s endless flight. The indistinct ending also allows for rumination on the idea that Moses did not live to experience the Promised Land himself. As McCahon stated, “Moses was

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not permitted by God to reach the Promised Land—this is the place where the painter never arrives.”8 The specific meaning and relative positivity of this piece is debatable. For example, the dominant ‘I’ motif has been read by Woollaston as a representation of McCahon’s alienation from his audience.9 It may also be the elusive ‘I’ of national selfhood, viewed through the barrier of the desert.10 As a Tau, the motif may represent the stave of Moses coupled with the aforementioned singularity and isolation of the prophetic figure in society. An inscription on this artwork reads “a big tree offers shade.” This tree may be represented by the Tau, formed with an upward trunk and great canopy that stretches past the edges of each panel. This is a motif of hope, connected to McCahon’s use of nature and Christ as redeeming forces. Alternatively, McCahon may be showing us a mushroom cloud in an apocalyptic desert of our own creation. His optimistic 1948 vision of the Promised Land has clearly faded. Instead, McCahon offers his audience a choice in which we may be guided by his prophesy or perish in the desert.

McCahon and Christ McCahon was also fascinated by the narrative of Jesus, and weaves him into his examination of the Promised Land. The artist describes one of his major themes as the character and life of Christ.11 Notions of suffering and sacrifice are explored by an ongoing engagement with this martyr. R.A.K. Mason’s configuration of Christ has been read as an autobiography of social outsider and victim.12 McCahon’s can be seen in a similar light. His engagement with Christ is partially an exploration of himself as isolated and rebellious prophet.13 William McCahon describes “the forces of his sexuality” and “personal egotism” as crosses of McCahon’s own making. He believes that the artist felt crucified by decades of misunderstanding.14 When McCahon speaks of carrying out the Stations of the Cross, this is a rendition of his own pain and obstacles as well as those of Christ.15 On Building Bridges (1952) is an obscure but important piece of McCahon’s theological musings on Christ and the Promised Land.16 This work may appear to lack religious content, and can be read in a nonspiritual manner as a landscape piece.17 The image is a triptych in a Cubist or Cézannesque style, depicting a metal bridge and the bare, mountainous Canterbury countryside.18 As will be seen, Mane-Wheoki appropriately describes it as “a coded crucifixion painting.”19 The intended message behind this visual rhetoric is complex and obscure, and can be deciphered

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via subtle intersections of symbology and an understanding of McCahon’s oeuvre. On Building Bridges is an interesting example of how McCahon explored modernist techniques for their ability to assist in his presentation of meaningful content. He painted this work after receiving CockburnMercer’s tutelage in Melbourne.20 He describes it as an understanding of the freedom that “only exists in relation to a strictly formal structure.”21 To understand what is implied by ‘freedom’, it is useful to consider the complex meanings that the Cubist compression of vantage point allowed.22 McCahon compresses time in a way that borrows, but also deviates, from Cubist technique. Helpfully, Green argues that this work plays with the idea of space and time. It provides three panels that seem to represent slightly different occasions and viewpoints, yet the bridge flows through them without disturbance.23 As in many of his previous artworks, McCahon attempts to convey simultaneous timezones, in this instance inspired by the multiple vantage points of space in Cubist imagery.24 McCahon’s bridge may have been inspired by Colin Ferrier, his uncle and namesake.25 As well as a symbol of heritage, this bridge is in dialogue with earlier Christian art. For example, Docking notes a strange rectangle in the middle panel, which he compares to the doorway in da Vinci’s The Last Supper (1495-1498). He also reads the girders in the top right-hand panel as the fingers of man touching God on Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling.26 McCahon’s somewhat obscure statements on this work do confirm that “God creating Adam happens—as the finger touch in Michelangelo.”27 These girders also form numerous Tau crosses, carrying with them their complicated compendium of meaning. Via the Tau and finger touch, McCahon situates this artwork as a discussion of the interrelationship between human and God. The qualities of the bridge reflect upon qualities of this relationship. The structure seems incomplete or dismembered, implying a schism between society and spirituality.28 In this sense, the bridge can represent an obstacle between humans and God in much the same way as it represents an obstacle between the viewer and the landscape behind it. A bridge, however, also implies possibility and reconciliation.29 The painted metaphor of a bridge emphasises the difference between a shaky, ill-formed relationship with God versus a solid and reliable connection. A bridge can be seen as a guiding, protective force. Indeed, William McCahon reads it as a structure that prevents the viewer from falling into the landscape.30 Summarising the spiritual possibilities of the bridge, Leonard views it as “both a barrier and a way through.”31

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This ‘way through’ leads to the Canterbury plains, a representation of McCahon’s Promised Land. The artwork was originally named Paddocks for Sheep.32 In this work, the viewer is invited to be a part of McCahon’s flock. Explaining his motivations for creating the image, McCahon describes On Building Bridges as “a painting about the beauty of North Canterbury and about space.”33 Considering the spiritual dimensions McCahon ascribed to space in works such as Takaka Night and Day, this artwork implies a connection between religious sentiment and the bare New Zealand terrain. Through this bridge symbology, McCahon provides a lesson for his audience and encourages them to repair their relationship with God and move into the Promised Land.34 The idea of a healing reconciliation between humanity and God has clear connections to the Biblical narrative of Christ’s sacrifice.35 On Building Bridges is McCahon’s attempt to erect his own cross in the landscape, and to present himself as prophet to guide the people. The subsequent Elias series36 (1959) focuses on the death of Christ and doubts about his divinity.37 As evidenced by the content of contemporaneous artworks, the martyrdom and possible resurrection of Christ was one of McCahon’s primary concerns at the time. Supporting this reading, Woollaston suggests that all McCahon’s work of this era contains a palpable atmosphere of the crucifixion.38 The Elias works are influenced by a sense of empathy with the executed prophet. McCahon painted this series to reflect a new fascination for “men’s doubts.”39 He believed that his inability to call himself a Christian led to a sharing of similar misgivings with his Biblical characters.40 The Elias series is based upon confusion at the scene of the crucifixion where some witnesses heard Christ call for ‘Eloi’ (my God) while others believe he cried out for ‘Elias’, a prophet who evaded death. While the former reading is most commonly accepted as true, McCahon’s use of ‘Elias’ indicates an atmosphere of uncertainty and scriptural re-negotiation.41 The artwork Elias Will He Come Will He Come to Save Him (1959) poses the key question of the series and contains a fascinating interplay of hope and doubt. It contains a dual landscape with the upper layer depicting Mount Carmel where Elias lived as a hermit. The lower landscape depicts a Tau associated specifically with the crucifixion of Jesus. The heads of those looking up at the cross can be vaguely discerned.42 Although the scene is pseudo-historical, the viewers of the artwork in the present era are petitioned directly.43 The gazes of past and present witnesses of the crucifixion are meaningfully conflated in this work as McCahon asks his modern viewers to witness and contemplate the death of Christ.44

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The Elias Triptych contains three hardboard panels depicting a journey of faith. Panel one recalls the events of Matthew 27 where the Pharisees and Pilate set a stone in front of Christ’s tomb to prevent his supporters stealing the body to fabricate a resurrection.45 Christ is referred to as “that deceiver.” This story colours the resurrection as a profane deception used to corroborate a false prophecy. In contrast, the third panel brings hope to the artwork, recounting Christ’s remarks after he is raised from the dead. McCahon quotes Luke 24:38, which reads “[w]hy are you troubled and why do thoughts arise in your hearts.”46 Christ claims that his prophecy was written in the scriptures and asks his followers why they doubt the sacred word. His followers do not believe he is alive until they can touch and feed him. Human doubt remains as a central theme, but this uncertainty is quelled by Christ’s reassuring explanation. The transition from doubt to faith is artistically rendered in the middle panel. This image is a non-verbal representation of sacrifice. It creates a dramatic interlude in the journey through the triptych. Interestingly, McCahon initially considered the central panel to be a separate work, which was exhibited independently.47 As a result, the dates of the panels do not match.48 Wedged between two crowded images, this median form is silent, simple, and dramatic. The glossy red substance that forms the very centre of the composition is the blood of Christ.49 In contrast to the written script, which marks the verbal communication of humans, this middle panel represents an uncluttered transition between states of mind and the world before and after Christ’s resurrection. This transition between worlds, however, may also be a warning. Mane-Wheoki describes the central panel as a nuclear explosion that figures the resurrection.50 Perhaps McCahon considers nuclear destruction as another potential gate from one world into another. McCahon asks his audience to reflect upon dangers engendered by the modern mindset and the Cold War.51 The presence of optimism and despair is reflective of McCahon’s vacillating feelings towards the prophetic quest and the likelihood that his audience would opt for peace and a reciprocal relationship with divinity. The Elias Triptych contains elements of doubt, sacrifice, and reassurance, epitomising the mood of the entire series within three panels. It is difficult to generalise in regard to the tone of this series.52 Some of the Elias artworks are overt in their pessimism. Elias Cannot Save Him Now is comprised of stark capital letters floating amongst a jumble of abstract shapes and dripping lines. The work appears angry and disjointed. Will He Save Him answers ‘NEVER’ to the question ‘will Elias come to save him’. These works are a harsh statement, proclaiming doubt and questioning divine power.53 Despite this, it is important to emphasise the

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role of contrast. For example, William McCahon feels that the illumination at the top of Elias Will He Come Will He Come to Save Him represents McCahon’s belief “there is light and growth upon and beyond Mt Carmel.”54 This suggests illumination in the darkness and hope within an environment of despair.55 Like the light and dark hills of Takaka Night and Day, the Elias artworks should be read as an honest reflection on the wavering journey of faith. Usefully, Keith writes: behind their tragic implications lies the joy of discovery that salvation and enlightenment can be found immediately at hand. The ‘way through’ is not offered by each newly arrived prophet but is in the light and the hills that surround the painter, in the ‘landscape with too few lovers.’56

Through this statement, Keith poses the notion that the reciprocal relationship with divinity offered by the landscape is more reliable than the enlightenment that one may glean from potentially fallible human prophets. From this perspective, the light upon Mount Carmel is of more spiritual value than the death-evading prophets whose names cause such confusion. In terms of the power of Christ, McCahon offers no clear standpoint, neither affirming nor rejecting the reality of the resurrection.57 What McCahon does affirm is the power of the land. McCahon viewed a love of the landscape as an antidote to war and destruction. This is the heart of his theology and the message he wished to convey. Nevertheless, one is left with the impression that McCahon was uncertain of his prophetic voice amidst a scorning audience. Showing a change of tone, McCahon’s Still Life With Altar series (1967) and Visible Mysteries series (1968) explore the worship of Christ in a church. They were inspired by contemporaneous commissions for Catholic churches, which familiarised McCahon with the language and symbolism of their ritual.58 These images are a collection of motifs that indicate the transformative nature of Christ, both in terms of ritual transubstantiation and the potential social redemption that may be found through this saviour figure.59 A major symbol within these paintings is the altar itself.60 It evokes ritual via its connection to the narrative of the last supper and the rite of Holy Communion.61 In Altar – Still Life (1967) the title structure is a Tau. Through this connection, McCahon depicts the altar as a representation of the reciprocal relationship between humanity and God. The idea of the Tau as a ‘load bearing structure’ is also implied.62 Also present in many of these works is the symbol of a heart, which represents the Passion of Christ. As evidenced in Still Life With Altar I,

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McCahon sometimes positioned this heart as lying to one side of an illuminated barrier representing an altar. The way through to Christ appears narrow and requires determination. Just as it is within the Catholic Church, the altar is used as a locus of sacred transformation. This allows McCahon’s ‘still life’ pieces to explore, and perhaps even enact, transformation of mundane into sacred as seen in the rituals of the Mass. They may allow the viewer to imaginatively approach Christ via spiritual alteration, or guide the viewer on a quest for social transformation. Visible Mysteries IV helps to confirm the setting of this series as the Eucharist ritual within a Catholic church. Honouring transubstantiation, the heart bleeds into a glass of wine upon the Tau altar. The Waterfall series symbol is alluded to via the transformation of blood into wine. This same crimson river streams through Six Days in Nelson and Canterbury, and The Elias Triptych. The same glass of wine hovers above the grieving Mary in The King of the Jews. Blood is found again in Visible Mysteries VIII. This image helps to draw together a variety of Christ-based artworks. The crimson symbol also relates to MƗori culture and the ‘mystery’ of the indigenous connection to the landscape. Pound believes the red colouration in Visible Mysteries VIII is a reflection of MƗori rafter painting—kowhaiwhai—known for its red, white, and black palette. He writes, “the native earth, as shaped by MƗori, becomes one of the mysteries of which the inscription prays.”63 This stream of blood forms a ‘koru’ shape.64 In MƗori culture, the koru is a symbol of life and creation.65 This is remarkably similar to the symbolic dimensions of Christ. This adds a potentially bi-cultural aspect to the understanding of Christ and Christian ritual. It is a motif employed to promote a personalised, New Zealandcentric view of the holy sacrifice.66 Within New Zealand art and graphic design, the koru has been employed as shorthand for the authentically local since the mid-nineteen hundreds.67 McCahon’s use of the symbol has a comparable purpose, romanticising the MƗori past in a manner that betters PƗkehƗ self-knowledge. This motif also brings in a dimension of autobiography. McNamara notes, “[t]hese great paintings were achieved at the cost of sacrifice of self, family and spirit. Look in all the work for those touches of red that are the blood of sacrifice.”68 Thus, sacrifice becomes more than the death of Christ. It becomes a representation of connectivity between the land and the human spirit, and functions as something of a confessional device to annunciate the personal sacrifices of the artist. The horizontal white line of Visible Mysteries VIII is a representation of both an altar and the Waterfall series motif. This symbol is also

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connected to the blood that runs below. McCahon described his lines carving white from black as “waterfalls, perhaps the blood from Christ’s body.”69 This sacrificial blood flows through the darkness, cleaving it apart. McCahon celebrated this symbol as a means of bringing the light from dark, one of his prime technical and spiritual concerns as a painter.70 The altar/waterfall is a symbol of transformation into the light. The Visible Mysteries artworks glow, suggesting the radiation of spiritual luminosity. McCahon asks us to move towards this glowing pathway and away from spiritual darkness. “So that the visible came forth from the invisible,” a phrase used in Rain in Northland and Testimony of Scripture, describes McCahon’s creative river of light. The glowing waterfall is a symbolic representation of the non-visible transcendence of God in the universe. This brings us to the concepts of visible and invisible as understood by McCahon. The Visible Mysteries artworks contain the inscription “GRANT THAT WHAT WE HAVE RECEIVED IN VISIBLE MYSTERIES WE MAY RECEIVE IN ITS INVISIBLE EFFECT.” This text comes from an out-dated Catholic missal as part of the Ascension prayers. It is an incantation said after receiving communion on this holy day.71 The word ‘mysteries’, connected to invisibility, can also be used in reference to the Christian Eucharist. Georgina Barr suggests the missal text “refers to one’s ability to better comprehend the glory of God after partaking of the blood and body of Christ.”72 So too can this consumption be read in nationalistic terms, functioning as a visceral discourse of hardwon identity. For example, Morris claims that the modern nation state, such as New Zealand, is an assent group: built not out of blood and family ties at all but out of an invention of blood and soil and the shared crucible of pain and the pressure of the past. These new amalgamations are hidden beneath a language of naturalness. We become a ‘natural’ group linked by ‘blood’ and some mystical geography of soil.73

Here, McCahon employs blood as a pseudo-familiar bonding agent. The pain of the Nationalist Project’s discourse links to the pain of the crucifixion. The blood of Christ is the blood of shared nationhood, and the landscape of New Zealand becomes enchanted and vivified by virtue of this symbolic consumption. Pound’s views on consubstantiation of soil and blood have already been mentioned in regard to Six Days in Nelson and Canterbury. He continues this investigation with a citation of the Visible Mysteries artworks. Pound quotes the ritualistic passage “[h]e who eats of my flesh and drinks of my blood shall remain in me and I in him.”74

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As Christ and McCahon shed their blood, all who consume it may take on the identity of sacrifice and of the native soil, so frequently tied together in the artist’s oeuvre. The Eucharist that McCahon offers is the consumption of earth in order to, as Pound puts it, know thyself as one of the “inextricable inhabitants of the land.”75 McCahon’s ‘mysteries’ are part of a bonding exercise that join the PƗkehƗ to the earth in a deeply spiritual manner.76 In terms of painting, McCahon’s ‘mysteries’ can be read as a discourse on the impossibility of mimesis of the spiritual. Butler and Simmons argue that McCahon’s depictions of Christian narratives avoid a mimetic resemblance to these mythological events.77 Instead, they paradoxically explore that which is unable to be expressed via a visual image.78 When this mindset is applied to Visible Mysteries, the series is easier to comprehend. Here, McCahon speaks of the process of representing an abstract concept in physical form – this is technically a misrepresentation, as this physical form is imaginative invention. He also explores the broader issue of communication, as these images attempt to make invisible spiritual concepts tangible for his audience. In the discourse of Christian theology, ‘mystery’ refers to a belief based on divine revelation, especially that which is regarded as beyond human understanding. ‘Mystery’ originated as a description of hidden religious symbolism and mystic presence.79 McCahon employs this subtle terminology of ‘mystery’ as an allusion to Catholic ritual and his artistic quest of depicting the unseeable relationship between humans and divinity. For example, McCahon has used ‘mysteries’ to refer to the wounds of Christ as in the Truth From The King Country: Small Mysteries artworks. Importantly, the artist remarked: Most of my work has been aimed at relating man to man and man to his world, to an acceptance of the very beautiful and terrible mysteries that we are part of. I aim at a very direct statement and ask only for a simple and direct response, any other way the message will get lost.80

McCahon’s social and environmentalist aims are evident in his mimetic landscape pieces. Still Life with Altar and Visible Mysteries take on his more esoteric and intangible goals. They speak of how God’s powers manifest themselves in human experience. In this sense, the artist devotes himself to connecting humanity with the sacred and pointing out its manifestations within the universe.

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The Gate Series The Gate paintings and their distinctive rectangular motif allude to danger and change. The idea of a transformative gateway is paramount to McCahon’s body of work, and is epitomised in this important collection of paintings. Early Gate imagery can be traced back to Painting (1958), but the first definitive Gate series started in 1961.81 Work on the second Gate series (which is a single artwork of many panels) began in 1962.82 The series also encompasses artworks such as the Tablets set (1962). McCahon estimates the Gate series to be a group of eighty to ninety paintings.83 Importantly, The Gate artworks were created during the Cold War, an era that distressed McCahon and many members of his immediate community.84 McNamara called these artworks “profoundly prophetic ... [made] when a whole generation was troubled, almost disabled, by the thought of nuclear disaster and thought nothing would last.”85 The creation of these artworks demonstrates McCahon’s selfconception as a prophet. Carr notes that her father was interested in the news and current events, but never joined political parties. She states: “his politics were his painting, I imagine, and that was enough.”86 McCahon's artworks were indeed the primary site of his pacifistic activism.87 Indeed, McCahon felt that it was his duty, and the duty of other artists, to divert aggressive social action.88 His scroll titled The Calling of a Christian (1969) states, “Whoever loves life and would see good days Must seek peace and pursue it.”89 This pursuit of amity is seen in McCahon’s painted warnings to humanity.90 Stylistically, the Gate symbols are easy to identify. They are largely rectangular and explore the notion of structures moving through an abstract space. McCahon explained, “[t]he compositions all come from a tree outside our bedroom window, and inner city roofs.”91 His relocation from bucolic Titirangi to metropolitan Auckland made McCahon especially conscious of the differences between rural and urban habitation.92 Inspired by this shift, the contrast of natural/peaceful versus human-made/destructive is profoundly evident in the Gate series.93 McCahon’s squares and rectangles are brutal and anti-natural symbols. Askew evocatively describes them as “units pressing towards one another with uncontrollable strength.”94 Strength and brutality are placed on the side of industrialisation and modernity. These violent, sliding plates reveal a world of shifting political tensions with devastating consequences. The Cold War is presented as a time of crisis in which humans must decide quickly upon the trajectory of society before hostilities consume them.95 McCahon offers his viewers a

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small gate into the Promised Land: a realm in which the natural world is appreciated for its nourishing spiritual power.96 The Gate series metaphorically explores the notion of pressing obstacles and pathways through crisis. They are an exercise in, and examination of, conflict resolution. As well as a ‘way through’ ecological and social crises, these works are designed to be read as a ‘way through’ the problems of artistic representation.97 Here, obstructions of representation in the painter’s craft are added to the obstructions between humanity and McCahon’s peaceful, natural Promised Land. Spatial representation was one of his major technical concerns. McCahon’s personal notebooks show great attention to tone and shading.98 He also spent a great deal of time considering the grid structures employed in the works of Mondrian, which informed his approach to the Gate series. McCahon remarked, “if you have the right sort of eyes for looking at them it sort of splits … there are ways given— there are ways through.”99 The technical exploration side of the Gate series seems to have pleased McCahon, more so than his simultaneous exploration of the modern human condition. The artist felt that some of his paintings were “more my friends than others.”100 He considers the Gate series to be a good one and describes great joy in its creation.101 The second Gate series (1962) expands upon these initial paintings.102 The words used are taken from Caselberg, influenced by Isaiah and Lamentations.103 McCahon explained: I am becoming more involved with an idea of a large-scale statement on nuclear warfare, this is to take the form of a screen … The new series goes under the general title of ‘GATE’ by which I mean a way through. What I want with this screen is a way through also. Words can be terrible but a solution must be given. In spite of a message which can burn I intend a painting in no way Expressionistic but with a slowly emerging order.104

It was with this mindset that McCahon created his second Gate series. His capitalisation of ‘Expressionistic’ denotes the associated art movement: one that focused on internal emotion above the physical world. With this statement, McCahon positions the second Gate series as a statement on external realities. Focusing on the anxiety surrounding nuclear armaments, his artworks seek to offer an alternative ‘way through’. The idea of ‘way’ can be explained via the obscure idea of “a slowly emerging order.” This notion refers to McCahon’s aforementioned desire for logical symbology, clear coherent statements, and an intense reflection on the nature of the world.105 His reference to the term ‘order’ may be linked to the notion of Christian spirituality emerging through the world as a solution to the Cold

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War crisis. As seen many times in his body of work, McCahon employs light to represent transcendent, transformative power. Due to its grand size, this artwork must be walked past and observed sequentially. This has allowed McCahon to order his imagery in narrative panels. The works are arranged in a considered and meaningful manner.106 The viewer is given large tracts of text broken up by images of gateways and obstructions floating through space. Hints of spiritual visions litter the scene. For example, McCahon includes triangles in the corners of some of the panels. These triangles are his symbol for the Holy Trinity and a greater world beyond the physical.107 McCahon attempts to compel his audience with visual and linguistic metaphors for the horror or peace that could befall them depending on the pathway chosen. In keeping with his desire to warn against impending doom, McCahon employs apocalyptic language. Interestingly, the eschatological elements are strikingly sublunary. The artist implies a very terrestrial Hell. His idea of punishment reads: BOTH GREAT AND SMALL SHALL DIE IN THIS LAND THEY SHALL BE AS DUNG UPON THE FACE OF THE GROUND. THE PEOPLES SHALL BE AS THE BURNINGS OF LIME: AS THORNS CUT DOWN, THAT ARE BURNED IN THE FIRE.

The artist goes so far as to imply that damnation has already taken place: WE HAVE MADE A COVENANT WITH DEATH, AND WITH HELL ARE AT AGREEMENT

There are a few moments of respite from the doom. Panel ten is bathed in refreshing white light. It implores the viewer to “GO THROUGH THE GATES” thus implying that an escape from the darkness and chaos is possible. The last panel offers a similar glimmer of redemption in the form of a final gate that leads towards brightness.108 Although McCahon’s vision of the future is dim, he still intends to lead his audience through the turmoil and offer them an alternative if they are able to comprehend it.109 Alluding to this, bright squares break apart the blackness and suggest a possible redemption.110 Here it is helpful to consider one of the ways in

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which McCahon has depicted angels. With the development of his symbolic lexicon, McCahon began to show these beings in non-human form. In the Angels and Bed series, for example, McCahon depicted them as glowing rectangles. These luminous shapes are remarkably similar to those of the second Gate paintings. Brown refers to angels in this form as “windows of light,” which function as divine messengers.111 He also states McCahon’s angels are meant to impart meaningful communications or urgent challenges during a period of crisis.112 Through this lens, it is possible to read McCahon’s white rectangles as a spiritual message that offers salvation and redemption if it is understood. Although McCahon is clearly frustrated and alarmed by human behaviour, he is still open to the small possibility that society may take the path of peace and order. The Gate series is yet another annunciation of McCahon’s growing disillusionment with his prophetic role and the direction of society. The Gate paintings do not guarantee an outcome. They are a warning to humanity and offer a Christ-based structure of redemption, but do not predict the future with complete certainty. McCahon does not depict a satisfying post-liminal social augmentation on the other side of this voyage. Edmond suggests that McCahon’s gates may just as easily lead into a void or a valley of dry bones as they could into paradise.113 Unlike his earlier pieces where the Promised Land was glimpsed in the future, the Gate series are less clearly optimistic. His telluric vision of judgement and torture is also an important development to consider. The potential secularity of apocalyptic vision represents an emerging uncertainty over the nature and power of God. Tangential to the Gate series are the In My Own Village drawings (1971) including two artworks by this name and one titled In My Dark Winter. The poetry depicted is by Caselberg and was the initial text presented for the second Gate paintings.114 The three artworks contain a variant on a poem that reads: In my own village I think there are More scarecrows left Than other people When I raised my head There was my Rigid body Lying bitter cold My very bone ends Burn

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This imagery speaks of social alienation and painful physical death. McCahon suggests that the soul of humanity is lost. Although the Tau may suggest a communication with God, it is black, grubby, and tarnished by the evocation of burnt bones. These poems were inspired by a haiku about Hiroshima, which helps to contextualise this sense of death and disaster within nuclear war.115

Waterfalls The Waterfall and Gate series are linked by Three Waterfalls (1964). This artwork combines the typical waterfall image with the blocks of colour made familiar by the Gate artworks. The water-based crayon that was used for this image creates a tactile, earthy impression. The waterfall seems liquid, while the blocks of colour take on the appearance of muddy islands. The blue lines of the second panel look like ripples in a river. The waterfall motif is both a stream of light and a stream of water. The squares of colour that form the Gate series are realistic blocks of earth that are eroded through the power of the waterfall. Here, McCahon appears to propose a solution of sorts to the anxiety of the Gate series. There is no rush to make it through the gates when the power of sacred light is able to wear away their edges like water running into earth. This aerial landscape demonstrates how Christ’s illumination can corrode the obstacles created by human aggression.116 The purifying, transcendent redemption of Christ is communicated through ecological symbology. McCahon saw his Waterfalls as the earth bleeding a sacrament of life like the wounds of Christ.117 The Waterfalls series is distinguished by the motif of a white line running through a dark backdrop. This line appears both as a Tau and as a plain curve, evidenced by artworks such as Waterfall (1964) and Large Waterfall (1964). The contrast between light and dark is, as always, highly important.118 McCahon saw water and light as interchangeable symbols, both having qualities of purification and spiritual healing.119 In a set of 15 Drawings to Charles Brasch, McCahon inscribes: “This is a cold land” and “Light candles against the oncoming dark.”120 His miraculous light is a means of bringing warmth and brightness to a tepid country facing an uncertain future. The waterfalls also speak of integration with the landscape as a source of redemption.121 They suggest that an appreciation of the landscape is a means of discovering the way to enlightenment, represented here as the brilliant white path of the waterfall.122 McCahon’s waterfalls were initially influenced by those of William Hodges, Captain James Cook’s draftsman.123 Waterfalls were also a key

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feature of Tessai’s art, making him a likely source of influence in the development of this symbol.124 Like the Gate motif, the waterfalls can denote a ‘way through’. Waterfall (c.1973) was originally painted as part of McCahon’s house at Muriwai Beach. It formed part of a sliding door system.125 The medium is no coincidence, and carries meaning. McCahon suggests that one may use waterfalls as a way of moving through different states and opening the door to enlightenment.126 Revealingly, McCahon also described the lone Waterfall painting at the Auckland City Art Gallery as “inert” and “a good example of a painting that does not stand well by itself. It has to be seen as part of a whole.”127 On one level, this is a demonstration of the importance of series within McCahon’s body of work. In addition, it suggests that the Waterfall symbol should possess vigour rather than inertia. Perhaps the use of a door canvas permits this dynamism. One pertinent application of the waterfall motif is as a means of expressing the Stations of the Cross. McCahon links this ritual to the New Zealand landscape via The Fourteen Stations of the Cross (1966), a gigantic work consisting of one panel for each Station. The repeated image is clearly that of a landscape, appearing to be three layers of sky, hill, and plain. Numerals are integrated into the land like an organic force – or waterfall. While the strokes do not directly represent the numbers up to fourteen, they are reminiscent of Roman numerals. McCahon overtly states that this artwork shares themes with the Numerals and Waterfalls series.128 He explains, “[t]hey are all concerned with Man’s fall and his resurrection.”129 McCahon describes them as a new and different way of approaching the ideas of the Elias works.130 After his aforementioned commission for the Upland Road Chapel, McCahon felt that his paintings should provide inner guidance for his audience against the difficulties of life.131 These artworks fall specifically within this schema, with waterfalls used as a tool of soothing and directing the audience. Connections can indeed be drawn between Fourteen Stations of the Cross and Elias, as they can with any of McCahon’s Christ-based artworks. Nevertheless, the profound similarity that apparently exists between them still seems unclear. McCahon appeared aware of this. Still treading the path towards didactic clarity, he remarked, “I am saying what I want to say in these paintings but I am still too abstract.”132 This artwork reminds the audience that land is still vital to McCahon’s Christian message and should not be forgotten despite increasing abstraction. He also alludes to his growing interest in Word Paintings, albeit in an extraordinarily indirect fashion. McCahon claims “black crows of the van Gogh cornfield hover over this landscape too, but have failed to destroy it

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– yet.”133 Remembering that his crows were actually a reference to words, the artist appears to be foreshadowing a move towards textual rather than mimetic landscapes to better his communicative powers. The integrated meanings and connections between Waterfalls, Numerals, and Elias remain obscured by the general misunderstanding and failures of communication that constantly plagued McCahon. Much as the Gate series left the artist feeling isolated and anxious, the Waterfalls paintings generally failed to be appreciated as an educational device or a bridge between series.

Art as the Path to Enlightenment: Influences for the Cold War Paintings Mondrian was a major inspiration for McCahon’s painterly practice. He was especially significant as an example of how to overcome representational barriers such as those alluded to with the Gate series, which is explored in the painting Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian.134 McCahon puts forth Mondrian and his oeuvre as potential tools in the negotiation of obstacles and the path forward to humanity’s betterment.135 Keith believes that McCahon viewed Mondrian’s paintings in the context of landscape discourse. This allowed for a broader reading of works, including Broadway Boogie Woogie, as landscape (or cityscape) images. Through the combination of abstraction and representation, Keith feels that Mondrian may have “pointed the way to the Promised Land” for McCahon.136 There is strong evidence that McCahon saw Mondrian as an inspiration for terrestrial representation. In 1955 he described his intended use of parallel squares in the harbour-based French Bay series as a “suggestion” from Mondrian.137 He also quipped, “You can’t hang a Mondrian upside down because all the water will run out of it.”138 McCahon also references the artist in Mondrian’s Chrysanthemum of 1908 (1971) where said flower blooms over the Kaipara Harbour or Kaipara Flats. McCahon describes the piece as a bomb exploding on Muriwai.139 Again, Mondrian is employed as a means of expressing landscape forms of New Zealand. In keeping with McCahon’s nuclear war anxiety, Mondrian is also used to explore destruction and, perhaps, a ‘way though’. As Carel Blotkamp explains, Mondrian did not view destruction in wholly negative terms. Rather, he saw the destruction of old forms as a necessary condition for the creation of the new. Mondrian saw art as a means of evolution.140 Perhaps this is a viewpoint that McCahon wished to explore as he negotiated the precipice of nuclear destruction.

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I Talk of Goya (1976) continues this dialogue between McCahon and his fellow artists. The work, divided into comic-style episodic panels, is constructed on double-sided wooden screens. Again, the medium is important as screens may be read as a movable divider of space or as a barrier that can be taken down. Goya dealt with themes of human destruction and evil in the series Los Desastres de la Guerra, or The Disasters of War (1818-1820). Perhaps this idea resonated with McCahon in his ongoing engagement with the threat of nuclear disaster. The bulbous forms on McCahon’s screen speak of nature, and also of its peril. Many of the shapes resemble a tree or flower growing from a landscape. There is a similarity to Mondrian’s chrysanthemum symbol. It is also possible to discern mushroom clouds. In favour of this work presenting a ‘way through’, these clouds may be compared to the cloud that guided Moses and his people to the Promised Land.141 The golden background to the artwork could certainly symbolise the desert. Again the viewer is left with a choice to enter redemption via the prophet or chaos via war. Mondrian is again referenced in the Scared series. In Mondrian’s Last Chrysanthemum142 (1976), McCahon borrows from Mondrian’s bold primary colours and orders them around a salient Tau.143 McCahon’s panels evoke the possible transition from darkness to light, set below the vivid red of spilt blood. If the Tau is read for its connections to the prophet Christ, it acts as a reflection of the great spiritual duty of salvation that comes from sacrifice. Considered through the lens of Moses, the prophetic stave offers a pathway from the void to enlightenment. Broadly speaking, McCahon’s Scared series deals with the effects of taking a stand against fear.144 This is reflected in Scared (1976) where the bright light of McCahon’s script pulsates and fades. The presence of transcendent light is inconsistent and suggests a loss of faith. Standing up as a prophet or standing against the Cold War is presented as a difficult and sometimes fearful path. Enlightenment is offered, but never guaranteed.

Audience Reactions McCahon’s obscure symbolism has made his particular aims and meanings difficult to gauge.145 Despite the prominence of Christ in the aforementioned artworks, the message is often missed. This frustrated McCahon who lamented, “[n]o one seems to know what I’m on about, it amazes me, no one seems to know that I am painting Christ.”146 This failure of audience comprehension is epitomised in the world of the art gallery gift shop where McCahon’s hearts are viewed as cute symbols of love rather than Catholic devotional aides. ‘Anthony Blanche’,147 manager

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of such a shop, provides a revealing explanation of the choices she has made in regard to procuring art reproduction postcards. Naming middleaged women as her main demographic, Blanche claims that “accessible images” such as children, animals, and flowers are consistently popular.148 Blanche sells a reproduction of Visible Mysteries I in her shop. She explains, “[i]t has got a heart on it and even people that don’t know anything about modern art and McCahon will look at it and go—Oh, that’s a heart,—oh, that’s really cute.” A ‘pretty’ postcard will sell well.149 Although the postcard trade has made these images accessible, there is no evidence that the Still Life with Altar or Visible Mysteries series have been employed as a devotional tool.150 Part of this problem is created by McCahon’s purposeful obscurity.151 While he desired clarity in his artworks and strove to deliver it, McCahon also felt that some arcane secrets existed within art and should not be spoken about.152 He strives to make these unspoken secrets visible, showing them rather than dictating the ineffable. These artworks present symbols of magic and mystery that should be known through experience and revelation. McCahon tries to touch his audience without ruining the sacred and unutterable. He shows the power of the Eucharist by connecting it with ‘Necessary Protection’, the heart and blood of Christ that flows into the world, and the creation of visible from invisible and light from dark. As Brown explains, key concepts such as ‘gate’ and ‘mystery’ have a clear use within McCahon’s series, but lack “a precise objective content outside the context of a specific painting or series of paintings.”153 He goes on to argue that symbols may point out a path for the audience, but cannot walk it for them.154 McCahon’s audience must use these concepts and symbols to draw the ‘correct’ conclusions: an unwieldy task. McCahon acknowledged this problem with the Still Life With Altar and Visible Mysteries series, stating, “[i]t says something about where I wanted to go and what I was painting about – but not enough. I didn’t reach far enough.”155 McCahon felt as though his aims and artistic direction were not fully articulated by this series, and noted the failure of his rhetoric as a result. In 1972 he said they were a lonely series and he had not given up on expanding them.156 Nevertheless, no subsequent work appears to be a direct descendent, although this is difficult to determine given the obscurity of McCahon’s symbolism. In 1962 an anonymous letter to the editor of The Press complained that the high-gloss Gate series had no greater message than a wardrobe door painted in the same material. McCahon’s unorthodox media was seen as renegade.157 A modern internet commentator described Mondrian’s Last Chrysanthemum as a “Tui billboard on the piss.”158 When it was purchased

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for NZ$350,000 by a public gallery, Ben Worth quipped, “[i]t’s always easier to waste other people’s money than your own. Thanks Te Papa.”159 Another post-sale internet attack labelled the artwork as “daub by the talentless deceased wanker McCahon.”160 McCahon’s frustration with his audience is apparent in the 1968 exhibition at Barry Lett Galleries, which he titled ‘Colin McCahon's Bargain Basement! of Multiples & Variations on his Regular Themes also Visible Mysteries’. This exhibition satirically debases the reverential aims of his imagery, critiquing the monetary valuation of devotional artworks. This attitude did not come as a surprise. McCahon was offended by the news that a gallery had used one of his Elias paintings to prop up a broken bathroom window.161 McCahon’s statements on the Cold War and global crises have been the most readily received, even if they have not necessarily inspired actual change. For example, Mary Woodward, national secretary for the New Zealand Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, praised McCahon’s 1962 Christchurch exhibition of the Gate series. She thanked him for conveying “so much of the feeling of hope and horror” that inspires the movement towards disarmament.162 Nearly thirty-five years later, McCahon was included in the 1996 exhibition ‘The World Over: Art in the Age of Globalisation’, which aimed to display artworks dealing with “the recent major political events and rapid advances in technology that have reshaped the world.”163 Some individuals have also been inspired to change their actions after seeing these images. ‘Jack’, an online reviewer, provides a revealing reaction to Scared along these lines: This is the kind of art that will take you from behind, and change your life to come … [Scared] represents the fears in today’s society and how we must face them in order to overcome them. The work makes the viewer feel as if they should do something in the world to get their message across, rather than just waiting for the world to change magically around them.164

This is the kind of active response that would have pleased McCahon. It is also interesting to observe his ongoing relevance to current political issues. Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian is also popular. Coney still remembers the sense of awe he felt when viewing the artwork at age twelve.165 McCahon has even been seen as a gateway to the artist. Young claims, “through McCahon we achieve new insight into Mondrian and can better appreciate his work.”166 The associated waterfall motifs are the most popular of all the symbols mentioned in this chapter. This probably due to a misunderstanding of their Christian meaning. McCahon’s symbol of

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radiant light is not overtly connected to this tradition. Although Dunn correlates McCahon’s use of light to Christian enlightenment and salvation, he points out that this quality can be enjoyed for its lack of overt religious symbology.167 Indeed, Tomory reads the brightness of the Waterfall motif in a broader manner, calling it a symbol of optimism. He believes it is a “humanist vision” that McCahon evokes with his constant visual balance of white, black, hard, and soft.168 Representing a secular (but potentially nationalist) viewpoint, the waterfalls in the Lord of the Rings movies have been said to summon the energy of McCahon.169 O’Brien also uses McCahon’s waterfall as a poetic secular motif to describe the pouring of tea from a teapot in the radiant afternoon light.170 Similarly, artist Anna Leary muses: There is this magical light as the sun drops in the sky before the end of the day, where everything seems to glow as if sprinkled with fairy dust and things just seem a little better. I’ve dubbed it McCahon light.171

Indicating another point of artistic inheritance, Frizzell remembers his 1962 viewing of the Gate series as “genuinely ‘awesome’.”172 Despite this religious descriptor, his awe relates to McCahon’s creation of art out of “brutal and unsympathetic means.”173 Nevertheless, these reactions to style, technique, and the attractiveness of particular motifs were not what McCahon had intended. In relation to the Elias series, his friend Stead admits: I became a complete convert to these paintings while remaining relatively indifferent to the messages they carried – which means I was probably not the kind of admirer Colin was happiest with. For him, the words were of critical importance.174

McCahon longed for his audience to read and comprehend his messages. There are scarce examples of the Elias series as a devotional aide. To be generous, one could include the ‘Good Church Design’ blog’s employment of the Elias Triptych as part of their Easter post.175 Most viewers, however, are like Stead. Even if they enjoy the paintings they do not necessarily understand or wish to receive their intended message. Brasch summarises this with his admission that “the Gate Series say almost nothing to me.”176

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Conclusion Once again McCahon was left disheartened by his failure to communicate and, for this reason, his artworks demonstrate an increasing sense of doubt and despair. The paintings discussed here recreate the Biblical search for the Promised Land and redemptive transformation. McCahon presents himself as a modern-day prophet with an important message about the reconstruction of society along peaceful, naturalistic lines. His artworks are geared towards the identification of problems and the establishment of a ‘way through’. Brown believes that artworks such as McCahon’s Gate series were “seen as functioning on a cosmic scale wherein the destiny of humanity was at stake.”177 This is a profound aim in which the art object is expected to transcend the barriers of its frame and the barriers of the gallery context, reach out into society, and make a dramatic change. Although the Gate series has received critical praise and attention, it has not led to a substantial adoption of McCahon’s peaceful agenda. As shown by the Scared series, McCahon entered the late nineteen-seventies in a state of anxiety that most people had left behind in the nineteen-fifties. Despite repeated attempts to construct the Promised Land within New Zealand, the Cold War was a threat to his environmentalist and pacifistic aims. The angst of the Gate series epitomises the crisis point that McCahon observed. The way to his Promised Land grew narrow as his hope for society dwindled.

Notes  1

Indeed, they are described by Pound as “melancholy and uncertain retrospection.” See: Pound, “Topographies,” 122. 2 The Gate series symbology is usually comprised of long rectangular blocks, often drifting together forming openings and pathways. This motif is a reflection on destructive human creations such as urban sprawl and nuclear technology. Of this particular Gate manifestation, Brown writes it is as if the gate “was not fully open and the passageway questionable.” He describes this composition as ominous. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 130. 3 Gregory O’Brien points out that McCahon’s North Otago and Canterbury landscapes show a perspective that would be “inconceivable without air travel.” See: O’Brien, “The Dark Plane Leaves At Evening.” 4 Pound describes it as a possible reference to the spiritual discovery of New Zealand after the previous generation of PƗkehƗ migrated to the country in body only. Pound, “Topographies,” 124. Pound believes the Tau cross may reference the guiding pillar of smoke from Exodus 13:21. See also Pound, “Topographies,” 133. 5 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 5.

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 6

Pound, “Topographies,” 122. Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 245. 8 Colin McCahon to Nola Barron [19 Dec. 69] in Pound, “Topographies,” 122. 9 Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” Woollaston believes that McCahon’s vision “stands up in contrast to the horizontal will of the public, the masses, for things already assured by repetition.” 10 For more details on the ‘I’ as New Zealand selfhood, consult ‘The Word Paintings’ chapter. 11 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 32. 12 Joost Daalder, “The Religious Experience in R.A.K. Mason’s Poetry” in “And the Birds Began to Sing”: Religion and Literature in Post-Colonial Cultures, ed. Jamie S. Scott (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), 91. 13 Brown traces this tendency back to There is Only One Direction (1952). He sees McCahon’s prophetic determination reflected in the single-minded purpose of the Christ child. See: Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 14. 14 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 37. 15 As Pound writes, “he sees himself in the mystical mirror of the cross—and the task as his to suffer for us and to save us.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 18. 16 Conversely, Brown argues that this artwork “relates more to a formal exploration of the landscape than any search for a promised land.” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 127. 17 For example, McNamara claims that it “shows how our empty land is claimed by works of engineering.” See: McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.” Docking calls it “wholly secular” at first sight. See: Docking, Two Hundred Years of New Zealand Painting, 184. 18 McCahon explains that North Canterbury Landscape (1951-1952) “naturally precedes” On Building Bridges. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 6. McCahon explains that the image is “of no particular place,” but feels that the railway lines and overhead bridge at the end of his street were probably influential in its conception. 19 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 133. Emphasis my own. 20 McCahon counts Cockburn-Mercer as one of his most important and influential educators who taught him more in four days than he had “ever learned before.” See: Brasch [27 Oct. 51] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 23. 21 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 22. 22 Conversely, this artwork has also been read as a manifestation of the early modern New Zealand painters’ explorations in formalism to depict, as Burke describes it, “the impact of the industrial era on a landscape seen as distinctive for its harsh light, steep mountains and powerful waterfalls.” See: Burke, “River Deep, Mountain High,” 13. Although Cubism allowed McCahon the freedom to explore his much-used themes of environmental degradation and ambiguous temporality, content still triumphs over style. Brown discusses McCahon’s deviation from strict Cubism in relation to the Kauri artworks. In this series, Brown remarks that McCahon’s treatment of the fragmentation of objects is not reflective of the pulling 7

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 apart and re-assemblage of Cubism. Rather, his fragmentation of the kauri is from a single vantage point and relates to factors such as the appearance of the light on the external surface of the plant. As in On Building Bridges, McCahon borrows from what he finds useful. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 54-55. Through a formalist lens, the blending of bridge and rural background may seem no more than a reflection of Cubist object re-assemblage or indistinct space. Nevertheless, it is important to remember McCahon’s particular approach to generic conventions. He saw them as secondary to the conveyance of his particular message, and often disobeyed convention in order to clarify his lessons or state his particular beliefs and doubts. On Building Bridges is a text riddled with important symbolism, which is revealed through an analysis of its content. The way in which McCahon’s bridge deconstructs and merges into the landscape is a means of conveying religious ideas. 23 Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 27. 24 In regard to Malevich’s Portrait of the Composer Matiushin (1913), Rainer Crone and David Moos write: “[t]he Cubist’s aesthetic, necessitating observance of objects from multiple vantage points, implies that the Renaissance concept of a single, fixed, anthropocentric viewpoint was not essential for a rational comprehension of reality.” They argue that Malevich employed this technique as part of his “urge to go beyond commentary and to make an actual contribution suited to the conceptual task he had set himself.” See: Rainer Crone and David Moos, Kazimir Malevich: The Climate of Disclosure (London: Reaktion Books, 1991), 89. As well as summarising the difference between Cubist and Renaissance presentations of vantage, this research demonstrates the potential for revolutionary Cubist technique to aid in the construction of imagery that better suited the artistic agenda of its creator, something that may be applied to McCahon. 25 McCahon’s parents acted in a reverential manner around Ferrier’s bridges, seeing each one as a memorial to his loss. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 29. 26 Docking, Two Hundred Years of New Zealand Painting, 184. Brown, working off McCahon’s statements, validates this reference to the Sistine Chapel roof as a purposeful one. He also remarks upon its obscurity and the fact that “a viewer can make this connection only with the artist’s help.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 77. This is yet another example of the necessity of reading a vast body of McCahon’s artistic statements in order to fully comprehend the nuanced messages of his oeuvre. 27 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 6. 28 Leonard describes this structure as decaying or unfinished. See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 28. 29 In this spirit, O’Reilly sees the bridge as a means of crossing to the Promised Land as opposed to a barrier. See: O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 11. 30 William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14. 31 Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 29.

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32 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 6; William McCahon, “Teaching Aids,” 3. Caselberg recalls On Building Bridges “emerging from an entirely different landscape and sun’s-orb dominated painting.” See: Caselberg, “Towards a Promised Land.” 33 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 6. 34 Leonard describes the bridge as a symbol of the subject that moves into the land: the Other. He reads this painting as an image of how humans can be reconciled with the landscape. See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 28. 35 McNamara muses on the meaning and obscurity of this message, stating that McCahon: “broke away from the simple representation of places to make works that were true to the nature of the landscape but were also images of search – whether for enlightenment or national identity is left for the viewer to decide.” See: McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.” 36 McCahon made the baffling claim that works in the Elias series totalled around a hundred. See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 27. Keith estimates in excess of 120. See: Keith, “Colin McCahon,” 69; Keith, “Colin McCahon,” An Introduction to New Zealand Painting, 190. Simpson counts twelve to fifteen at most, which seems the easiest total to accept. See: Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 63. The McCahon Image Database shows twelve works in the Elias series category, fourteen if the Elias Triptych is taken as three separate paintings. Perhaps these disparate viewpoints reflect the interconnectivity with other works, allowing for a more lax system of classification. Butler and Simmons call I, One, One (1959) (also known as I One) part of the Elias series. See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 336. The inclusion of these numberbased artworks could account for larger totals. It is also possible that destroyed works were counted by the artist as part of his figure. 37 This series was completed rapidly due to McCahon’s use of malleable and fastdrying house paint. See: Sarah Hillary and Kendrah Morgan, Beneath the Surface: McCahon’s Materials and Techniques 1954-66 (Auckland: Auckland Art Gallery, 2000). 38 M.T. Woollaston [1959] in Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 54. 39 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 27. 40 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 27. 41 On this note, Butler and Simmons suggest that mistranslation is an important element of this series, and McCahon’s use of language as a whole. See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 339. 42 See: William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14. 43 William McCahon claims that “Come to save him” is an “evangelical call” from the artist to his audience. See: William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14. 44 William McCahon offers a detailed Christian reading of this artwork. He believes that the onlookers at the crucifixion “send Spiritual light flowing up the stem of the Cross, streaming on through time and to other places.” Concurrently, small speckles representing the human soul are seen floating towards the light. William McCahon reads this as Jesus welcoming the spirits of people into the

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 light. Thus, “Christ, through Colin, is implying that we can help save him, and in turn be saved.” William McCahon combines this idea of reciprocity with the collapsed timezones of the artwork. He suggests that in saving Christ at the crucifixion we may be saved by divine soteriology. Healing the past begets healing in the future. William McCahon believes that his father borrowed the Tau of Elias Will He Come Will He Come to Save Him from On Building Bridges. Much as it reinforces the steel structure of the bridge, “the lance that wounds Christ has become a strengthening brace.” He connects the power of the Tau to the idea of ‘load bearing’ that it denotes in several artworks. See: See: William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14-15. 45 Mossman reads the circular shape in panels one and three as a representation of this stone. See: Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 46 In English translations, this sentence is ended with a quotation mark. McCahon has elected to write it without one. The word ‘thoughts’ is translated as ‘doubts’ in many editions of the scripture. 47 Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 69. 48 Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 69. 49 For example, The Auckland Art Gallery uses ‘blood’ as a subject heading for this artwork. See: Auckland Art Gallery, “The Elias Triptych,” accessed June 18, 2010, http://collection.aucklandartgallery.govt.nz/collection/results.do?view=detail &db=object&id=5654. Congruently, Brown believes that this panel represents a symbolic landscape. The lower rectangle is described as the tomb of Christ “bathed in light.” He refers to the upper rectangle as the sky. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 120. Mossman agrees that the red substance connecting them is “a fountain of blood.” She describes this as a symbol of God’s sacrifice and ability to forgive. See: Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 50 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 133. 51 Veronica Angelatos suggests that the Elias artworks require the viewer to “stand with the artist, in a situation where each person must decide the issue in their own way.” She believes that the paintings are a discussion on the meaning of life. See: Veronica Angelatos, “Important Fine Art Auction • Melbourne • 26 August 2009,” Deutscher and Hackett, accessed March 23, 2010, http://www.deutscherandhackett .com/catalogue10/lot_number16.html. Adding to this, Leonard sees “Christ forsaken as a metaphor for the lot of the modern man.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 29. 52 For example, Brown believes they discuss the possibility of suffering when one advances as an individual, but also relate to hope as a guiding force that allows us to risk affliction. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 120. Simpson puts forward an optimistic view of the artworks due to the positive answering of doubtful questions. He concedes, however, that the “numerical weight of the series” falls on the torture of Christ, leading to an overall reading of doubt and tragedy. See: Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 66. 53 William McCahon evocatively states, “Colin has called to Christ in his own misery.” See: William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14. In agreement, whilst speaking of Let Be, blogger Chester Lee reads the

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 typographical arrangement as a sign of “the artists [sic] desperation … creating a very weak, hopeless feel to the writing, as if this was the artist’s last breath and devoted to convey this message.” See: Chester Lee, “Let Be – Colin McCahon (1959),” Funnul, October 21, 2011, accessed October 24, 2011, http://chster.wordp ress.com/2011/10/21/let-be-colin-mccahon-1959. 54 William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 14. 55 Indeed, Angelatos describes the Elias series as “the agony of expectation and of doubt, fixed within the immediate landscape where light and shade, hope and despondency alternate across hill and valley.” See: Angelatos, “Important Fine Art Auction.” She places value on the contrast of the works, suggesting that both hope and desperation are equal and valuable elements of the art. 56 Hamish Keith, “My Favourite,” Bulletin of the Christchurch Art Gallery (2008): 3. Keith recalls the first time he saw the Elias works. He writes, “[t]hese cries of despair, scorn or disbelief hung in the rich sun-setting landscapes of the black Auckland west coast.” His descriptors are hardly sanguine. Despite this, his abovementioned conclusions are more positive. 57 Brown believes he acts “simply as an interested, if uncommitted, onlooker.” See: Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 26. In his Fifteen Drawings for Charles Brasch collection, McCahon offers a similarly confusing stance. Although Christ is resurrected at the end of the drawings, the weight of the series is placed on the mourning witnesses of the crucifixion and Christ’s lifeless body. See: Colin McCahon, 15 Drawings (Otago: Hocken Library, 1976). 58 McCahon specifies that they are based on events in his life at the time. See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 34. Altar – Still Life and Still Life with Altar IV contain the letters ‘IHS’, a Catholic abbreviation for the name of Christ. McCahon’s artworks, particularly those with a Catholic theme, often employ this symbol. It forms the centre of his window commission for the Sisters of Our Lady of the Missions in Remuera. 59 Keeping in mind McCahon’s need for clear communication, Claudine Björklund believes the Still Life with Altar and Visible Mysteries paintings reflect the artist’s desire to emulate the old masters by making signs and symbols to live by. See: Claudine Björklund, McCahon’s Visible Mysteries (Auckland: Auckland Art Gallery, 2005). With this in mind, it is important to read these works as a compendium of icons that explain McCahon’s theological explorations and encourage audience engagement. 60 Interestingly, William McCahon describes the small yellow rectangle in Elias Will He Come to Save Him as an altar contained within its own landscape of the Tau. See: William McCahon, “Elias Will He Come Will He Come To Save Him,” 15. 61 When considering the title of these artworks, it is important to note that the idea of ‘still life’ is mildly misleading. Björklund explains that McCahon’s Still Life with Altar series is not purely figurative but, rather, uses abstraction as a means of distilling meaning. See: Björklund, McCahon’s Visible Mysteries. Comparatively, McCahon has been described as a “painter who abstracts the essence of the selected subject, then presents it as a painted image in distilled form.” See: Queen

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 Elizabeth II Arts Council of New Zealand, New Zealand Art of the Sixties. Abstraction is a means of refinement and symbols are made potent via their visual simplicity. 62 The Auckland Art Gallery’s educational resource on McCahon offers various activities for school students related to his artworks. The activity associated with the series requires the students to describe how the T-shape is used to strengthen and stabilise the composition of the artwork. See: Auckland Art Gallery, “Colin McCahon A Question of Faith: An Education Resource,” accessed December 1, 2009, http://www.aucklandartgallery.govt.nz/exhibitions/docs/0303colin.pdf, 8. This approach is useful, showing the cross as the creator of horizontal and vertical directions within the work and as the literal foundation for spiritual activity. 63 Pound, The Space Between, 100-101. 64 This image looks very similar to the koru symbol used by Air New Zealand. This would make pleasing connection to McCahon’s imagery of flight, but the artwork pre-dates the implementation of this livery. Indeed, Pound proposes McCahon as a possible ancestor of the koru in modern corporate logos. See: Pound, The Space Between, 93, 209. Mane-Wheoki believes that Gordon Walters and Theo Schoon, a Javanese-born artist who dried gourds that he decorated with the koru motif, influenced McCahon in his employment of the koru symbol. See: Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 130. For an account of the koru symbol as part of the development of modernism in New Zealand and the place of MƗori art as ‘high’ versus ‘low’ see: Pound, The Space Between, 39. 65 Susy Frankel and Megan Richardson, “Cultural Property and ‘the Public Domain’: Case Studies from New Zealand and Australia,” in Traditional Knowledge, Traditional Cultural Expressions and Intellectual Property Law in the Asia-Pacific Region, ed. Christoph Antons (Netherlands: Wolters Kluwer, 2009), 284. 66 See also McCahon’s Koru series (1962), which employs the visual language of the Gate series. For a summary of problems with PƗkehƗ usage of the koru motif, see: Thomas, “Kiss the Baby Goodbye,” passim, esp. 96. 67 Pound, The Space Between, 66-68. 68 McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.” 69 McCahon, draft manuscript for Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition (1972). 70 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 31. 71 For example, one may find this in Divine Service: A Complete Manual of Worship for Assisting and Communicating at the Holy Sacrifice [1909] (Montana: Kessinger, 2003), 344. 72 Georgina Barr, “5: Colin McCahon,” in Gow Langsford Gallery and John Leech Gallery: Spring Catalogue 2010, (New Zeland: Gow Langsford Gallery, 2010), 15. 73 Morris, “Who Are We? New Zealand Identity and Spirituality,” 245. 74 Pound, The Space Between, 101. 75 Pound, The Space Between, 101. 76 As Brown explains, McCahon’s symbols also negate the repugnancy of this human sacrifice via the “beneficial character” they assume. See: Brown, Colin

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 McCahon: Artist, 145. The human consumption of blood and soil is presented in a ‘clean’ manner that functions on a more palatable, metaphorical level. 77 They demonstrate that McCahon had been examining the relationship between the invisible and ineffable ‘Word of God’ and the visual depiction of this nontangible manifestation since his exploration of the annunciation in the Early Religious Works. See: Butler and Simmons, “’The Sound of Painting’,” 341. 78 Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 341-342. This is perhaps more readily apparent in older works such as Hail Mary, which Butler and Simmons use to exemplify their claim. Here, McCahon inserts the aforementioned salient feature of the white lilies alongside two images of Mary. Although mimesis of the flowers may be achieved, these objects are not actually physical features of the annunciation. They were not visible in this narrative. Rather, they are used to remind the viewer of purity, a concept too abstract to be depicted in an actual physical format. 79 Brown believes that the term ‘mysteries’ accepts that some phenomena cannot be simplified in the rational terms of external data. By employing a symbolic language, one may begin to better comprehend these difficult and complex aspects of Christian theology via references to forms identifiable to the senses. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 144. This is comparable to the views of Butler and Simmons. 80 McCahon in Centenary Collection, 11. 81 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 24. 82 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 29. 83 McCahon, “19 Painters & Their Favourite Works,” 396. 84 As an interesting side note, McCahon’s brother Jim was a nuclear scientist. See: O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 13. 85 McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.” Similarly, Barr feels that the Gate series is an expression of freedom, or lack thereof, in an era where individual liberties were threatened by global power struggles that were impossible to control or understand. See: Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery. 86 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 30.20 – 30.39. He did, however, join the New Zealand Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in 1961. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 121. 87 On this note, Curnow calls McCahon an “artist of apocalypse” who used painting as a means of conserving the good that society wished to destroy. See: Curnow, “Colin McCahon.” Congruently, Brown believes that his “primary quest” was to overcome human tyranny and convey divine redemption. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 45. 88 McCahon's friends and students explain his need to preach peace and avert disaster through painting. For example, Alexis Hunter learnt from him that “you have to see yourself as a social being in society and that you have responsibilities as an artist.” See: Alexis Hunter in Adam Gifford, “Feminist Art Buys A Fight,” New Zealand Herald, April 4, 2007, accessed May 25, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/entertainment/news/article.cfm?c_id=1501119&objecti d=10432382&pnum=0.

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Based on 1 Peter 3:10-11 He continued this theme with comparable works such as Venus and Re-Entry: The Bleeding Heart of Jesus is Seen Above Ahipara (1971). This piece incorporates McCahon’s themes of astronomical crafts in the form of transport or warfare. He refers to its content as “moon flights.” McCahon describes the image as a reflection of “the terrifying present we live in.” See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 37. Brown reads this terrifying present as one in which a loss of hope closes the gate that leads to the future, and thus prevents the coming of the Promised Land. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 209. McCahon’s first and second Gate series engage with this same correlation of technology and fear. They show a palpable sense of anxiety in the face of human destruction. 91 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 24. 92 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 13. 93 Therefore, Leonard places McCahon in the genre of “apocalyptic environmentalism.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 30. Similarly, Park describes his view of nuclear warfare as a symptom of a spiritual and psychological crisis of humanity mistreating ecology. He believes that McCahon sought to illuminate nature in a new way so as to fight against the Western desire to triumph over the wilderness. See: Park, “I Belong with the Wild Side of New Zealand,” 60. 94 Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” 1. 95 On this note, Green agrees that the ‘gate’ is the way through obstructions that slide around like plates. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 35. Askew feels that this gate becomes ever smaller, and will close if not moved through now. See: Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” 1. 96 Interestingly, literary allusions have been proposed. The model of the ‘gate’ can be read in very general terms, as seen in these examples. McNamara correlates McCahon’s Gate series with Blake’s ‘doors of perception.’ See: McNamara, “McCahon’s Answering Hark.” Blake writes: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite./For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narow chinks of his cavern.” See: William Blake, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” in The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake, ed. David V. Erdman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 39. Blake speaks of doors opening to increase the width of human perception. These expansive ideas fits well with the idea of a ‘gate’ and McCahon’s call to reform humanity. Askew likens McCahon’s gates to those leading to the Celestial Gate of Heaven in Pilgrim’s Progress. See: Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” 1. While these similarities may be accidental, they are useful to consider when examining McCahon’s intent. The artist hoped that he was able to enlighten and guide humanity towards a more peaceful, spiritual path. 97 Green believes they are a discussion of space in painting and possibilities of its representation. He explains, “they consist of dark blocks, obstructions, preventing a perception of depth; and spaces.” See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 34. 98 Notebooks available at E.H. McCormick Research Library, Auckland. His drawings include an abundance of ideas relating to light and darkness, and threedimensional sketches exemplifying these experimentations and lines of thought. 90

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McCahon [1979] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 124. McCahon, “19 Painters & Their Favourite Works,” 396. 101 McCahon, “19 Painters & Their Favourite Works,” 396. 102 Although the Second Gate Series is (evidently) described as a ‘series’, it is more useful to conceive of these images as one artwork than as discrete elements of a series. This viewpoint is supported by, for example, Jim Barr who believes that the Second Gate Series should be read as one work, running from left to right. See: Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery. Brown believes the title is confusing as the work is essentially single. He reports that McCahon agreed with him and wished to have the work renamed Gate II in order to suit the subsequent Gate III. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 5. 103 Imants Tillers has also created a large-scale work containing a Caselberg poem. Farewell to Reason (1996) has Caselberg’s “The Sound of the Morning” hidden within it. 104 Colin McCahon to John Caselberg [Aug. 1961] in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith, 197. 105 O’Brien believes that McCahon’s ‘order’ “paralleled that of Old Testament Christianity – a land permeated with darkness and light, suffering and redemption.” See: O’Brien, “The Dark Plane Leaves At Evening.” 106 For example, Barr emphasises the importance of the blank panels, comparing the experience walking past detailed then simplistic views to a stroll through nature where small details such as a tree or stream cause a “perceptual strain” when considering the landscape as a vast whole. See: Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery. 107 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 32. 108 McNamara calls it “an opening that leads to the light and the possibility of hope.” See: McNamara, “Sacrifice for Saintliness.” 109 This hopeful ending has led to readings that affirm the essential positivity of the artwork despite its negative elements. For example, North describes the second Gate series as apprehensive of death. He sees it as an exploration of nuclear annihilation described in Biblical terms. Nevertheless, he also believes it highlights a way past “humanity’s self-betrayal.” See: North, “In the Coil of Life’s Hunger,” 43. His conclusions are similar to those of Askew who feels that McCahon’s works often deal with the theme of total annihilation. He sees them as “projects for gravestones on the death of the world.” Askew, however, also believes that through the darkness McCahon presents “the expectation of something beyond.” See: Askew, “Colin McCahon’s Exhibition,” 1. 110 Caselberg notes their interplay and believes that the darkness is a call to change rather than a symbol of frightened defeat. See: Caselberg, “Retrospective,” 54. 111 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 184. 112 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 184. Brown feels that these angels are more akin to the Old Testament messengers of Yahweh than the innocent and sentimentalised versions popular in the modern imagination. 113 Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 232. 114 Colin McCahon Image Library Database, accessed June 10, 2011, 100

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 http://www.mccahon.co.nz/cm000042. 115 See: Simpson, Answering Hark, 87ff. 116 A similar image of water rushing through Gate motifs can be found in Floodgate 1 (1964-1965) and Floodgate 2 (1965). 117 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 32. 118 McCahon was attentive to the attributes of light. For example, he describes House in Trees, Titirangi as a work representing the November light of 1953. He states that the quality of the light remained a miracle and obsession in his later creativity. See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 22. The Waterfalls series is an example of this experimentation with illumination. 119 Brown, “Belief, Doubt, A Christian Message!,” 31. The luminous flame of Christ and the water of Mary featured as part of the gateway to The Promised Land (1948), and these elements appear again here. McCahon also makes a connection between waterfalls and divine power ascending from above. This is the same function Brown ascribed to angels in McCahon’s earlier body of work. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 1. 120 McCahon, 15 Drawings. 121 Indeed, Caselberg feels that McCahon’s waterfall symbols allude to the MƗori inter-relationship with the land. See: Caselberg, “Colin McCahon’s Panels,” 404. 122 The property of light as implied by the waterfall motif is further supported by McCahon’s comment to Brown in regard to the retirement of the series. He explained, “it was time the water stopped falling. The light needed to flow from another direction.” See: McCahon to Brown [1980] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 107. 123 See: McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 42. This connection was celebrated in the Exhibition ‘Cascades’ focusing on New Zealand landscape artworks influenced by Hodges. The exhibition was held from December 4, 2010 to February 27, 2011 at the Rotorua Museum of Art and History. Artists included McCahon, Hotere, Mark Adams and Christine Hellyar. 124 See, for example, Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification,” 56. 125 Colin McCahon Image Library Database, accessed June 6, 2011, http://www.mccahon.co.nz/cm001190. 126 Curnow agrees with the idea of interpreting doors as an important part of McCahon’s message. He sees them as a “threshold of transference.” See: Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 53. 127 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 14. 128 The comparison to Numerals has already been made. It also shares the carving of light from dark emphasised by the Waterfalls artworks. 129 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 33. 130 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 33. 131 See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 142. 132 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 33. 133 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 33.

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134 Tomory believes that in terms of composition and intent, Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian belongs with the Gate paintings. See: Peter Tomory, “Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian,” Auckland City Art Gallery Quarterly 31 (1964): 6. 135 Butler and Simmons state, “it is only after we see what is before us [the Gate motif] as an iconic figure and not an indexical stain that we can pass through it.” See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 345. By this they mean that faith in the presence of McCahon’s didactic symbols is the condition necessary to understand and learn from them. The Gate symbol as a geometric motif is not enough. It is the pathway to humanity’s betterment, which Butler and Simmons elegantly indicate, that is the ultimate reason for McCahon’s use of Mondrianesque rectangles. 136 Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 8. Comparatively, Tomory believes that McCahon represents a ‘way through’ in Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian via a triangular shaft of light in the central shape. He believes this is the same light that illuminates the horizons of McCahon’s more obviously naturalistic paintings. See: Tomory, “Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian,” 7. 137 Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 31. 138 Colin McCahon Keith, Constructing the Promised Land, 8. 139 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 38. A Mrkusich Daisy (1967) follows a similar theme of exploring a major artist via flowers. This too may have been an inspiration for Mondrian’s Chrysanthemum of 1908. Although it takes place in a different region, McCahon witnessed a dead whale being detonated (as a means of removing the corpse) at Manukau. This inspired artworks such as the Whale Beach series (1954) and should be considered when discussing beachside explosions. See: McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 8. 140 Carel Blotkamp, Mondrian: The Art of Destruction (London: Reaktion Books, 1994), 15. 141 Shaw makes this connection in A Song for Rua: Prophet. See: Shaw in Te Huringa/Turning Points, 82. 142 The title of this work is usually amended for the sake of correct spelling, although the inscription on the work reads: “MONDRIANS [sic] LAST CHRYSANTHAMUM [sic].” 143 O’Reilly argues that the paper and acrylic paints McCahon used in this artwork “expressed a vulnerability in appearance reflecting the content and motivations of his art … This coming together of material and subject is both direct and elegant in the extreme.”143 This choice of material allows the work to be simultaneously domineering and fragile, reflecting the tone of McCahon’s voice in the Cold War debate. See: O’Reilly, “Framing McCahon on Steinbach.” 144 Simpson correctly reminds us that “there is seldom a single layer of meaning in any McCahon painting.” He argues for the validity of an “existential and selfreferential reading” and states that the Scared paintings “are an expression of McCahon's feeling of spiritual anxiety and uncertainty” citing their painfully direct and even desperate messages.” See: Peter Simpson, “From ‘Sacred’ to ‘Scared’.”

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145 Brown provides a comparable analysis of McCahon’s communication problems with the Gate series (citing his own primary source responses) in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 129ff. 146 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 32. 147 This is a pseudonym chosen by the interviewee as a means of anonymity. It presumably derives from a character in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. 148 Anthony Blanche in Christine Robinson, “Paradoxical Performances of Subjectivities, Spaces and Art Gallery Postcards” (Master of Arts diss., The University of Waikato, 2007), 57. 149 Blanche in Robinson, “Paradoxical Performances of Subjectivities, Spaces and Art Gallery Postcards,” 57. A visit to Auckland Art Gallery in January of 2010 revealed that Visible Mysteries I continues to be sold in the art gallery shop. Images from the Elias and Gate series are also in abundance, most likely due to their bright, appealing colours and bold shapes. 150 Visible Mysteries I also appears on the cover of the Vincent O’Sullivan anthology Lucky Table, perhaps as an attempt to convey the title of the collection. See: Vincent O’Sullivan, Lucky Table (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2001). 151 Brown believes that his accidental obscurity is also of concern. He argues that McCahon used complex artistic conventions to imply his Gate symbol. Brown believes that McCahon borrowed from the overlapping shapes of Braque and Mondrian to create illusions similar to those of Celtic latticework. He also feels that Malevich was an inspiration for McCahon’s dark, tilting oblongs. Brown states that “[s]uch conceptual maneuvers were too sophisticated for most viewers to readily comprehend.” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 130. 152 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 131. 153 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 203. 154 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 203. 155 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 34. 156 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 35. 157 Hillary and Morgan, Beneath the Surface. 158 ‘Barnes’, January 28, 2009 (5:26 p.m.), comment on “Te Papa Pays $350,000 for McCahon,” The Dominion Post, November 28, 2008, accessed May 18, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/738709. The colours and layout are indeed similar. 159 Ben Worth, January 28, 2009 (5:26 p.m.), comment on “Te Papa Pays $350,000 for McCahon.” 160 ‘Johnboy’, November 30, 2008 (4.20 p.m.), comment on “Coddington on Film Commission,” Kiwiblog, November 30, 2008, accessed July 22, 2011, http://www.kiwiblog.co.nz/2008/11/coddington_on_film_commission.html. 161 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 27. 162 Mary Woodward [28 Sep. 62] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 121-122. 163 City Gallery Wellington, “The World Over: Art in the Age of Globalisation,” accessed June 10, 2011, http://citygallery.org.nz/TheWorldOver1.

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164 ‘jack’, “I Am Scared, I Stand Up by Colin McCahon,” ReviewStream.com, December, 2008, accessed November 22, 2010, http://www.reviewstream.com/revi ews/?p=52929. 165 Hamish Coney in “A Collector’s Items,” New Zealand Herald, May 30, 2008, accessed June 10, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id =6&objectid=10512955&pnum=0. 166 Young, “Colin McCahon.” 167 Dunn, “Modernism at the Medical School,” 86. 168 Tomory, “Here I Give Thanks to Mondrian,” 7. It is, however, important to remember that McCahon did not divorce his humanist message from Christian ethics and worldviews. 169 Gregory O’Brien, “No Dream But Life: James K. Baxter’s Spark to a Waiting Fuse and Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings – A Notebook, 19 December 2001,” Sport 28 (2002), accessed June 19, 2011, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/teiBa28Spo-t1-body-d12.html. 170 Gregory O’Brien, “A Teapot Containing Five or Six European Languages,” in News of the Swimmer Reaches Shore (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2007), 74. 171 She explains, “Colin McCahon talked a lot about Nelson light having special qualities and I've taken the liberty to give that particular time of the day that honour.” See: Anna Leary, “Hunter-Gatherer’s Art,” Nelson Mail, December 27, 2008, accessed May 17, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/nelson-mail/features/weeken d/my-nelson/776360. 172 Frizzell, It’s All About the Image, 16. 173 He mentions McCahon’s use of masking tape and household enamel in particular. See: Frizzell, It’s All About the Image, 16. 174 Stead, “Colin McCahon,” 88. 175 “Colin McCahon, Elias Triptych, 1959,” Good Church Design, April 18. 2011, accessed July 11, 2011, http://goodchurchdesign.blogspot.com/2010/12/colinmccahon-elias-triptych-1959.html. 176 Brasch [29 Jun. 70] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 32. 177 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 124.

CHAPTER TEN THE WORD PAINTINGS

McCahon’s Word Paintings are the outstanding feature of his latter-day career. They have earned him significant praise as a great innovator and notable criticism for upsetting notions of what paintings are and should be. They also provide some of McCahon’s most blatant personal statements about the role of the artist in society, and his wavering faith in God and humanity. Importantly, McCahon’s use of painted language was a technique geared towards direct and intimate communication with his audience. The increasing anxiety with which he employed this technique of direct speech reflects upon the schism between McCahon’s message and audience reception. The mounting tensions referenced in the Gate series were what drove McCahon to the realisation that “I will need words.”1 The text-based artworks reflect his ongoing drive towards clarity of expression, and aim to engage his audience in the discussion of scripture and a shared journey of faith. In order to negate perceived audience misunderstandings, these images are meant to be as direct and convincing as words on a blackboard or advertisements on the side of a road. The Word Paintings represent a period of McCahon’s career in which he became remarkably popular, and from which he gained a reputation as an important innovator within the trends of local and international art history.2 McCahon’s combination of the visual effects of painted script and the poetic resonance of language has been described as his biggest achievement.3 Nevertheless, despite the notoriety of the Word Paintings, McCahon still failed to incite a belief in the necessity of a peaceful, spiritual New Zealand. Many audience members identify the works as religious, and some describe awe in their presence. Regardless of this, McCahon’s pedagogic statements do not result in subsequent social action despite their clear pleas for audience engagement. Even with his attempts at clarity, McCahon’s art remains too obscure or too openly religious to excite change or spiritual understanding in the majority of his viewers. In contrast to his primary aim as a prophetic communicator of religious

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notions, McCahon was more successful in creating an original and influential artistic style. Although white calligraphy on a black canvas is associated with the late stages of McCahon’s career, his fascination for this style can be traced back to his childhood. As a young boy, McCahon observed a signwriter painting a shop window. He was especially moved by the separation of light and dark, describing the signwriter’s craft as “a new and magnificent world of painting.”4 Later he would come to call signwriting “a hobby of mine.”5 As previously explored, McCahon was also excited by roadside fruit signs and blackboards. Without sarcasm, he called his Northland drawings, presented on yellow cardboard with black ink, “about as visually splendid as road signs.”6 McCahon was similarly impressed by a local tradition of religious graffiti where Biblical slogans were painted on landforms, walls, and bridges. McCahon especially liked a stone outcrop near Rotorua, which was covered in painted quotes from the New Testament.7 The didactic potential of text was of particular interest for the artist. When visiting Matthew McCahon’s Grey Lynn schoolroom, McCahon was visually provoked by the chalkboards. He connected them to roadside advertisements painted in simple black and white.8 This need for a direct and pedagogical mode of communication came to dominate his artistic practice. Reflecting this, McCahon hung a sign, now known as McCahon Here (1972), from the gate of his Muriwai studio. This tongue-in-cheek embellishment positions McCahon as a made-to-order signwriter. Despite the satirical intent, this image helps to illuminate McCahon’s purposeful engagement with the creation of signs. Inspiration was also drawn from the artistic world, both from ‘high’ and ‘low’ sources. For example, from Tessai who aimed to enlighten and educate through the inscriptions to his art.9 Tessai was part of the late-Edo Bunjinga movement, in which painting and poetry were celebrated as vital cultural pursuits.10 McCahon’s experiments with text are roughly contemporaneous with that of overseas artists such as Hannah Hoch and Roy Lichtenstein.11 McCahon’s interaction with the signwriter remains the most compelling reason for his use of script and his eventual black and white palette. Comparatively, he traces his “glad acceptance” of Pop Art to his boyhood signwriting experiments.12 He was also inspired after watching Russell Clark draughting a design for a Kornies packet.13 Nevertheless, the artist did not aim to critique the emptiness of a consumerist society as Warhol did with his mimicry of Brillo soap pads.14 Although McCahon was influenced by a Rinso soap packet, a comparable commercial product, he was taken by its forthright legend and its “telling”

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compositional space.15 The appeal of this mass-produced item was in its ability to engage a viewer with information. McCahon’s use of text was oppositional to contemporaneous movements dealing with a critique on language.16 Typography explains and underpins the spiritual lessons in McCahon’s art, and provides a logical language by which his curriculum can be read.17 Although he employed words as what he calls “abstract parts of the design” within a painting, McCahon clearly states that this is in the service of allowing them “a new life of their own.”18 His artworks are serious and pedagogic religious pieces, akin to illuminated manuscripts. Indeed, ManeWheoki believes that McCahon’s text mirrors pre-Raphaelite religious art in that it detains the viewer and transforms the superficial act of ‘looking’ into the more profound act of “seeing, meditating, and reflecting.”19 McCahon’s words are meant to be clear, didactic, and bring out the internal logic of his artistic statement as a means of inspiring communication with the audience via an intersection of their visual and linguistic rhetoric. Words are also employed a means of scriptural interpretation and personalisation.20 This approach favours the intersection of the personal and universal, a recurrent feature of McCahon’s oeuvre. Pound claims that McCahon’s use of the Bible helps him to be a prophet rather than an individual in agony. It permits confession without embarrassment, and allows profundity that could have otherwise been lost in individualism.21 Similarly, Christina Barton sees quotation as a means of distancing the artist as the author of the work, and orienting it as a realm of multiple voices.22 While his chosen phrases almost always represent McCahon’s personal feelings and questions, they do so in a zone of shared, and thus more readily accessible, culture.23 McCahon’s desire to ‘reach out’ to his audience is also apparent in the way his words are visually crafted. Within his script lurk clues on how it is to be read and understood. Variations in boldness and case function as a rhetorical tool. As such, Turner believes that McCahon’s Practical Religion series reflects the text of The Preacher’s Bible, which used sections of bold or underlined words to assist in the oral delivery of sermons.24 McCahon’s script does indeed mimic this typesetting.25 Simmons uses this Word Painting series as an example of the way in which the material quality of McCahon’s paintings impacts upon the relationship between seeing and speaking. The position and figurative qualities of the words in the picture frame add to their meaning and allow for a tactile experience of voice.26 Through this semi-synaesthetic overlap of the aural and the visual, McCahon expands the limits of what the

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written word may offer to its reader. As indicated by its title, Practical Religion was intended as spirituality that could be used as opposed to passive sermons.27 As such, McCahon’s choice of Biblical translation is important. Pound thinks he may have shown preference for the ‘New English Translation’ of the Bible because it has a tone of more common speech.28 By mimicking these rhetorical choices, McCahon could speak directly and evocatively to his audience and maintain a presence and personal honesty within his art. As Butler and Simmons explain, McCahon’s use of language was aimed at creating statements that were more than just aesthetic features. They were intended to project out into the world.29 This notion of communication in addition to decoration is what makes McCahon’s images such powerful tools of visual rhetoric. His rhetorical choices regarding text should be considered in a similar manner. As should the intersection between the verbal and the visual created by McCahon’s deep consideration of the implications of his handwriting style. This rough and parochial stylisation of Biblical passages feeds into a discourse of authenticity and selfhood. Cues are taken from non-scriptural sources of inspiration such as “the artless, roughly painted roadside signs of market gardeners,” which Curnow believes he saw “as examples of the authentic hand.”30 McCahon mimicked these sources in order to speak to his audience humbly and directly.

On Poetry and Direction McCahon explained “[m]y painting is almost entirely autobiographical – it tells you where I am at any given time, where I am living and the direction that I am pointing in.”31 His statement is inspired by the 1969 Peter Hooper poem, ‘Poetry is for Peasants’, which reads: Poetry Isn’t in my words it’s in the direction I’m pointing32

Hooper is a vital character in the conception of McCahon as a poet/artist.33 McCahon and Hooper were friends, having met through the Woollaston family.34 Drawing from Hooper, McCahon positions poetry as an aim rather than a technique. It is a means of pointing towards the Promised Land and guiding one’s flock. He also asks that we do not differentiate him from traditional poets based on a definition of which artistic medium the written word ‘belongs’ in.35 Indeed, McCahon felt that painting could

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not exist without poetry.36 This symbiotic relationship is exemplified in the 1969 scrolls Poetry Isn’t In My Words, both of which quote Hooper in their inscriptions. Through these written images, McCahon suggests that the journey his artworks create is not necessarily palatable. He speaks of appalled audience members and a lack of understanding. Mocking this desire for ‘comfortable’ artworks, McCahon implies that people who want a “guided tour” avoid his images, as they will transform the right viewer to the extent that a “return ticket” to their previous selves is unavailable. McCahon shows a wry, self-conscious awareness of his audience and their common attitudes.37 The crayon-based Practical Religion series (1969) falls into the category of Written Paintings and Drawings. Green aptly describes the “poverty of means” employed in this series. Colours are limited; surfaces and edges are rough.38 This is a reflection of McCahon’s downplay of the ‘painter’s life’ and his opposition to grand framing as a means of making his works more direct and humble. Instead, he employs blank wallpaper stock as his canvas. These artworks use text from the Book of James and Hebrews to express some of McCahon’s beliefs and worries in his own script. Works such as My Brothers, Not Many Among You ... (James 3: Practical Religion) can be easily related to McCahon’s personal struggles. This piece speaks of the difficulties in being a teacher, including harsh judgements and the power of the tongue to create ideas much larger than itself. It is not difficult to correlate these concerns to McCahon’s deep desire to impart knowledge, and the rejections he so frequently met in response. There is some optimism in his claim that even large ships can be guided by a small rudder.39 Interestingly, Yule notes that the historical context of the Practical Religion artworks is often neglected: Unremarked by both art critics and theologians, Practical Religion and Young Man, I Say to You Arise were painted during the years when the nature and reality of the resurrection was being publicly debated throughout New Zealand. They are McCahon’s contribution to the debate, contemporaneous with the affirmation of Jesus’ resurrection by the Presbyterian Church and by two leading New Zealand theologians.40

Alongside his personal queries about Christ and the role of a prophet, McCahon shows awareness of broader theological discussion. The Practical Religion artworks aim to directly share the words of Christ and the implications of his supernatural gifts. For example, in Young Man, I Say to You Arise, the words of Christ have an instantaneous and

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miraculous effect. McCahon presents these actions without assistance from the Church so that his audience may hear an immediate and engaging story about the raising of the dead during a period of public theological questioning. Free from obtrusive framing, these scrolls reach out into the cultural context that spawned them. McCahon indicates important themes via empathic epizeuxis across his body of work. For example, McCahon painted the phrase ‘I AND THOU’ in 1954-1955, and again in 1969. This is a reference to the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber’s 1923 text of the same name.41 Showing a dialogue with his other works, I and Thou (1954-1955) emphasises the ‘I’ and ‘T’ symbols, with the ‘T’ strongly resembling his Tau/altar symbol. The I and Thou artworks reference Buber’s concept of God existing in reciprocal human relationships and the negotiation of ontological difference. He suggests that interpersonal connections lead us ultimately into a relationship with God.42 Obscurely, McCahon reminds us of his prophetic quest to relate “man to man and man to his world” via these images.43 A comparable work is Let Us Possess One World (1955), which quotes from ‘The Good-Morrow’ (1896) by John Donne. Including the phrase “thou and I” in its opening line, this love poem speaks metaphorically of creating a world through mutual adoration and the combination of hearts.44 These artworks show the human orientation of McCahon’s spiritual vision, and relate directly to the spirit of fraternity he hoped to inspire.45

The Noteworthy Phrase ‘I AM’ The phrase ‘I AM’ is a defining characteristic of many Word Paintings. McCahon takes his oft-employed phrase from the Jewish Tanakh, Exodus 3:14. When Moses asked God how he was to be identified to his people, he replied, “ehyeh ašer ehyeh,” which is commonly translated “I am that I am.” Like the prophets before him, McCahon attempts to annunciate an inexplicable God to his community.46 ‘I AM’ may also be read into a nationalist paradigm. Pound aptly suggests that McCahon’s ‘I’ could be “the ‘I’ which has finally learned to stand upright in New Zealand.”47 He relates this to the unreachable ‘I’ that Allen Curnow imagines in ‘The Skeleton of the Great Moa in the Canterbury Museum, Christchurch’, which reads: … Interesting failure to adapt on islands, Taller but not more fallen than I, who come Bone to his bone, peculiarly New Zealand’s. The eyes of children flicker round this tomb …

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This poem is generally read as a discourse of the Nationalist Movement in the search for an authentic localised selfhood that is yet to be obtained.49 Pound sees this hoped-for ‘I’ as a person who has adapted to this land: a person who proclaims the ‘I’ of nationhood, the ‘I’ of the New Zealand arts, and the self-constituting ‘I’ of God.50 Allen Curnow puts out the call for an ‘I’ who stands upright in a new nation, but phrases this as a future achievement.51 McCahon’s phraseology acts to construct identity in order to answer this challenge. It is a symbol of assertion and selfhood that links the nationalist quest, quite directly, with the word and answers of God. ‘I AM’ is visible for the first time in Kauri of December 1953, and is found in subsequent Kauri paintings like Kauri Trees. It appears quite overtly in I AM (1954). This artwork delivers its title statement in gigantic letters,52 and can be read as a grand and unyielding statement that declares the certain nature of God and being. Nevertheless, there is a strange confusion in its grandeur, brought on by McCahon’s eschewal of renaissance perspective. The bold declaration has illogical shading and vanishing points, evoking the simultaneous vantage points of Cubism. Pound reads these Cubist contradictions as a reference to “the very precariousness of any proper selfhood in a culture not as yet sufficiently formed.”53 This suggests that selfhood depicted is not necessarily that of God, and may be infused with the uncertainty of a colonial community. Indeed, it is useful to consider which self is indicated by the ‘I’. Clearly Yahweh is an allusion, but so too is the ‘I’ of the viewer and ‘I’ as the voice of McCahon.54 A viable reading is also the interconnectivity of all of creation and creators. I AM is perhaps a reference to the overwhelming power and physical transcendence of God, suggesting via confusing Cubist lettering that he is impossible to understand. It could also be read as an exploration of the logical impossibilities of his messages, implying that God does not always fit with the rules of the physical world. Perhaps this technique relates to the ultimate unrepresentability of the divine as understood by many in the Christian tradition. So too is it tempting to read this work through the nationalist framework of creating and asserting local identity. It is likely that all these readings are simultaneously applied, as McCahon was concerned with each of these issues. Practical Religion: The Resurrection of Lazarus Showing Mount Martha (1969-1970) enacts a journey featuring the ‘I AM’ motif.55 This artwork is created on a massive scale, in excess of two metres by eight.

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Taller than most viewers, this is truly an artwork to walk by. Unlike many of the text-based paintings, the landscape here is clearly apparent. Mount Martha refers both to the sister of Lazarus and a geological feature in the Otago region, forming a correlation between Biblical story and local landscape.56 This landscape journey is also structured and mediated by the presence of words within the scene. Phrases such as “LAZARUS IS DEAD” and “DO YOU BELIEVE THIS?” scream out at the viewer. The work starts with “he who journeys into the dark knows not where he is going.”57 The top corner of the piece is entirely unilluminated. ManeWheoki’s description of “funeral blackness” seems appropriate here.58 A brilliant white cloud emerges above “IAM THE RESURRECTION AND IAM THE LIFE” demonstrating the transcendent salvation of Christ within the Otago landscape. If walking from left to right, the viewer journeys from dark to light whilst surrounded by jabbering and suffocating Biblical text. Textural progression is present both in the narrative and in its visual representation, compelling the viewer to move.59 McCahon’s visual journey is structured in a manner than encourages his audience to question, and perhaps alter, their beliefs.60 It also reflects upon McCahon’s personal faith and annunciates his doubts. After reading the story of Lazarus he remarked: It hit me, BANG! at where I was: questions and answers, faith so simple and beautiful and doubts still pushing to somewhere else.61

This faith and doubt interplay is evoked via repetition of McCahon’s phrase and symbol ‘I AM’. McCahon writes of “a simple IAM at first. But not too simple really as the doubts come in here too. I believe but, I don’t believe.”62 This wavering faith is apparent. The work ends in an explosive burst of white light and the awakening of a dead man. Despite this, McCahon’s confession that he cannot quite believe the story dampens the triumph of this work and adds to the complexity of underlying doubt. McCahon evidently struggled to accept the supernatural resurrection of Lazarus. Of this artwork he writes, “[i]t is in one way a dismal failure and in another one of my best paintings yet. At least I had fun and discovered very much more about both Christ and Lazarus as well as the sisters.”63 Through this artwork and his research into Lazarus, McCahon was able to explore the Biblical resurrection of the dead: a manifestation of practical religion and divine mystery. Despite this, he could still not convince himself of the veracity of the story. The associated work Victory Over Death 264 (1970) is an iconic part of McCahon’s oeuvre. It is perhaps his most famous and recognisable painting. It is also a crucial artwork in the study of McCahon’s faith and

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doubt as expressed through writing. This painting is a summary of multiple tropes within McCahon’s body of work and annunciates his relationship with Christ, his audience, and his own belief. Victory Over Death 2 references the mythology of John 12 where Christ foresees his death upon the cross after raising Lazarus from the tomb. In this story, a crowd gather around Jesus and ask whom the Son of Man is, showing doubt and ignorance. Jesus advises the crowd that they will have the light with them just a little while longer, and to walk in it while such an act is possible, as darkness creates a lack of direction. He then hides himself away.65 Again, the scale of the artwork indicates the way in which it is to be experienced.66 It is a landscape of a canvas that one must journey across.67 The Biblical text selected mentions walking as a metaphor for human life and development. The use of black and white is symbolically important to this journey. Jesus is correlated to leadership and brightness, with his absence marking darkness and disorientation. McCahon writes: He who journeys in the dark does not know where he is going.

This statement brings together many of McCahon’s themes. It relates to spiritual blindness and artistic direction.68 The white text functions as words on a blackboard – an opening of blind eyes with the light.69 This same illuminating light marks out direction for the viewer as they read from left to right, and direction for McCahon in terms of his spiritual and artistic journey.70 There is a resonance with McCahon’s life as a doubting artist/prophet in the Biblical narrative he references. In this story from the book of John, Christ makes himself a recluse. He is unable to deal with the crowd amidst his own sadness and confusion. McCahon may have enjoyed this reference to the enigmatic and secluded side of the prophet. Christ’s audience are unenlightened and demand answers, seeming unsatisfied with the information they have been given. This story empathises with the need for a teacher to hide away from such ignorance. He is not arrogant, but simply weary and dealing with problems of his own. The Christ in this story is a man who speaks to God for the sake of those around him and tries to warn them of an oncoming darkness. McCahon and Christ share this journey of doubt and prophecy along with the viewer of the artwork. The artwork is

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intended to show the overcoming of personal doubt in each individual’s faith, rather than Christ’s struggles exclusively. The domineering phrase ‘I AM’ is spelled out in gigantic luminous letters, overshadowing the narrative surrounding it. Again, there is a meaningful conflation of identities concerning the ‘I’. For example, Paton observes the letter ‘I’ striking the artwork like the voice of God.71 McCahon also creates an intimate relationship between himself, Christ, and the audience, comparable to that intended by the placement of the Passion on New Zealand soil. Nevertheless, questions have been raised as to whether McCahon depicts an ultimate statement of spiritual triumph and pride in selfhood, or whether this image is a confession of uncertainty. Victory Over Death 2 sits on the cusp of doubt and faith. Some viewers have considered the symbol to be inherently positive, affirming life, confidence, and the identity of God.72 Others note lingering uncertainties,73 whilst some see darkness and menace within the work.74 The doubt engendered by the ‘I AM’ is epitomised in its shadowy double. A black ‘AM’ resides next to the brilliant ‘I AM’, seeming to ask the question ‘AM I?’.75 The artwork’s title proclaims the ultimate victory, yet elements of ambiguity cloud any conclusion of positivity that could be reached. The relative luminosity of McCahon’s lettering can usually be taken as an indication of certainty.76 As part of this emotive spectrum, his darkest lettering reflects the faith that has been lost. Questions may also be posed over what McCahon means by ‘death’ and ‘victory’. McCahon’s ‘death’ has been seen as a motivation for love and communitas,77 and as a motif of uncertainty that leads to the embrace of life.78 Death and victory have been presented as comments on the individual overcoming obstacles.79 While God is victorious over physical death, so too can the viewer be victorious over spiritual death via the illumination of Christ as expressed in the glowing ‘I AM’. The actual location of death and victory has also been questioned. North suggests the artwork deals with overcoming spiritual death in this life as much as it does with eternal life.80 The death mentioned in the title can be seen as the death of the spiritual self, not simply Christ’s conquering of Lazarus’s death and his own. Yet there is no clear solution as to whether or not Victory Over Death 2 is affirming or despairing in regard to the conquering of death and doubt. The artwork is a cyclical journey that reflects an ongoing negotiation of faith with no finite or enduring conclusion. This makes the conquering of doubt ritualistic and endless. Viewing the artwork as an ongoing journey resolves the tension between faith and doubt. McCahon does not seek to offer an ultimate conclusion, but rather to engage with the

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redemption of faith and the resurgence of doubt across a lifetime and in many contexts. In the latter half of 1970, McCahon painted Gate III. Again, McCahon presents a painting to be walked by: a landscape of words and a sequential journey almost eleven metres long.81 Quoting from the same sources as The Second Gate Series, McCahon presents a vision of destruction and potential redemption through God.82 The spiritual journey depicted is embedded in the particular social context of the Cold War.83 In keeping with this suggestion of destruction, the initial, dark panel contextualises the blackness of the artwork as “this dark night of Western civilisation.” The brown earth glows beneath a black sky. This presence of menace has been read as a despondent cry and the foreboding before a storm.84 Nevertheless, McCahon petitions God to teach us right action so “that we may enter the gate of wisdom.” On the other side of ‘I AM’ the sky is bright. The concluding remarks of the image are the oft-employed phrase “as there is a constant flow of light we are born into a pure land,” repeated twice.85 This symbol represents the spiritually illuminating qualities of God and the formation of a pure and blessed land through the cessation of chaos and warfare under his guidance.86 It is, therefore, a gate to the Promised Land.87 Gate III emphasises God and Christ as the key to the gateway, attempting to solidify the themes introduced in his Gate artworks (most of which were completed almost a decade before this piece). The moral lesson of this artwork mirrors McCahon’s assertion that happiness, human brotherhood, and a realisation of the futility of war are all linked to a belief in God.88 McCahon’s text-based picture presents his audience with a practical lesson based on a simple case of cause and effect. The work is instructional and looks towards the creation of a better society via spiritual transformation.89

Toward the Final Paintings McCahon’s annunciation of doubt grew more pronounced as he reached the end of his career. The following artworks should be viewed as a lead up to this depressing conclusion. O’Brien aptly describes storm, fog, and encroaching darkness as the central visual metaphors of McCahon’s late oeuvre.90 The following images can be read retrospectively as the ‘beginning of the end’. McCahon’s 1979 artworks, A Letter to Hebrews [Rain in Northland], and A Letter to Hebrews provide a blueprint for the style of his last text-based paintings.91 The latter bridges the gap between

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the 1969 ‘scroll’ artworks and the dark nineteen-eighties paintings of simple white on black.92 Rain in Northland is painted on six sheets of unmounted paper. Although text is the dominant feature, one may observe a background image of a storm. The monochromatic artwork is divided into six individual landscapes, growing increasingly abstract as the text progresses. Panel one makes it clear that black oblongs are representative of landscape, be it sea or earth. Brown sees the rectangles as waves that emerged from the Cubist influences of the French Bay paintings. He believes the long, grey oblongs—often located at the bottom of the panels—are shadows from the clouds.93 They may also be a reference to Muriwai beach, which contains black, iron-rich sand. McCahon’s Biblical text is to be read through the Northland rain, blurred by water damage. Portions of the ink fade and bleed into the background creating a wet, tangible sensation via the grey shading of the deluge. McCahon constructs a tactile and dynamic viewing experience. Bullen explains how Rain in Northland combines picture and text in manner that exemplifies the content of the work. When viewed from a distance on a gallery wall, one is initially confronted by a watery, grey blur. On closer inspection the text rears out reading “so that the visible came forth from the invisible,” one of the first sentences absorbed when the work is read in its correct order.94 To view the piece in its entirety, one must come in close to absorb fine detail and step back for a sense of the whole. Bullen compares this process to the dynamic prayer by Jerusalem’s Wailing Wall.95 Travelling across the written component of the work takes the eye through shifting patterns of rain and atmospheric space. McCahon takes us on a journey through Hebrews, a squall in Northland, and the symbolic transition from overt landscape imagery to implicit landscape imagery as the work progresses. Rain in Northland and A Letter to Hebrews are dominated by large tracts of Biblically inspired text96 based on The New English Bible translations.97 After suffering from bouts of depression, McCahon’s friend Ian Prior found solace in Hebrews and its notions of faith and self-esteem. He referred McCahon to the text and suggested a painting based upon its themes.98 The subsequent Rain in Northland quotes from Hebrews 11, which provides a history of notable early Jews such as Abel and Noah, outlining the benefits that a faith in God brought to them. It discusses fear, tiredness, and suffering as a result of God’s plans but reiterates the happiness, glory, and bounty that come as reward. McCahon draws particular attention to the phrase “By Faith,” which is oft repeated. It is fairly easy to find resonance between McCahon’s personal experiences

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and this Biblical chapter.99 Its original audience were those who wondered about the role of Christ as Messiah and the problems of conversion between Jews and Gentiles. The author assures his audience that they must not abandon Christianity. This issue of faith was paramount to McCahon. He repeats the phrase “[t]hose who use such language show plainly that they are looking for a country of their own.” In the context of Hebrews, this refers to those who died in faith without yet receiving their rewards. Despite this, these individuals were happy because they looked beyond death to the City of God. They are described as “strangers or passing travellers on earth.” McCahon obviously found this concept to be of importance. As someone who felt culturally isolated and sought to bring about the Promised Land, the idea of a country of his own would have been appealing to McCahon. Perhaps he enjoyed the promise of posthumous delights for those who were denied the bounty on Earth. This notion also ties into the discourse of colonialism and cultural identity.100 Nevertheless, alongside creation are themes of destruction. The theme of rain brings special attention to Noah, the Flood, and the potential obliteration of humanity.101 Considering this uncomfortable theme, it is also interesting to ponder the implied mood of the artwork. This squall could be a conscious precursor to the unrelenting darkness and destruction of Storm Warning, commenced in the following year.102 So too could McCahon show us sunbeams as a sign of future hope and betterment. The tone of McCahon’s paintings and the amount of optimism contained therein is an excellent indication of his feelings as a prophet, and his faith in the power of God and the redemption of society.103 The wet landscape is mutable, as is the level of hope it may contain.104 Despite this, the positivity inherent in the sunlight breaking through the clouds is obvious.105 Like the sun after the Biblical Flood, McCahon’s beams of light reassure us that the storm is fleeting. Bullen illuminates a theme of promise within the work. He connects “the ark of the covenant that is both God’s word in Hebrews and the rainy landscape in Northland.”106 Adding to this possible reading, Brown notes how the light and its reflections in the top right-hand panel create a Tau.107 Again, McCahon uses the natural environment to describe his philosophy of spiritual illumination, darkness, and the interplay of both forces. These vacillating conditions of divine destruction and salvation are present in the Biblical Flood mythology in which God both sends the rain and brings the light. In McCahon’s vision, the rain brings darkness, but also rejuvenates the land. Although this work is a discourse on suffering, McCahon has not yet committed to an entirely bleak worldview.108

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A Letter to Hebrews was painted one month after Rain in Northland. Despite this, it shows some notable stylistic differences. It is painted in acrylic, not ink on paper. McCahon also uses a white on black style of text, similar to that of Teaching Aids. This shift is a means of emphasising the didactic value of his chosen text, which is more easily (and incorrectly) perceived as decorative when given in its scroll form. This ‘words on a blackboard’ format emphasises the need to read and absorb the writing therein as a serious spiritual lesson. The text from Hebrews refers to figures of the Old Testament such as Abel, Cain, Enoch, and Noah.109 The salient feature is the Tau, a symbol that bridges the two halves of the Christian Bible and emphasises the relationship between God and humanity. Clearly, this was an increasingly problematic field for the artist. As such, Brown describes A Letter to Hebrews as a great burden to McCahon over the years.110 This is a different reaction to Prior who gained such great solace from the scriptural text. McCahon’s subsequent paintings suggest that he was unable to convince himself of the rewards of faith. A Painting For Uncle Frank (1980) depicts McCahon’s ruminations on faith and the strength (or weakness) of his spiritual conviction. The dedication is to Frank Tosswill, Toss Woollaston’s uncle and member of the Oxford Group. The Woollaston/Tosswill family were fundamentalist, puritanical Christians.111 Keith believes that Tosswill stimulated McCahon’s interest in religious art “mainly through irritation rather than through any more positive influence.”112 Nevertheless, McCahon was intrigued by the naïve paintings of rainbows and rudimentary Christian symbols that ‘Uncle Frank’ insisted on displaying in Woollaston’s house.113 Barnett believes Tosswill “tolerated” McCahon “only as a potential convert.”114 Despite this, his message was temporarily effective for the two artists. At one point, McCahon and Wollaston made a “prayer-like pact … to live according to the conception of Jesus Christ’s requirements, as Frank dispensed them.”115 The tall and commanding Mount Egmont (or Mount Taranaki)—linked with Mount Zion—reflects Uncle Frank’s staunch and unyielding faith. The small, round mountain is representative of McCahon’s less domineering belief. The text, taken again from Hebrews, states that one must not refuse to hear the voice of God. It suggests that a person must be in awe of his power and his ability to endure beyond what he creates. The text claims that even the foundations of the earth will pass away and be folded up by God like a cloak. By using this material, McCahon suggests that God is older and greater than Mount Egmont and Mount Zion, and thus older and greater than even the powerful faith of Frank Tosswill.

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McCahon’s hill is labelled as ‘AHIPARA’, a reminder of the Walk series, which is set in the same location. McCahon inserts the potentially morbid phrase “ahipara—here I come back home where I started from.” His starting point can be viewed as a painter of local landscape. The end point could indeed be a reference to the reappearance of the New Zealand hills in this artwork. But Ahipara is also the starting point of the procession of the dead as they walk to Cape Reinga. McCahon’s mention of a ‘return’ may be to something more morbid than a return to the motif of hills or a return to doubt. His degenerative illness would soon put an end to his painting career, and he did not survive the end of the decade.

Audience Reactions McCahon’s words are a clear plea for audience engagement. His artworks present moral lessons, Biblical statements, and ruminations on faith. Due to the scriptural origin of McCahon’s chosen tracts, many reactions to his works are oriented towards religion and faith and pay attention most strongly to his linguistic rhetoric. For example, Oliver Stead states that McCahon’s painted texts “hang like liturgies in the great spaces of their landscapes.”116 Bullen reads McCahon’s written signage as a powerful, spiritual force: “It comes as a confronting gift: we sense our inadequacy before it; we undergo an annunciation.”117 Johnson feels that McCahon’s attitude towards the signwriter bestows upon him “an almost ecclesiastical role.”118 Bullen describes the artist as “God’s sign writer.”119 Arryn Snowball writes of his “biblical scrawl.”120 Theological blogger ‘Onesimus’, who was left “trembling and too emotional to speak” after seeing Victory Over Death 2, writes bitterly of the comic mocking this artwork after its presentation to the Australian government.121 Employing Biblical language to describe the depth of his feelings, ‘Onesimus’ confessed “I felt like a third Boanerges, wanting to call down fire from heaven in judgement.”122 Many respondents also speak of a personal spiritual connection with McCahon and his art. For example, Babington describes McCahon’s text as a stylistic device evocative of intimate confession.123 Buchanan describes the artist as a prophet of “eccentric faith,” sharing with her personal slogans via his use of “scavenged text fragments—biblical, poetic, colloquial, MƗori and English.”124 This connection is also evident in the creative practices of McCahon’s artistic audience. Burgess exclaims “[m]y scribblings make much use of the Scriptures, to reflect and explore my lack of faith, so it's a bit like, ‘Colin, you understand me’ as much as the other way around.”125 J.C. Sturm has also been influenced in terms of

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her practice as a poet. In the text ‘At A Colin McCahon Exhibition’ she writes: Thank you. At last is seen what should have been seen before: art is language, artist, translator.126

Indeed, there is a perception of McCahon as something ‘more’ than a regular artist.127 Here, ‘prophet’ is an appropriate term. These responses carry on a religiously influenced dialogue with McCahon. Nevertheless, they do not result in the tangible social action that he desired. Interestingly, The issues of hanging, context, and the ‘proper’ place of McCahon’s word art are contentious due to the perception of his images as spiritual objects. Representing their inspirational use in a domestic context, Geering hung prints of the artworks reading ‘I and THOU’ and ‘I AM’ on his ‘chief spiritual influence study wall’, placed alongside a Greek icon of Christ as teacher, images of the Buddha, and a menorah.128 The Christian commentators Yule, Stuart, and Mossman all draw attention to the need for McCahon’s ‘I AM’ artworks to be placed in a religious context. Stuart confesses that he wants Victory Over Death 2 and the other ‘I AM’ paintings placed permanently in St Paul’s Cathedral in Wellington.129 The hanging of Gate III at Victoria University surprised Yule and Mossman who believe it conflicts with the secular values of the institution. Yule writes, “I was amazed that Victoria University should have put on public display a work of art so dissonant with its values.”130 Showing a somewhat different perspective, Mossman states: The painting is now very appropriately exhibited at the Adam Art Gallery within Victoria University, a university with a very radical and secularist tradition. We say ‘appropriately’, because the whole picture is itself a profoundly counter-cultural statement, challenging that secularist tradition also, and asserting the disturbing presence of the eternal God and the life only He can give.131

Yule agrees with Mossman’s reading of the artwork as a piece of counterculture “not unlike the ‘turn or burn’ preaching of the Jesus People movement with which it is contemporary—warning that our secular, materialistic society will destroy itself, unless we humble ourselves.”132

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Both commentators see the work as a radical call to personal transformation along Christian lines. Yule was disappointed when Victoria University removed the artwork from public view and donated it to a gallery. He views this as an act of domestication and deconstruction, positioning the image where it can be critiqued as if it were any other work of modern art. He sees this as an improper approach to its immediate spiritual message, and reminds us of McCahon’s complaint that “[o]nce the painter was making signs and symbols for people to live by: now he makes things to hang on walls at exhibitions.”133 These commentators see Gate III as something more meaningful and socially important than an item of secular commerce. Conversely, the writer Joe Bennett—who claims to distrust all belief and things ending in ‘ism’134—proposes that the high prices assigned to McCahon’s iconic text paintings are what make them objects of wonder and awe. This certainly needs to be considered as part of their rhetorical context. Te Papa made headlines after purchasing A Painting for Uncle Frank for $1.78 million in 2000.135 Recounting his visit to Te Papa after the publicised purchase, Bennett writes: None of the patrons stayed long. They moved on in search of interactivity. But that didn’t matter a jot. They had sought out the canvas, been confused by it, disappointed by it, but at the same time touched by wonder. For here hangs the glory that is art. Here hangs mystery. The people cannot understand how it can be worth so much money. And however much they may gasp with derision, they are delighted by their own incomprehension. A Painting for Uncle Frank offers something rare in our secular world, a glimpse of something beyond our ken, as baffling as a godhead, wondrously expensive and apparently useless. Had the painting been worth nothing the public would have done no more than glance at it. What matters is not whether the painting is worth the money, but that someone believes that it is. When the price is vast, the aura grows.136

Bennet’s description of the artwork colours it as something beyond comprehension and utility. Like Yule, Stuart, and Mossman, he suggests that it is a striking piece for the secular world. Although they disagree on whether McCahon’s art is priceless or overpriced, there is a strange convergence of opinion in the aforementioned passages: McCahon’s Word Paintings have a powerful, mysterious presence. This presence has even been the driving force behind entire exhibitions. Te Manawa curator Sian van Dyk was so inspired by her experience with A Painting for Uncle Frank at Te Papa at age sixteen that she eventually assembled the secular exhibition ‘Txt: The Written Word in New Zealand Art’ (2010) in order to explore the meaning and motivation

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behind the use of writing in local art. Van Dyk believes that “understanding of these words is what makes us a group of New Zealanders, and binds us together.”137 Again, McCahon’s tangible impact upon national identity may be observed in this statement.138 McCahon’s Word Paintings also work as powerful tools for the establishment of personal identity. For example, entertainment blogger Sam Cruickshank relates McCahon’s Victory Over Death artworks to the hero trope of Hollywood films. He explains: I personally like the work, because in the construction of Hollywood heroes for the screen—the best heroes are made, when they overcome fear and conquer death in order for others to live. Hot! Death lives in fear (false evidence appearing real) and a leader always looks past any threat and walks straight through it in order to win. Special thanks to Colin McCahon for that reminder.139

Cruickshank claims, “[b]ecause Hollywood is full of mirages in a smoke and mirrors town, I love this painting. McCahon says, I Am Victory over the enemy of my dream.”140 This unorthodox reading applies McCahon’s imagery to a very personal situation and set of interests. Victory Over Death 2 empowers Cruickshank and reminds him of an important moral code. Cruickshank also draws a connection between Muhammad Ali’s declaration “I am the greatest,” Beyoncé Knowles’ ebonic use of ‘I am’ as abbreviation of ‘I America’, and McCahon’s famous symbol. He believes that McCahon used this statement to “declare and define his identity.”141 Cruickshank is personally affected by this correlation as a self-identified “Kiwi American-MƗori.” McCahon’s rhetoric allows him to bridge multiple facets of his identity.142 McCahon’s Word Paintings have, unsurprisingly, been the target of a substantial amount of negative reactions. The artist anticipated problems with his scrolls, and was concerned that they may be perceived as too literary or lacking in artistic merit.143 This prediction was accurate in regard to the Word Paintings as a whole. His black and white paintings are described by Coley as “moving, troubling.”144 Skinner suggests that his use of text makes for “powerful works, strange and unsettling.”145 These comments are not meant in a negative manner, but do highlight the disquieting and potentially worrisome emotions evoked by McCahon’s text. Many audience members are bored or offended by the overt Christianity in these images. One internet commentator admitted “I personally am not a fan of McCahon myself, no thanks to many luke warm [sic], oxygen deprived lectures, unconscious and drooling on exercise

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sheets filled with biblical phrases.”146 The written artworks are commonly associated with dull scripture lessons and forced engagement with Christianity. Here we may observe the common problem with McCahon’s Christian message. This tradition is easy to observe within these paintings as a result of a general familiarity with Biblical language, phrases, and narratives in New Zealand culture. As such, it is possible to feel offended or marginalised by a perceived intrusion of this faith, as expressed above. Nevertheless, McCahon’s particular theology is complex and abstruse, meaning that a broad understanding of Christianity is not enough for the level of comprehension he required from his audience. Although his religious affiliations may be apparent—and thus potentially problematic— McCahon’s very particular message is hard to understand. Further complicating the issue, many Christian viewers do not relate to the particular version of this faith that McCahon presents. McCahon’s Word Paintings have been viewed as detractingly distant from the church and the lived experience of a Christian. Nelson epitomises this attitude with his complaint: There’s so much drama in the Bible and so little in McCahon: he visits his paintings with holy grabs. It’s the apotheosis of the snippet.147

Nelson complains that McCahon’s large, abstracted pieces draw from a “narrow range of formal resources,” which match “the narrow range of spiritual sentiment” they express. He believes that McCahon’s paintings are just “lots of words” in art that “doesn’t sing, but mutters incantations, as if they’re stuck in the mind by obsession and rehearsed compulsively.”148 Nelson feels that McCahon’s detachment from formal religious structures is appropriate for his epoch, but complains that real religious experience relies upon institutional authority. Because of McCahon’s use of scriptural text without clerical mediation, Nelson proclaims his artworks as “religion in denial of its roots.”149 Dave Homewood’s response to McCahon’s Word Paintings includes many common secular criticisms. Homewood refers to McCahon as overrated, and suggests that modern art appreciation is too reliant on selfimportant art critics as opposed to genuine talent: Colin McCahon’s work is so highly over rated it’s beyond belief. I saw something he did in the Waikato Musuem [sic] which consisted of a big bit of board he’d painted black with a roller, then written what I thought were mad man rantings all over with a silver pen. I was recently informed the rantings were quoted form [sic] the bible so he even plagurised [sic] half

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the ‘work’. It was estimated at over $1million. I told me friend who’s a properly trained modern artist who now lectures in the subject what i thought of McCahon, and how I could do better in my shed in an afternoon. His reaction was “Why don’t you? It worked for him” Modern art is not about the work, it’s how much the smug gits that review the work want to talk it up. Very little of it has any aesthetic value. Give me a proper painting (ie aviation art or landscapes) any day.150

Text-based artworks have been perceived as detraction from McCahon’s more popular landscape content. As is typical with avant-garde innovation, his strikingly original use of text sparked controversy. For example, Woollaston’s review of the 1959 Northland series debut at Cashel Street Gallery states that McCahon’s painted words caused the biggest argument of the show.151 This reaction seems excessive, as they are not nearly so domineering in this series as they would one day become. Woollaston suggests that viewers wanted to “lay down rules” about the appearance of words.152 In this same time period, Brasch wrote in his journal, “it seems a defeat of painting to have to use words to convey meaning which the painter cannot find images for.”153 He found The Wake to be a “failure,” blaming this on McCahon’s “ugly & crude” calligraphy, and called the text-based artworks “wild bad work.”154 This issue of how and when text should be employed is an ongoing concern. Brown explains that McCahon’s creation of a common bond between visual images and word descriptions “appeared to many as a gross distortion of the intrinsic purity that properly belonged to painting as a distinct form of art.”155 He describes McCahon’s use of words as a “stumbling block” for his audience and claims, “while his work was often praised, it was done so with almost apologetic reservations.”156 Although many of these complaints belong in the era Caselberg mentions above, they are still present in contemporary criticism of McCahon. In addition to this, the perceived ugliness of McCahon’s script is problematic and is often considered to be a weakness of expression of painterly skill. One present-day responder confesses “[w]hen I view a painting I just take it at face value, so to me the McCahon paintings look like scruffy handwriting done by a child.”157 He asks why such a simplistic device spawns artworks worth millions of dollars.158 Echoing Fairburn’s ‘graffiti’ complaint, a modern forum participant quipped “I have seen better art on street corners made by glue sniffers with spray cans.”159 Conversely, modern-day scholars can be suspicious of the high praise awarded to these groundbreaking images. For example, Reid describes I

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and Thou as “hamfisted.”160 He states that “[n]o amount of intellectual cant, vocabulary evacuations and obfuscation prevalent in the world of writing about art rehabilitates such work for me.”161 In his prizewinning student essay on Gate III, Dougal McNeill complained: “[t]his tight-lipped seriousness of spiritual angst and subjectivity wracked over untold pains is, of course, the easiest thing in the world to parody.”162 Its dramatic assertion of faith is taken as excessive for a secular audience. McNeill sees the work as pompous and worthy of resentment due to the similarities between it and “the shopworn spiritual excess the modernists tore their hearts out over.”163 He describes it as an embarrassing and laboured painting, self-indulgent and dated.164 Pondering his latter-day Word Paintings, Cartwright believes that McCahon “more often than not, proved to be a poor painter.”165 He calls his engagement with modernism “uncomfortable” and blames cheap sherry for increasing messiness in McCahon’s output. Cartwright argues that the “solemn beauty and gravitas” of his earlier works was exchanged for “sloppy abstractions” that “reflect only a drunk at the easel.”166 Praise of McCahon’s brilliance has become so ingrained in present-day art theory and New Zealand culture as to spawn these revisionist critical accounts.

Conclusion McCahon did not intend to cause such controversy over pomposity or style. He clearly states that his use of words was a means of communicating solutions to crises of human society during the Cold War and beyond. McCahon was not focused on the innovation of formalist techniques for their own sake, thus did not perceive the excited debate around his written paintings as a success. McCahon’s Word Paintings are intended as direct statements about Christianity, the role of the artist in society, and a dialogue on faith. His medium is secondary to the message. The former was invented only as a means of giving the latter a clearer voice. The artist would have been more impressed by the religious reactions to his work than he was by critical controversy surrounding his bold and original use of text. McCahon saw himself as a poet/prophet, not just because of his employment of language, but because he conceived of prophets as builders and innovators in the service of society. McCahon’s words are both personal and universal, designed to explore his own questions of faith and to help his audience with theirs. McCahon’s ideas and techniques are generally noted as spiritually oriented, but this spirituality is not necessarily absorbed. This is clearly problematic in terms of McCahon’s prophetic intentions with his visual

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rhetoric. The Word Paintings employ the resurrection of Lazarus and Christ as a way of contending with issues of faith in the impossible. McCahon’s work with Hebrews reveals a fixation on the rewards of faith and patience, and suggests that he may have experienced difficulty with both as his confidence in social transformation and a future of peaceful fraternity faltered. McCahon struggled to engage his audience in a serious consideration of Christianity, and, at the same time, struggled to convince himself of the goodness and omnipotence of God. These latter-day artworks show a profound loss of faith and confidence the outcome of his prophetic journey and the power of divinity. Although the illumination of Christ is an uplifting symbol, many of these images depict journeys through darkness and storms that overwhelm the light.

Notes  1

McCahon to Caselberg [Aug. 1961] in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith, 197. For example, Browne feels that “[t]he works with text on are the kinds of works that McCahon is renowned for beyond New Zealand. Internationally, that’s where his importance lies.” See: Martin Browne in Michael Fox, “McCahon Set for Second Record,” Stuff.co.nz, August 13, 2009, accessed September 14, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/arts/2746353/McCahon-set-for-second-recor d. Fuchs and Bloem ardently agree that these works “show him at his most original and authentic.” See: Fuchs and Bloem, preface, 9. 3 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 4 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 361. 5 McCahon to Brasch [24 Apr. 49] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 21. Hints of this interest are scattered throughout McCahon’s body of work. Michael Jackson sees many of McCahon’s subsequent images as “a series of essays that return continually to that iconic window of plate glass in which the gold, black, and ruby lettering overlay shadowy hills and clouds lying beyond the town and the street.” See: Michael Jackson, The Palm at the End of the Mind: Relatedness, Religiosity, and the Real (Durham: Duke University Press, 2009), 66. McCahon experienced the same sensation of carving the darkness with white while creating the Waterfall Triptych of 1964. See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 31. Light transcending through shadow is a major theme of the 1971 Days and Nights series to name but a few examples. 6 McCahon, “All the Paintings, Drawing & Prints,” 11. Despite statements of this nature, William McCahon feels that his father only claimed influence from the calligraphy of roadside stalls because his audience pestered him for sources. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 36. 7 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 36. 8 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 52.27 – 53.05. 2

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See, for example, O’Reilly, introduction to Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 14-15. Congruently, McIvor remembers McCahon’s enthusiasm for the “calligraphic brush stroke” upon his return from the United States. See: McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 80. Turner also proposes Hans Richter as an influence for McCahon’s scrolls. See: Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 221. Experiments with light and shape can be partially credited to his fascination with weaving under the supervision of Ilse von Randow. See: Douglass Lloyd-Jenkins, “Weaving Light: Ilse von Randow and Colin McCahon,” Art New Zealand 94 (2000): 77. 10 Larking, “Reticence Despite Ratification,” 49. 11 For example, those connected to Dada such as Kurt Schwitters and Hannah Hoch placed text within their collage. The Fluxus group are also known for their text-based artworks. Roy Lichtenstein is an obvious proponent of the comic book style of text in high art. Pop Art draws from the style and vernacular of advertisements, as did McCahon. Nevertheless, Keith was particularly upset by a London critic who apparently noticed “influences of Pop” in McCahon’s art. He calls this “a sad commentary on the isolation of New Zealand painting.” See: Keith, introduction to Eight New Zealand Artists. 12 McCahon, “Beginnings,” 361. 13 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 8. 14 As Butler and Simmons argue, McCahon did not want his spectators to respond to his language in an ironic or “second hand way.” See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 339. 15 Colin McCahon to Rodney Kennedy [1947] in Colin McCahon: Gates and Journeys (Auckland: Auckland City Art Gallery, 1988), 77. 16 Liz Kotz argues that many text-based artworks of the nineteen-sixties contain script “reduced to a kind of object that has been isolated, broken apart, crossed-out, and at times nearly evacuated of meaning or expression.” Kotz refers to a deliberate decision not to make statements. See: Liz Kotz, Words to Be Looked At: Language in 1960s Art (Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2007), 1. This is in direct opposition to McCahon’s aims and technique. Ian Burn also observes a dissonance between perception and language present in modern artworks, which aims to create “self-conscious confusion of reading.” (He uses his own artwork, Looking Through a Piece of Glass (1967-1968) as an example of this approach within modern art.) Burn suggests that artists choose to manipulate the limits of language in order to ‘jolt’ an understanding of art. Again it can be said that McCahon strives for the opposite. His overall aim is one of clarity and un-obfuscated speech, supported by his carefully constructed visual rhetoric. See: Ian Burn, Dialogue: Writings in Art History (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1991), 195. 17 Hill expresses this eloquently, writing that McCahon’s artistic filtering was achieved, “not with postmodern irony, but with a hunger for universal truths and specific experiences. Like a whale filtering plankton, he sucked in the minutiae of existence, along with the flotsam and jetsam from life’s great ocean religion, advertising hoardings, redemption, abstract expressionism, nicotine, guilt, alcohol,

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 architecture, landscape and anything that staggered towards darkness, anything that veered toward the light.” See: Hill, “A Filter of Faith.” 18 McCahon to Brasch [24 Apr. 49] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 21. 19 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 132. 20 Indeed, Smith notes that McCahon wrote and rewrote Biblical texts until he distilled their particular relevance to his current idea or situation. See: Jason Smith, “Colin McCahon,” National Gallery of Victoria, accessed August 12, 2009, http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/mccahon/essay.html. 21 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 8. 22 Barton, Language Matters, 4. 23 Of McCahon’s Written Paintings and Drawings series, Babington writes: “Despite their introspective appearance, the works actually function as an exploration of the universal, existential human condition. The artist has deliberately chosen sections of text that lead the viewer to contemplate issues of hope and anguish, apprehension and conviction.” See: Babington, “Colin McCahon: A National Gallery of Australia Focus Exhibition.” (This series is known by several names including Written Paintings and Drawings, Works on Paper and Scrolls.) 24 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 221. 25 Importantly, his words are delivered in a highly recognisable style. This painted script is often more legible and curvilinear than his everyday, almost impenetrable handwriting. Clarity is an obvious aim. 26 Simmons, ““I AM”,” 90. 27 Congruently, Bloem sees McCahon as a bringer of performance to painting, using his text as an actor. She calls his Biblical writing “a form of language that he hoped his public would understand.” See: Bloem in Crow, “Spreading the Word.” 28 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 8. In agreement, Edmond believes this translation may have appealed as it “refuses adornment,” allowing McCahon to paint with emotional honestly and “without grace notes or ornament.” See: Edmond, Dark Night, 103. 29 Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 335. 30 Curnow, “Four Years in the History of Modern Art,” 23. Demonstrating McCahon’s success in conveying the market garden feel, Luke Wood’s McCahon typeface was used by the juice company Charlie’s as part of their new marketing angle of ‘honesty’. See: Wood, “McCahon,” 53. 31 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 26. 32 Peter Hooper, Journey Towards an Elegy and Other Poems (Christchurch: Nag’s Head Press, 1969), 64. A Hooper poem in this collection is titled Can You Hear Me Saint Francis? – the same question asked in McCahon’s artworks. 33 McCahon employed numerous references to Hooper, the breadth of which cannot be adequately summarised here. A clear example of the esteem in which he held the poet can be found in To Peter Hooper (1969), which is a good starting point for those curious as to the depth of his engagement.

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O’Brien, “What Has Been Communicated.” Caselberg also sent McCahon a collection of Hooper’s work titled Journey Towards and Elegy and Other Poems. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 145. 35 This call to view poets and artists as a single force is particularly evident in the fact that McCahon’s entire artwork is a quotation from a piece of poetry, appropriating the voice of a poet speaking about his artform. 36 Colin McCahon to Pat France [1973] in Peter Simpson, Answering Hark: McCahon/Caselberg Painter/Poet (Nelson: Craig Potton, 2001), 8. Indeed, he aligned his mission of creating New Zealand with a group of poets including Allen Curnow, Baxter, Brasch, and Caselberg. For this reason he often correlates his art to poetry, especially in the case of the Word Paintings. As we have seen, the roles of painters and poets were not so diverse in the search for a national identity. 37 Nevertheless, one cannot be certain if these images are entirely confident statements. Babington finds meaning in the dissolving letters. She writes, “McCahon’s delicate bleeding of water-based crayon gives his words a tentative, unresolved look that further generates an atmosphere of doubt.” See: Babington, “Colin McCahon: A National Gallery of Australia Focus Exhibition.” Indeed, his blurring may indicate uncertainty, or depict the transcendence of Hooper’s written words into the painted paper of a visual artwork. 38 Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 35. 39 These pieces also play with the notion of voice as a whole. Simmons explains that the words of James, used in many of these artworks, are ambiguous in terms of who is the speaker. Portions are absent in the Greek original, and dissenting voice is perhaps used as a rhetorical device in a monologue as opposed to representing a genuine dialogue. We, as spectators of the work, are also involved in transmitting the content. See: Simmons, ““I AM”,” 89-90. In this confusion of words and origins, it is difficult to feel certainty about the authenticity of the text as the ‘true’ voice of James. The words are also decontextualised from the Bible and represented with the artist’s personal emphasis. McCahon’s disconnection from any particular Christian group allows for this direct engagement with Biblical text mediated via personal experience as opposed to institutionalised dogma 40 Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 41 This book was published as Ich und Du in 1923. The English translation, I and Thou, was released in 1937. Popular translators include Ronald Gregor Smith and Walter Kauffman. 42 Martin Buber, I and Thou [1937] (London: Continuum, 2004), passim. 43 McCahon in Centenary Collection, 11. 44 In addition, Simmons believes that the philosophy of Kierkegaard is useful in understanding McCahon’s ‘I’. He cites Kierkegaard’s subjective approach to scripture that “while reading God’s Word you must incessantly say to yourself: It is I to whom it is speaking; it is I about whom it is speaking.” See: Søren Kierkegaard [1851] in Simmons, ““I AM”,” 88. Simmons presents this mindset as a useful way of viewing McCahon’s deeply autobiographical and personal use of sacred text. In a discussion on The Promised Land, Pound believes the self portrait of McCahon as prophet heralds the audience into an ‘I’ and ‘Thou’ relationship. In

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 this 1948 work, McCahon “is an ‘I’ seeking to speak to us as to a ‘Thou’ whereupon, reciprocally, we will become an ‘I’ speaking to him as a ‘Thou’.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 17. Thus an artwork such as I and Thou can be read as a discourse on the prophetic voice and its interrelativity with the selfhood of the audience. 45 See also the “brotherhood of men” mentioned by McCahon in Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 34. 46 In this context, McDonald also sees a connection between God and McCahon as they share the same words. See: McDonald, “I AM/AM I.” 47 Pound, “Topographies,” 129. Pound believes that New Zealand artists anticipated a time in which they would be “able to say ‘I’ to a given audience, as to a properly constituted New Zealand ‘thou’ – and that I will be formed as if of New Zealand’s own blood and soil.” See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 5. Obviously, this relates to McCahon’s I and Thou. 48 Allen Curnow, “The Skeleton of the Great Moa in the Canterbury Museum, Christchurch,” in Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 171. 49 It is described by Calder as a reflection on “the sterility of a culture than has adapted to these islands in a superficial way only.” See: Calder, “Unsettling Settlement,” 171. Pound reads the poem as the search for a “new New Zealand personage … separable at last from Mother England.” See: Pound, “Topographies,” 129-130. 50 Pound, “Topographies,” 129-130. Nevertheless, it is likely that Curnow meant the trick of ‘standing upright’ to be standing without the support of Christianity. This intention is not present in all responses to the poem, including McCahon’s. 51 Roscoe explains, “complete rootedness and adaptation remain some way ahead.” See: Roscoe, “Never a Soul at Home,” 146. 52 Simpson relates its “architectural grandeur” to cinema credits or advertising. He also notes the application of Cubist techniques to the text. See: Simpson, Colin McCahon: The Titirangi Years, 29. 53 Pound, “Topographies,” 130. 54 For example, McDonald writes, “[t]he shifting signifier, ‘I’, is also you, the viewer.” See: McDonald, “I AM/AM I.” 55 This artwork was originally titled Victory Over Death. See: Colin McCahon Image Library Database, accessed January 24, 2011, http://mccahon.co.nz/cm0010 19. 56 Colin McCahon: Land and Spirit/ Te Whenua Me Te Wairua (Wellington: Te Papa, 2006). 57 McCahon was able to write more freely as of the late 1950s when his use of alkyd household paints allowed for a flowing script akin to normal handwriting with a pen, as opposed to his painted block letters created in oil medium. See: Hillary and Morgan, Beneath the Surface. 58 Mane-Wheoki, “An Ornament for the PƗkehƗ,” 136. This quotation originally references the Word Paintings containing MƗori themes. 59 Johnson suggests that McCahon’s words are also on the journey to Judea, appearing as a migrating mass across the canvas. See: Johnson, “Colin McCahon,”

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 196. Of the Word Paintings, McNamara observes: “[a]s the paintings develop the words become larger and more biblical in intonation. One approach is to say the words to yourself as you look at the paintings. They have the nature of a prayer and at times are like thunder.” See: McNamara, “Work of Master Returns Home.” 60 Here the difference between McCahon and some of his overseas contemporaries can be reiterated. Burn explains the tendency of Futurist, Dada, and Surrealist artists to use conflicting text and image as a way of manufacturing “visual nonsequiturs.” See: Burn, Dialogue, 195. McCahon is aiming for the opposite. His image and text have a supportive, correlational relationship. They are devices that help to communicate the same message. 61 McCahon describes loving the characters in the story, sharing their feelings, and receiving great joy from drawing them. He compares the act to sketching a Mickey Mouse cartoon. See: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 36. 62 McCahon, draft manuscript for Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition (1972). 63 McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 36. 64 The original title of this work was Victory Over Death: The Way, The Truth & Life. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 53. This emphasises Christ as part of the ‘victory’. 65 Based on this heavily Biblical grounding, most respondents assume the work is overtly Christian. The notable exception is Stead who connects the capital ‘I’ to “the poutokomanawa or central pole of the wharenui,” tying the work back to MƗori spiritual ideas. He also observes the ‘M’ as influenced by Polynesian architecture and the ‘tu’ stance of Maori warriors. See: Oliver Stead, Art Icons of New Zealand: Lines in the Sand (Auckland: David Bateman, 2008), 55. 66 In addition, the scale of the work reflects a particular point in McCahon’s career. Green, citing McCahon’s American influences, believes that these large-scale works demonstrate a desire for public statement. They also represent McCahon’s growing fame and freedom from small gallery constraints. See: Green, “McCahon and the Modern,” 36. Similarly, Hart sees the work as an affirmation of McCahon’s increasing confidence and daring as a painter. See: Deborah Hart, “Colin McCahon: Writing and Imaging a Journey,” in Colin McCahon Focus Exhibition, eds Deborah Hart and Jaklyn Babington (Canberra: National Gallery of Australia, 2008), 8. It is indeed a grand and mature work that brings together many of McCahon’s communication devices and concerns. 67 This panoramic dimension has been observed by, for example, Stead who feels that the enormous spaces of this work are derived from McCahon’s engagement in dramatic landscape forms. See: Stead, Art Icons of New Zealand, 55. This is visually explored by Imants Tillers in his pastiche artwork Hiatus (1987). Tillers felt that the peaks of McCahon’s lettering were comparable to the peaks of von Guerard’s Milford Sound with Pembroke Peak and Bower Falls on the Coast of Middle Island, New Zealand (1877-1879). Hiatus is designed, in part, to convey this reading of Victory Over Death 2 as a journey through the mountains. Rather than the patch of darkness that asks ‘AM I’, Tillers provides a monotone rendering of Eugene Von Guérard’s Milford Sound. This version feels more glorious and celebratory than the original.

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 68

Both these concepts are in dialogue with other portions of McCahon’s body of work. Blindness can be seen in McCahon’s statements about “spitting on clay to open the blind man’s eyes” with his Landscape Theme and Variations, or images of ‘white out’ on the beaches of Muriwai. Direction is a reoccurring theme in McCahon’s personal and artistic statements, expressed (to give but one example) within the Poetry Isn’t In My Words scrolls. 69 Crow compares McCahon’s black canvas to a “fundamental act of creation” with white dividing the void like light from dark in Genesis. See: Crow, “Spreading the Word.” 70 On the topic of connection with the artist, Paton correlates the unfinished feel of the right-end of the painting to a sense of immediacy with McCahon. The painting appears fresh and wet, continuing the Biblical story to the present era and brave human effort. See: Paton, How to Look at a Painting, 103. 71 Paton, How to Look at a Painting, 101. 72 James Dignan feels that the phrase ‘I AM’ “shouts an affirmation of the artist's life force.” See: James Dignan, “Rare Opportunity to Explore McCahon’s Work and Influence,” Otago Daily Times, July 17, 2008, accessed May 19, 2010, http://www.odt.co.nz/entertainment/arts/13581/rare-opportunity-explore-mccahon0 39s-work-and-influence. Corroborating this, William McCahon describes the early nineteen-seventies as a period in which his father felt a strong sense of self-belief and was able to support himself and his family through the sale of artworks. He calls ‘I AM’ a statement of confidence that heralded in this era. See: William McCahon, “The Days and Nights in the Wilderness,” 19. Peter Crothall is confident that Victory Over Death 2 “powerfully declares the significance of Jesus’ claim to the divine title I AM, revealing his identity as God.” See: Peter Crothall, “Editorial,” CS Arts 31 (2008): 3. 73 Edmond suggests that ‘I’ as the voice of God “also has a weird anonymity, as if the I, by being everything, is really nothing.” See: Edmond, Dark Night, 45. He reads the work as an oscillation between the voice of the painter and the voice of divinity in which we cannot be certain if we are listening to the voice of a despairing man or an imminent God. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 102-103. Peter James Smith calls Victory Over Death 2 “a prophetic attempt to annihilate selfdoubt.” See: Peter James Smith, “Rediscovering Lines of Longitude: Signs of ‘New Capture’ for Art Practice at Postmodernism’s Demise,” 2007, accessed December 8, 2010, http://peterjamessmith.net/main/rediscovering-lines-of-longitud e. McCahon conflates his self-identity with the identity of a doubting Christ. 74 Johnson believes that the artwork shows menace and doubt on a grand scale. See: Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 196. 75 Butler does, however, suggest that the shadowy word might add “an extra degree of assertivness” to the statement, reading ‘AM I?’ and answering ‘I AM!’. See: Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 19. Again, ambiguity is paramount. 76 For example, Butler states, “the waxing and waning of the intensity of the white paint is a beautiful metaphor for the fluctuations of McCahon’s own hard-won faith.” See: Butler, “Metaphoric Work of Faith.” Paton connects the wavering

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 intensity of McCahon’s paint to the pulsations of a human voice in darkness. See: Paton, How to Look at a Painting, 101. 77 Philosophically, Brown describes death as a necessary part of human existence, and as a representation of the impact of time. He believes that our fear of death motivates the victory of “love and commitment” over “estrangement and discord.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 148. Brown does, however, describe this victory as one that “can scarcely be imagined” without encounters of doubt and faith. 78 For example, Brian Lynch believes that McCahon’s works dealing with death find meaning through the contemplation of existence. He states, “[t]he death instinct in modern art manifests itself in the destruction of McCahon’s certainty.” McCahon’s doubt is not, however, posited as an embrace of death. Instead, Lynch sees his works as acknowledging this deprivation of belief, and subsequently searching for a means of embracing life and meaning. See: Brian Lynch, “The Representation of Death: Donald Kuspit, Colin McCahon and George Gittoes,” (Master of Visual Arts diss., University of South Australia, 1996), 30. His reading explores ‘I AM’ as a way of facing death, and, as expressed in the title, finding victory through the spiritual affirmation of the self. 79 Stead feels that McCahon’s faith, as shown in this artwork, is as much about belief in the self as it is about belief in a higher power. See: Stead, Art Icons of New Zealand, 21. 80 North, “In the Coil of Life’s Hunger,” 43. 81 As such, McDonald notes the requirement to move physically across the work, creating an embodied vision that “proclaims a sense of the self” through place and movement. See: McDonald, “I AM/AM I.” This artwork was constructed as a large-scale statement, commissioned for the ‘Ten Big Paintings’ exhibition at the Auckland Art Gallery. 82 This text is taken from the books of Jeremiah, Isaiah and Lamentations as compiled by John Caselberg. 83 Brown believes it is focused more on the internal motivations for the conflict such as attacks against cultural bonds and ideals. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 153. 84 For example, Brown calls McCahon’s ‘dark night’ statement “a cry that sets the tenor of what follows,” which is the Gate series lament from Caselberg. He calls it “a despondent message to a doomed world.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 153. Evocatively, Yule sees the “lowering darkness” as an atmospheric condition akin to that found during a bushfire or storm. He describes the image as “heavy with foreboding about secular culture.” See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 85 This phrase can also be seen in Muriwai No. 2, Muriwai No. 6, Muriwai No. 7 and in the artworks titled As There is a Constant Flow of Light We Are Born Into The Pure Land and As There is a Constant Flow of Light We Are Born Into The Pure Land (McCahon to Shadbolt). 86 Brown recognises this final landscape as McCahon’s Promised Land, based on the essentialised forms of North Otago. He argues that this is the North Otago of McCahon’s childhood, rendered as a retreat for those who have escaped from “the

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 possibilities of a terrible holocaust” and require nourishment from the land. See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 153. 87 Yule notes how the light of the artworks is transitional, brightening with the insertion of Biblical texts. He sees the painting as a mirror of the path of conversion to Christianity, moving from oppressive darkness to the cheerful possibilities of the light. He positions the gate of wisdom between the A and the M of ‘I AM’. See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” Comparatively, McDonald sees it as the journey from despair to “a rebirth of sorts,” declining to comment on religious specificities. He suggests that the artwork moves from ignorance into knowledge. See: McDonald, “I AM/AM I.” 88 McCahon in Brown, “Elements of Modernism in Colin McCahon’s Early Work,” 34. 89 On the topic of spiritual transformation, Brown believes this work “requires humanity to respond urgently, not by reliance on political motivation, but through a clear-headed approach in accord with a historical framework that looks beyond an imminent threat to embrace a long-term solution. The solution is revealed as being an interplay between the human and the divine rather than a solely human effort.” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 107. Here Brown emphasises the fact that McCahon does not advocate allegiance to any particular political mindset or even contextualise the crisis represented here as being one necessarily specific to the Cold War. Rather, he uses this conflict to encourage a migration into the Promised Land of peace and spiritual enlightenment. This is to be achieved via an understanding of the redemptive powers of Christ. 90 O’Brien, “What Has Been Communicated.” 91 The Testimony of Scripture artworks of 1979 can also be grouped with these artworks as they were made in the same year and contain text from the same Biblical chapter. 92 1969 pieces of notable similarity to these artworks include Are There Not Twelve Hours of Daylight..., Can You Hear Me St Francis, and On Going Out with the Tide. 93 Gordon H. Brown, “An Exploratory Look at Colin McCahon’s Use of ‘A Letter to Hebrews’,” in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith: Papers From a Seminar (Auckland: Auckland Art Gallery, 2003), 4. 94 Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 42. 95 Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 42. 96 While evidence suggests Paul of Tarsus did not write this letter to the Hebrews, McCahon accepts him as the true author. Brown feels that he was more engaged with the contents of the letter than its authorship. See: Brown, “An Exploratory Look at Colin McCahon’s Use of ‘A Letter to Hebrews’,” 1. 97 His choice of Biblical text contains more familiar words and phrasing than some translations. Brown notes the skill of the original author of Hebrews in creating text that reads like an engaging sermon. See: Brown, “An Exploratory Look at Colin McCahon’s Use of ‘A Letter to Hebrews’,” 1. One must also give credit here to subsequent translators and interpreters who brought the text into its present

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 incarnation. The selection of text with exemplary rhetorical character was unlikely to be accidental. 98 Prior, Elespie and Ian, 72. 99 So much so that Bullen believes that observation of this painting is an act of intrusion. He claims a “sense of stumbling across somebody else’s myth” as an experience common to viewers of this work. See: Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 42. 100 As such, Pound believes that McCahon’s musings on “strangers or passing travellers on earth” may be a reflection of his colonial worldview. He argues that the artist may have “come to see the justice and power of the prior MƗori claim to the country,” othering PƗkehƗ as alien settlers. See: Pound, “Topographies,” 123. 101 Brown suggests that a strike of black down the middle of the centre-left panel represents the warning given to Noah of the flood. See: Brown, “An Exploratory Look at Colin McCahon’s Use of ‘A Letter to Hebrews’,” 4. 102 Representing what is perhaps the most negative reading of this artwork, Fitzgerald believes it conveys “the sense of a man driven to the very depths of darkness and despair.” See: Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining.” 103 For example, Brown believes this work shows a reconceptualisation of the Promised Land as a condition within a person’s heart or a life beyond death as opposed to a physical locale. See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 133. This is not inherently negative, but does reveal McCahon’s gradual abandonment of actual social transformation within New Zealand. 104 Providing a clue to its meaning, the writing in the final panel is washed out and pale. The words vanish onto the paper and into the storm. Bullen notes the obscurity of the text’s redemptive passage, which promises rewards for the faithful in Heaven if not on Earth. It is squeezed into the last panel, looking as insignificant as any other phrase, despite it being the crux of the argument for faith. Bullen writes of the squall that nearly obliterates this vital sentence. “The painted weather of the New Zealand landscape reinterprets the text. For McCahon, faith contends with rain.” See: Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 41. 105 For example, Smith describes it as a symbol of “illumination in a landscape of spiritual darkness.” See: Smith, “Colin McCahon.” 106 Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 42. 107 Brown, “An Exploratory Look at Colin McCahon’s Use of ‘A Letter to Hebrews’,” 4. 108 This anticipation of illumination and redemption may be, however, posthumous. Pound suggests that McCahon may have shifted his expectations to the creation of a better community in the hereafter. See: Pound, “Topographies,” 123-124. 109 Brown, however, describes McCahon’s choices as Jewish in character but Christian in orientation. See: Brown, “An Exploratory Look at Colin McCahon’s Use of ‘A Letter to Hebrews’,” 5. 110 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 14. 111 Barnett, Toss Woollaston, 15. R.N. Field was also an Oxford Group member. See: Barnett, Toss Woollaston, 55. 112 Keith, “Colin McCahon,” 185.

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Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 28. Barnett, Toss Woollaston, 55. 115 Toss Woollaston to Gerald Barnett [January 1991] in Barnett, Toss Woollaston, 55. 116 Stead, Art Icons of New Zealand, 15. 117 Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 42. 118 Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 195. 119 Bullen, “The Writing on the Wall,” 42. 120 Arryn Snowball, “Oh That I Were Where I Would Be,” Artlink 29:3 (2009), accessed March 16, 2010, http://www.artlink.com.au/articles.cfm?id=3304. 121 Onesimus’, “Victory Over Death 2,” Onesimus Files, June 14, 2011, accessed July 11, 2011, http://onefiles.blogspot.com/2011/06/victory-over-death-2.html. 122 ‘Onesimus’, “Victory Over Death 2.” 123 Jaklyn Babington, “Colin McCahon: Printmaking and Paper Projects,” in Colin McCahon Focus Exhibition, eds Deborah Hart and Jaklyn Babington (Canberra: National Gallery of Australia, 2008), 11. 124 Buchanan, “Colin McCahon: A Time for Messages,” 40. 125 Burgess, “McCahon’s Faith Show a Must-See.” 126 J.C. Sturm, “At A Colin McCahon Exhibition,” in “Best New Zealand Poems 2006,” International Institute of Modern Letters, 2006, accessed November 9, 2011, http://www.nzetc.org/iiml/bestnzpoems/BNZP06/t1-g1-t23-body-d1.html. 127 For example, Seethiah believes that McCahon’s work is more meaningful than Abstract Expressionism, stating “I always like Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko’s colour fields but McCahon with his incorporation of biblical verse really, at least for me, takes this to a whole new level.” See: Seethiah, comment on “Final Giveaway.” 128 Geering, Wrestling With God, 252. 129 Stuart in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 130 Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 131 Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 132 Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 133 Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” For the original quotation, see: McCahon, Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition, 26. 134 Joe Bennet, Fun Run and Other Oxymorons (New Zealand: Scribner, 2000), 4. 135 Scott Macleod, “Te Papa pays record $1.78m for McCahon,” New Zealand Herald, August 31, 2000, accessed February 11, 2011, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/ nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=149633. Bennett connects this sale to the maturation of art and art appreciation in New Zealand. See: Joe Bennett, “It Cost a Mint, But at Last We’ve Joined the Greatness Club,” New Zealand Herald, September 8, 2000, accessed August 16 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/ article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=150504. 136 Bennett, “It Cost a Mint, But at Last We’ve Joined the Greatness Club.” 137 Sian van Dyk in Michelle Duff, “Kiwis with the Write Stuff,” Manawatu Standard, October 30, 2010, accessed January 27, 2012, http://www.stuff.co.nz/ma 114

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 nawatu-standard/news/4290206/Kiwis-with-the-write-stuff. Referring to her first impressions of A Painting for Uncle Frank, van Dyk recounts, “I was like ‘What? Is this art?’ I didn't understand it. I thought ‘man, this guy is so desperate, he just wants people to get him and he can’t even paint any more, he just has to write it down’.” 138 McCahon’s Word Paintings are familiar enough to have spawned pop-culture references. For example, a New Zealand guide to profitable blogging references McCahon in their satirical ‘how to kill your blog’ checklist. The website quips, “[i]f you do choose to include images, don’t crop them and have text running over the top. (Hey, you’re just like Colin McCahon!)” See: “More Blogging Equals More New Sales,” Mobilize Mail, July 4, 2011, accessed July 11, 2011, http://blog.mobilizemail.com/2011/07/04/more-blogging-equals-more-new-sales. 139 Sam Cruickshank “Art: Colin McCahon’s Victory Over Death,” Horiwood, May 14, 2010, accessed June 2, 2010, http://horiwood.com/2010/05/14/art-colinmccahons-victory-over-death. 140 Sam Cruickshank “Art: Victory Over Death 2 by Colin McCahon,” Horiwood, February 22, 2010, accessed June 2, 2010, http://horiwood.com/2010/02/22/artvictory-over-death-2-by-colin-mccahon. 141 Sam Cruickshank, “I Am New Zealand Art by Colin McCahon,” Horiwood, November 17, 2009, accessed September 17, 2010, http://horiwood.com/2009/11/1 8/i-am-new-zealand-art-by-colin-mccahon. 142 Cruickshank, “I Am New Zealand Art by Colin McCahon.” 143 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 146. 144 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 145 Damian Skinner, “I Believe!: Colin McCahon’s A Question of Faith,” Art New Zealand 107 (2003): 80. 146 ‘FinN’, October 15, 2008 (11:19 p.m.), comment on Pauline Dawson, “McCahon and Foucault,” Artbash, October 14, 2008, accessed September 29, 2010, http://www.artbash.co.nz/article.asp?id=1281. 147 Nelson, “Faith in Job Lots.” 148 Nelson, “Faith in Job Lots.” 149 Nelson, “Faith in Job Lots.” 150 Dave Homewood, July 25, 2007 (12:14 a.m.), comment on “Christchurch Square Art!!,” Wings Over New Zealand, July 25, 2007, accessed February 14, 2011, http://rnzaf.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=general&thread =717&page=1>. It would be interesting to hear Homewood’s take on artworks such as I Paul to You at Ngatimote (1946), which explores both landscape and aviation. 151 Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 152 Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 153 Brasch [29 Jun. 70] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 32. Simpson believes that Brasch’s remarks anticipated a shift in taste whereby that which evoked the literary or narrative was rejected in favour of “pure painting.” 154 Brasch [3 Jul. 61] in Simpson, Patron and Painter, 31.

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155 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 45. Indeed, there are some respondents who feel that the Word Paintings are not really paintings at all. For example, producer of the I AM documentary, Rachel Gardner, notes a tendency to dismiss McCahon’s output on face value. She cites people such as her aunt who feel “words in a painting isn’t painting.” See: Rachel Gardner, “Light Falls Through a Dark Landscape,” OnFilm Magazine (2004), accessed June 16, 2010, http://www.onfilm.co.nz/editable/ColinMcCahon.html. A similar attitude is expressed by amateur travel journalist Sissi Stein who writes, “I do not like his phase when he wrote more words onto the canvas than really painted the way I would consider it a painting.” Sissi Stein, “Things To Do: Visit the Aigantighe Art Gallery,” Virtual Tourist, April 4, 2011, accessed July 3, 2011, http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/b47ab/1cb582/4/?o=2. 156 Brown, “The Nineteen-Forties,” 139. He provides further explanation for the rejection of perceived ‘literary paintings’ in Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 140. 157 ‘Phil’, August 21, 2009 (10:28 a.m.), comment on Tom Fitzsimons, “McCahon Sale Could Net $1.5m for Council,” The Dominion Post, August 21 2009, accessed January 27, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/wellington/2772902 /McCahon-sale-could-net-1-5m-for-council. 158 ‘Phil’, August 21, 2009 (10:28 a.m.), comment on Fitzsimons, “McCahon Sale Could Net $1.5m for Council.” 159 ‘Bill R’, May 13, 1999 (6:00 p.m.), comment on soc.culture.new-zealand, accessed July 22, 2011, http://groups.google.com/group/soc.culture.new-zealand /browse_thread/thread/d5472d7815f1af40/a2bf60690ae5407?pli=1. 160 Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” 161 Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” 162 Dougal McNeill, “Gate III, Colin McCahon, 1970,” 2003, accessed August 17, 2009, http://www.chartwell.org.nz/startthinking/dougalmcneillessay.asp. 163 McNeill, “Gate III, Colin McCahon, 1970.” 164 McNeill, “Gate III, Colin McCahon, 1970.” 165 Cartwright, Sweet As, 23. 166 Cartwright, Sweet As, 23.

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE FINAL WARNINGS

After McCahon passed away, his son William discovered a final artwork face down on the floor of his studio where it had rested for several years.1 This painting was the grim I Considered all the Acts of Oppression2 (c.1980-1982). The McCahon family chose to display the painting at his funeral as they considered it a personal statement to his audience.3 This last artwork is crammed full of epideictic rhetoric, spewing forth accusations of injustice, humanity’s inability to divine the future, and public mockery.4 McCahon took his words from The New English Bible, Ecclesiastes, Chapter Four. There is no longer an overt presence of landscape or symbol within his visual rhetoric. A subtle Tau can be located amidst the blocks of text, drawn in the style of the Jump series broken line or the blackboard divisions of Teaching Aids. But the salient feature is its crowded and painful text, coupled with a great, black void. This final chapter turns to McCahon’s very last images and examines what message they aimed to convey. Overall, the spiritual attitude presented in these works depends on how McCahon is perceived in terms of his own religious viewpoints. If McCahon is seen to have lost or grown disinterested in faith, his choice of depressive Biblical passages may simply be a reflection of poor health and low spirits as opposed to actual theological anguish. Conversely, if McCahon is viewed as someone who maintained his spiritually inspired duty to help mankind, the hopeless verses he chooses—wracked with the desperate and discouraging text of Ecclesiastes as they are—become a statement of religiosity. It is this latter option that has the most compelling proofs. McCahon’s Christian faith was paramount throughout his artistic endeavours. His prophetic duty towards social reform was deeply held, and thus his failure was deeply felt. McCahon’s final paintings offer some revealing conclusions about his artistic and prophetic journey. The Emptiness of All Endeavour triptych (1980), I Applied My Mind (1982) and Is There Anything of Which One Can Say Look This is New? (1982) are bleak and crowded with words. The

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Biblical text is depressive, speaking of death and the evil of man. McCahon states that the dead are lucky and that the unborn are the luckiest of all. He rejects achievement as base rivalry and “chasing the wind.” His words proclaim that strength is on the side of the oppressors. I Considered all the Acts of Oppression ends with the words “endless yet never,” a grim reference to the endless construction of nationhood and the fact that an end point is never reached. The source of this dejected theme is easy to locate: The failure of McCahon’s prophetic activities to cause tangible social change was a source of great frustration. He had endured mockery of issues he considered to be serious, effectively a profanation of his transcendental aims. His desire to connect with the public was too often rebuffed, and his receptiveness to suffering was great.5 These final works lament his failure and question the purpose of human life and connectivity.6 This path of failure had already been set out by Allen Curnow, who believed that the construction of nationhood was a task of agony. He wrote, “an artist can only suffer, and record his suffering; hoping to make others suffer with him the necessary pains of first self-knowledge.”7 In addition to this wisely anticipated misery, his remarks also date the Promised Land of nationhood to specific era. This discourse was a colonial one, spawned as the New Zealand imagination began to break away from the culture of the United Kingdom. By the nineteen-eighties it had long since expired, and was superseded by new cultural and artistic ideas. The Promised Land of high culture Curnow espoused had fallen out of the public imagination. The failure of McCahon’s prophetic quest can thus be read as a collapse of the particular nationalist paradigm to which it was so closely aligned. Pound believes, by the creation of A Letter to Hebrews in 1979, the country of the Promised Land may come to be envisaged as never to exist in the world at all—which would be not just another kind of failure of the Nationalist flight, but rather its total breakdown and its abandonment.8

Pound approximates the end of the Nationalist Movement to be 1970.9 Congruently, by 1969, McCahon had declared the Promised Land as “the place where the painter never arrives.”10 The sunset colours of The Flight From Egypt (1980) seem to have faded to darkness with the nightfall of these final paintings. The Nationalist Project dream was, as Pound puts it, “irreparably damaged or dead.”11 So too were many of McCahon’s hopes for what the Promised Land of New Zealand could become. The Nationalist Project was a movement that had always courted failure. It was rife with discourses of agony and toil. Pound discusses the

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perpetual deferment of success in the construction of New Zealand. He argues that the gaze associated with nationalism is always looking towards an imagined future in which cultural goals will be fully achieved. This means that art of the past or present is read as insufficient.12 Pound also mentions the necessity of the self-sacrificing artist in this quest of failure. Under this Project, acts of creative discovery are ascribed to those who ultimately fail and are defeated in their quest to bring forth a mature nation.13 This may not be an enjoyable experience for the suffering artist, but it is a necessary one for cultural progression. The supersession of the Nationalist Project was an important step in the deferment of nationalist goals more broadly. To actually achieve the construction of the nation would be to eradicate the necessity of ideologies involving the construction process. Whereas to replace the Nationalist Project with a similar paradigm under a different name plays into the constant deferral of national wholeness, which keeps alive the need to constantly create new cultural products that annunciate national anxieties.14 Thus failure becomes interwoven not only into the language of nationalism, but into the way it is culturally enacted. McCahon plays the expected role of the artist who provides a glimpse of the ‘real’ New Zealand, but who ultimately dies in the wilderness before reaching the Promised Land. Indeed, he wisely describes this destination as “the place where the painter never arrives.”15 This is not to say that McCahon intended to fail, but rather that he was deeply embroiled in a discourse that relied upon his vanquishment. McCahon’s defeat in the form of the final paintings helps New Zealand to mythologise darkness and give a voice to gloom. Many New Zealanders have subsequently read this failure into a nationalist discourse of identity. In addition to the cultural change brought about by the end of the defeated Nationalist Project, Brown offers a few autobiographical factors that help to explain McCahon’s mindset during the creation of these last artworks.16 He suggests that McCahon felt a renewed bitterness towards his critics.17 He also struggled with the enthusiasm of his new admirers. He was suspicious as to why his detractors would suddenly embrace his work.18 In 1980 McCahon stated that, despite his fame, attitudes towards him had not changed. The people who once liked him still did, and those who hated him continued to do so.19 He did not appear to observe a genuine change in regard to his success and national notoriety. McCahon mulled over critical abuse, often seeming impervious to praise.20 McCahon’s friends and family give testament as to his depressed state.21 Carr claims that her father had periods of depression, especially when the public mockery of his work swelled up. She believes it would be

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hard for anyone to put up with the abuse he had to deal with.22 Importantly, Brown also sees the final paintings as a reference to McCahon’s latter-day relationship with money. McCahon had once felt guilt over leaving his family in poverty, and now he was wealthy beyond what he could comprehend.23 This disparity was clearly a sensitive issue. McCahon’s fame had grown substantially. He was a well-respected and valuable artist by the end of his career. Fame had not, however, provided McCahon with his desired outcomes. He was opposed to grandeur in his lifestyle or output, and referred to being an artist as a sort of madness.24 His friend, Ross Fraser, recalls how McCahon “hated the latterday inflation of his reputation.”25 He did not seek money or notoriety, but rather a reformation of social attitudes. McCahon’s health was in decline during the construction of his final paintings. As a result of his heavy drinking, McCahon developed Korsakoff’s syndrome – a form of dementia. This disease truncated his artistic career and greatly impaired his quality of life. McCahon’s younger students enjoyed socialising with the artist, and spent a good deal of time at his house. This caused a sharp increase in McCahon’s alcohol consumption as he grew older.26 Alcoholism had a notable effect on his behaviour,27 and is remembered as one of his defining characteristics. McCahon’s preference for sherry and port was even raised in response to a 2003 tax increase in fortified wines.28 Lett confirms that some of McCahon’s paintings were created whilst he was drunk. This may have given him the courage to go “to the places that he went to” in his artmaking.29 McCahon confessed to occasionally being so intoxicated while painting that he toppled on to his work.30 Alcohol was primarily a means of coping with criticism. McCahon’s anger towards his detractors was genuine and prolonged. William recalls his father’s complaints lasting for weeks and sometimes months. Refusing to confront the critics who caused his pain, McCahon vented his anger at home and eventually channelled it into alcoholism.31 Drinking was his way of dealing with disappointment and frustration. Carr remembers how her father would often become very cross about what people had said, in person or in writing. He would drink too much and play Hank Williams loudly, or just walk out the door.32 McCahon is recalled as an artist who “let his paintings speak alone” while he remained silent against attack.33 This had a variety of negative impacts upon his health and wellbeing. McCahon’s latter-day decline has become legendary, especially his disappearance at the 1984 Sydney Biennale. Colin and Anne McCahon visited Sydney for the Biennale exhibition of ‘I Will Need Words’ – a solo showcase of McCahon’s Word Paintings. The artist went for a walk with

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his wife and Alexa M. Johnson in the Botanical Gardens. He wandered off, became lost, and was not found until the next day. This trauma left McCahon dehydrated and sick.34 Because he was increasingly required to stay indoors for his own protection McCahon’s final days led him to withdraw into the temptation of television, which before he had so consciously eschewed. This fixation on television is descried by Brown as a defeat and the marker of the end of McCahon’s painting career.35 Edmond and McCahon’s old colleague Leon Narbey ran into the artist during his illness. He was unable to recognise them, and Edmond recalls his eyes as “haunted and haunting.”36 Meeting him at a similar time, Cartwright calls it a “sad end to a sad life.”37 Carr explains that she and her family had grieved for McCahon prior to his death, as he had reverted from adulthood and intelligence into a dependent childish figure. She describes him as being a different man.38 Elements of this loss can be read within his artworks. For example, Brown feels that McCahon’s use of Ecclesiastes was a confessional statement. McCahon was coming to terms with his declining ability to paint after his diagnosis of Korsakoff's psychosis. He knew that the death of the mind was closer than the death of the body. Brown recalls how McCahon phoned him up and told him that he was ‘stuck’.39 McCahon was obviously suffering, both physically and mentally, during this final period of artmaking. This raises the question of whether a failure of McCahon’s prophetic aims resulted in his pessimism, or whether this can be blamed on more exoteric sources of anguish. Scholarship surrounding these last paintings offers multiple viewpoints. The mood of McCahon’s messages has been discussed since the early stages of his career. While many critics have noted McCahon’s intense and unhappy imagery, lingering hope has often been a popular reading of his art. For example, in 1958, Caselberg stated that McCahon’s work was affirmative of life over death, man over Hell, and light over dark. This remark was published again, unchanged, in 1973.40 In 1963, he wrote of McCahon’s art as a celebration of the goodness of man, the splendour of his achievements, and the justness of God’s design.41 Similarly, in 1968, Young claimed that “an optimism for mankind’s future” was a basic and omnipresent tenet of McCahon’s oeuvre.42 In the same year Tomory stated, “McCahon’s insight does not lead him to ex cathedra utterances of doom, for if there is despair in the dark hollows of his hills there is also a corona of hope in the light of his horizons.”43 One must question if such statements would ring true after these final artworks.44 While optimism and faith may be read in most of

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McCahon’s work, albeit alongside doubt, his ultimate painting is drenched in hopelessness.

Creation, Agony, and Darkness: A Balanced Analysis In works such as It’s a Privilege to Fall Flat on Your Face (1969), McCahon celebrated the strength that could be garnered from pain, comparing this to the manner in which Christ loved. For this reason, equivocal conclusions about McCahon’s emotional state and final message are entirely valid. It is unsurprising that commentators such as McAloon want the final works to be understood in broader terms than McCahon deciding he had ‘gotten it all wrong’.45 One way to avoid this reductive mindset is to examine the implications of the act of communication itself, putting aside the mood of the message. These final images do indeed carry a discernable message that is communicated didactically.46 Despite feeling that his religiosity was fading, Brown notes how McCahon still endeavoured to “paint beyond his own ends to point out a direction,”47 maintaining his old didactic promise. The arguments for McCahon’s continuing desire to communicate are strong. For example, O’Brien claims that his final years were devoted to placing his artworks in public collections where they were able to be as effective as possible.48 Johnston agrees the works distributed by McCahon before his death were “gifts given with particular attention to what was being communicated and to whom.”49 Providing a complex reading of this nature, Butler feels that McCahon knew himself to be a great painter. Nevertheless, he also knew that his greatness would not be recognised by the audience around him. Therefore, Butler argues that McCahon constructed an afterlife for his paintings in which they would outlive their creator and survive into an era in which they would be studied and appreciated.50 The inherent dynamism and drive of the communicative act reveals an ongoing concern for his audience, at least until McCahon ceased painting altogether. The act of painting itself has been read by many commentators as essentially creative and dynamic. Edmond points out how McCahon was required to paint his canvases black before adding white text. He describes this darkness preceding the light as “[a] negation upon which he wrote his affirmations.”51 Through this reading, the presence of text is inherently positive despite its negative overtones. Indeed, Johnson believes that McCahon’s late paintings display too much fervour to be described as nihilistic.52 Comparatively, Pound sees a glimmer of hope in the paintings, as their creation runs counter to the denial of art. He sees them as a patch

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of light in darkness and an insertion of meaning in meaninglessness.53 Pound values the creation of these final artworks as an act of positivity and effort in the face of nothingness. The act of creation itself is seen to negate a reading of utter despondency.54 Usefully, Bieringa proposes that even through doubt there is exploration.55 Congruently, Artbash regular ‘william blake’ asks “what creative person is entirely hopeless?”56 These commentators all reasonably assert that McCahon’s creation of new art was a way of communicating and producing messages, which does indeed demonstrate an ongoing hope that someone will hear. Although the text McCahon employs from Ecclesiastes is resoundingly sad, it may have been used as a coping mechanism for dark times. From this perspective, Geering believes that both McCahon and the author(s) of Ecclesiastes: lived in rapidly changing worlds whose respective religious traditions seemed to be dissolving into unreality. And like Ecclesiastes, McCahon summoned his viewers to face reality, to accept that nothing lasts forever, and to learn how to make the most of life while it lasts.57

Geering presents McCahon and his chosen quotations as stoic and realistic, but by no means devoid of faith as a result. Brown also reached a relatively positive conclusion in regard to Ecclesiastes, believing that the text brought McCahon pleasure. He acknowledges the potential dissonance of this argument writing to his reader, “I can almost hear you thinking, what a gloomy choice of text!”58 Nevertheless, Brown maintains that the sharpness and honesty of the text was pleasing to McCahon. When he came to examine Is There Anything of Which One Can Say Look This is New?, McCahon read the text aloud to him. He punctuated the recitation with remarks such as “[a]h! Good!” and “[v]ery telling!”59 Brown argues that anyone who over-emphasises the “grim and gloomy” aspects of Ecclesiastes should reassess negative attitudes in order to understand the exuberance of the text.60 Both he and Geering admit that McCahon’s quoted language is potentially quite distressing, but simultaneously demonstrate the constructive elements of the direct and penetrating words. Neither, by any means, sees the text as a discourse on a permanent loss of faith or happiness. Rather, the Bible is used to enunciate powerful emotion. In addition to these arguments, it is also difficult to know if I Considered all the Acts of Oppression was a completed artwork. We cannot be sure if “endless yet never” were the last words McCahon committed to canvas, or if his black void was actually an unfinished design. The artist lived until four years after the latest estimation of the

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work’s substantial completion. Brown does indeed recall that prior to 1983 McCahon occasionally spoke of returning to his studio and his “unfinished canvases of promise.”61 A draft manuscript for Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition includes his explanation that “I tend to date a work at the moment the jelly sets and I say to myself, O.K. boy, that’s it, no more.”62 The lack of date on this final painting seems to confirm its unfinished nature. Therefore, it is important to be cautious if evaluating the mood of McCahon’s last art based on a reading of I Considered all the Acts of Oppression a definitively final statement. Large portions of McCahon’s output, not just these last images, are concerned with uncertainty as to the likelihood of salvation. Appropriately, Pound categorises his prophetic tone as despairing and castigatory.63 Perhaps, had his health permitted, McCahon may have continued on to create more optimistic pieces, reflecting the journey between faith and doubt that spanned his previous body of work.

The Dark Void There is no clear and easy reading that can be applied to the large dark void that dominates I Considered all the Acts of Oppression. Nevertheless, divergent opinions on this symbol have been proposed and are worthy of analysis in determining its ultimate meaning. Firstly, McCahon’s dark void can be read as part of a communicative and constructive statement, as dour and bleak as it may be. There may be orchestrated meaning in this seemingly unfinished quadrant.64 If this void is read as a device of communication, it works as an active component that represents the opposite of McCahon’s illuminating light. Thus it would be as meaningful and consciously formed as the blocks of text that surround it. Darkness may also have more positive qualities than are immediately apparent. For example, darkness is necessary to give luminescence to white. McCahon’s chalkboard style relies upon blackness for the presentation of this lesson. It is more than a mere absence or void in this sense. Indeed, McCahon calls those who regard black as anything other than a colour “fools.”65 He explains “[i]f you regard it as colour, it’s a superb colour.”66 These do not seem like the words of someone who saw black as a defeatist abandonment of representation. Negative readings of black are also less common in New Zealand than they are in other European-heritage cultures. The colour has proven important in a nationalistic context. For Steve Kilgallon, the dark expanses of McCahon’s latter-day paintings feed into the identification of New Zealand with the colour black. He connects this aesthetic to the All Blacks,

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black as a fashion statement, and the use of black singlets to “signify Kiwiness to external audiences.”67 Kilgallon’s statements have recently been solidified with the publication of Doris de Pont’s Black: The History of Black in Fashion, Society and Culture in New Zealand (2012). This text argues that there is a “resonance in black that speaks to our hearts as New Zealanders.” De Pont believes this is because of a “dark aspect to our nature, a melancholy.”68 She directly connects this colour to the national psyche, and traces this affiliation back to the early days of colonial nationhood.69 In this sense, McCahon’s dour choices help to annunciate a national identity that permits gloom and embraces the potential construction that may come from a time of cultural disintegration. Rebecca Barry Hill agrees that New Zealanders have an “addiction to the dark side,” which can be read as a reflection of the weather and landscape.70 Thus, the wearing of black and the association of black with national identity means that McCahon’s predominantly dark and brooding artworks may be used as a way of marking cultural boundaries. Many New Zealanders are comfortable with gloomy artworks as they can be read as a reflection of the natural world and function as a point of difference from sunnier nations. So when Bail claims that McCahon cast a “long black cloud” over the culture of New Zealand,71 Harriet Margolis mentions his “gloomy and pessimistic tone,”72 or Stead calls him a “master of murk,”73 this need not be read as entirely pejorative.74 Karl du Fresne’s newspaper article damning New Zealanders as immoderately depressive asked “what other country could celebrate the despairing works of Colin McCahon?” to prove his point.75 The possible negativity implied by black does not seem to be as problematic as one may expect when dealing with patriotic colour symbolism. This is expressed in the Lonely Planet guide to New Zealand, which posits McCahon’s images of doubt as a manifestation of the cultural subtlety that makes its citizens more interesting than Australians.76 In this way, McCahon contributes to the Nationalist Project, albeit in a way he may not have anticipated. So too have these final works been appreciated for their cultural magnitude, regardless of depressive content. For example, Damian Hackett calls I Applied My Mind… an “extremely important picture” that has touched thousands of people. He nominates it as “one of the three most important paintings I’ve ever handled in my life.”77 Recognising its potential power, art patron Jenny Gibbs stopped The Emptiness of All Endeavour from being purchased by Australia, as she did not want New Zealand to lose a national treasure.78 The void of I Considered all the Acts of Oppression sits comfortably within this discourse.

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Examination of spiritual angst can also be read as a helpful and productive act. For example, Prior recalls McCahon “reading the Bible and finding inspiration at a time when things weren’t always too easy.”79 He considers the use of sacred text to cope with struggle as useful, explaining “I appreciated that, having similar experiences myself.”80 Instead of inspiring sadness, McCahon’s worries can evoke a comforting empathy in his audience. So too can his dark void be rendered as a tool for coming to terms with darkness and despair. The reiteration or re-experiencing of trauma through art has been read as a coping mechanism that helps to alleviate the original despair.81 Even if McCahon’s void is a negative comment, its intended use may be positive and productive via the creation of interpersonal empathy and the mitigation of negative feelings through negative imagery. It is also interesting to consider if McCahon’s failure to sign and date the work was a purposeful omission. It is possible that he was physically unable to finish it. McCahon’s mental deterioration meant that painting in his final years was impossible. Nevertheless, the fact that McCahon was able to fill the majority of the painting with text suggests that he was not beyond the dexterity and mental clarity necessary for the completion of I Considered all the Acts of Oppression during the period in which it was started. Perhaps McCahon had hoped that his prophetic journey was not quite through and left himself space for concluding remarks. Or, more depressingly, he saw the void of darkness as the ineffable end point of his quest. On the side of the void as a purposefully constructed absence, Butler and Simmons describe the darkness poetically as “a space for words where no words would do, unfinished because unfinishable.”82 Indeed, the silence of this void has been read by some as a maturation of McCahon’s style, which deals with concepts beyond expression. Edmond, for example, sees the end of McCahon’s artistic career as a dignified silence when there is nothing more to say.83 He writes of the “progressive impoverishment” of McCahon’s oeuvre over the years, refining his images to the stark and minimal.84 Edmond sees silence as the ultimate means of shedding adornment and producing complete nakedness in art.85 McCahon’s dark void may be a creative and productive statement to his audience, regardless of the desolation it implies. Strangely, in seeming to abandon his nationalist quest, McCahon has inspired a great deal of nationalistic sentiment. His void has clearly helped in the articulation of New Zealand selfhood. So too has it provided a genuine voice of frustration and disappointment, which has assisted his audience in dealing

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with similar emotions. His void has also helped in the categorisation of these final works as pieces of great magnitude and power that transcend the mimetic and represent the spiritually unknowable. Clearly, McCahon has spoken to his audience and helped other people via these bleak final images. Nevertheless, none of the aforementioned comments demonstrate if McCahon himself was edified or assisted by his last paintings. The most negative possibility is the scenario in which McCahon ceased his creative pursuits, with I Considered all the Acts of Oppression functioning as a conscious and bitter end to his oeuvre. Carr believes we ultimately cannot know what these final works mean because of her father’s state of mind at the time. He was unable to communicate fully, thus we cannot know if he had intended this last painting to be an act of finality. Nevertheless, Carr thinks it odd that the work was found face down on the floor. To her, this seems like a closing of a book or chapter.86 It is reasonable to conclude that McCahon had decided he was a prophet who would not see the Promised Land ushered in; a true spiritual crisis for a man dedicated to social change along Biblical lines. Through this lens, McCahon’s void is the extinguishment of enlightenment at the end of a failed quest through the wilderness. Although the actual social impact of his last artworks may be read as positive and uplifting, there is little evidence to suggest that McCahon felt this way himself. As clearly demonstrated, the artist and his audience did not often think and act as one.

Christianity Denied and Affirmed McCahon shows despair in these final artworks as a reaction to the failure of his Promised Land— an enlightened New Zealand—to eventuate. Although the end of the supporting Nationalist Movement was a dampener on this dream, McCahon’s main anguish was the increasingly obvious unlikelihood of a new society based around his environmentalist and pacifistic Christian ethics. This anguish proves the seriousness of his prophetic ventures. Nevertheless, there is some debate over whether or not these final artworks are a discourse on Christianity presented by an adherent of this faith. Supporting the affirmative, Yule sees McCahon’s final works as part of a dialogue with faith as opposed to its denial. He cites works of a similar timeframe such as A Painting for Uncle Frank and Storm Warning as less bleak counterparts to a period of work that should be considered as a whole. He praises McCahon’s “firm grip on faith’s paradoxes.”87 The opposite attitude may also be observed. By the end of his painting career, Pound thinks that McCahon may have concluded God did not exist

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or was a “being of terrible malice.”88 He suggests the artist felt the universe was created by evil with no hope in anything.89 Representing a similar viewpoint, Turner believes that McCahon’s search for “paradise and pure Christianity” led to “ultimate disillusionment.”90 Edmond suggests that McCahon’s spiritual search may have even ended in Atheism. He believes McCahon’s final works show the end of his quest to find the “zone of the marvellous,” resulting in a realisation that all we have is the here and the now.91 These commentators suggest that McCahon has lost his faith in the goodness of God, or his faith in divinity altogether. Of course, religious feelings are not necessarily connected to, or dependent on, constant edification. For example, Hill writes of McCahon’s “cold Christian faith that was more concerned with finding a safe harbour in which to brood than any kind of contentment or inner peace.”92 Hill’s statement helps to present McCahon as a Christian who did not necessarily use his faith to overcome depression, but rather to enunciate and cope with his strains. There is no reason why this should invalidate his status as an adherent of the belief system. Although McCahon’s loss of optimism has raised questions of the level of hope throughout his oeuvre,93 and strongly influenced recent curatorial decisions along these lines,94 it does not negate his creative affiliation with Christianity. Even when McCahon shows doubts as to the resurrection of Christ or the benevolence of God to his prophets and people, he does so in the language and mythology of this tradition. Even a grim statement on the Christian God and his universe assumes the existence of a divine figure. McCahon was indeed a Christian, albeit one who was disassociated with formal bodies of faith and strict theology. Indeed, McCahon’s Christianity was deeply interwoven into his perception of painting as a social project. When society seemed to have ignored and mocked him, this naturally led to a crisis of faith. The presence of Christian word and motifs in these final artworks shows that religious considerations were still present in his vision. The Tau remains a central feature of most of the final artworks, acting as a powerful element of the visual rhetoric at play. This Christian symbol is interlocked with the human soul, represented once more as a dotted line, which forms the structure of the cross. This symbol speaks of the relationship between God and human. It speaks of grace moving downwards and salvation upwards. This supposes a God with whom we may interact. The dotted line may also imply that the connection to the divine is weak or broken, recalling the dissolving Tau of Storm Warning. McCahon seriously considered himself to be a prophet. These artworks represent the failure of his visual rhetoric, not merely his physical

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struggles as a result of illness. The Nationalist Project had come to an end by this era, and McCahon’s prophetic annunciations had fallen on deaf ears. The importance of this aspiration cannot be understated. In order to consider the implications of this communicative failure, McCahon’s interest in Moses is a useful lens.95 His Mosaic artworks began with hope for the future, faith in the trajectory of New Zealand’s culture, and acceptance of the prophetic role. Over the course of McCahon’s creative life, his Mosaic artworks became polluted by doubt as his audience failed to decode and embrace the spiritual and social signals of his art.96 I Considered all the Acts of Oppression concludes McCahon’s life as a prophet with a lament. The Bible is used as the language of his despair, annunciating the uncertainty and impatience of his prophetic journey. Regardless of their passion and empathy, none of the audience reactions discussed in this chapter actually exhibit a drive towards social change as a result of McCahon’s visual rhetoric. Audience members portray McCahon as a cultural symbol, McCahon as a representation of angst, and McCahon as an important artist. What is notably absent is any kind of declaration of the necessity for new values or behaviours as a result of his rhetorical choices. In order to fully understand the impact of this reception, it is useful to consider how much the ‘correct’ audience reading of McCahon’s images matters. Butler and Simmons argue that McCahon’s ‘voice’ within his painting exists only as a connection between artwork and audience. They write, it exists only between the two, in the very moment of its transmission, between a work whose authority comes from its spectators and spectators whose authority comes from the work.

Butler and Simmons call this a “tautological and self-justifying system.”97 It is, clearly, a system of communication that relies upon the engagement between art object and art audience. Indeed, Butler argues that the “real subject” of McCahon’s work is their transmission from artist to viewer.98 McCahon’s viewers must have faith in the existence of a comprehendible symbolic lexicon in order to attempt to read these paintings as didactic or informative statements. Congruently, McCahon can only ‘speak’ to a willing audience who are receptive to the concept of a communicated ‘voice’. This is core to the very nature of visual rhetoric as elucidated by Foss. An image must be symbolic and communicative in order to function as part of a visual rhetorical system.99 As communication was McCahon’s desire, the breakdown of this system was tantamount to failure. And indeed the system often failed as audience members opted not to identify with the ‘language’ placed before

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them. McCahon’s body of work sought a relationship with his audience as he asked them to engage in a drive towards perceived social betterment. His intended reciprocal transmission failed. From these final paintings we may perceive the dramatic impact of this disappointment. McCahon’s images have always navigated the divide between faith and doubt, which should not be read as an indication of a lack of religiosity. Because McCahon was a Christian as opposed to an atheist or lapsed believer, these final images are best read as reflections of the anguish caused by what he perceived as the overwhelming collapse of his prophetic ventures.

Storm Warning: A Conclusion Moses was not permitted by God to reach the Promised Land—this is the place where the painter never arrives.100

The prophetic search for the Promised Land was one of great tribulation for McCahon. His sustained engagement with this aim illuminates the correlation between desperation and melancholy in McCahon’s oeuvre and his perceived failures. McCahon had very demanding and specific standards of reception for his artworks, which, on the whole, went unsatisfied. The final image to be explored in this study is Storm Warning (1980-1981). This artwork is a neat summary of the anxiety and failure that coloured McCahon’s latter-day prophecy. It depicts an erosion of the relationship between God and humanity, and shows an overtly apocalyptic vision. In terms of audience reception, this work evidences the fascinating disjunction between intent and response. While the grim eschatological tidings of Storm Warning did not bring about social change, the perceived power and meaningfulness of this image resulted in a bitter dispute over ownership and privatisation. Although this doubt grew greater and darker by the end of his creative life, McCahon never abandoned the role of prophet. He believed that “[w]hat has been communicated” is “the only importance a work of art has.”101 Instead, McCahon was left with the idea that he was a failed prophet in a nation that was turning to ruin. Storm Warning is an excellent summary of this anguish. If The Promised Land depicted optimism and working towards a better and more enlightened future in 1948, Storm Warning shows an uncontrollable decent into blackness and chaos some thirty years later.102 Despite this, McCahon still shows a desire to prophetically communicate, and his symbolic lexicon still draws from the same key symbols. His religious position is not greatly altered. What has

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changed is his mood and his level of optimism, a direct reflection of his perceived failings as part of the project to usher in a better New Zealand. Storm Warning employs colour—a rare device in McCahon’s latterday style—to portray an alarming message. His Tau glows fiercely, bringing to mind Edmond’s suggestion of a “radioactive miasma” of apocalyptic vision that hangs over the final paintings.103 These colours are used to create an image of smoke and flame that heralds disaster. This also mimics the fog of his previous works, alluding to blindness and stupidity.104 His dour text reads: YOU MUST FACE THE FACT the final age of this world is to be a time of troubles. men will love nothing but money and self they will be arrogant, boastful and abusive; with no respect for parents gratitude, no piety, no natural affection they will be implacable in their hatreds.

McCahon’s heading is brutal. “YOU MUST FACE THE FACT” leers out from the top of the work. The following text is no kinder, despite the use of flowing cursive. McCahon takes his words from the book of 2 Timothy. In keeping with the image of destruction, this passage speaks of the end times. Humans are characterised as selfish, troublesome, disrespectful, and fuelled by hate. No redeeming features are discussed. Unlike McCahon’s earlier works, he does not offer us a way through the trouble or suggest that a Promised Land may lie in our future. His destruction is not negotiable. He warns of what will come with no sympathy for humankind. If McCahon is still a prophet, he is one who only brings news of doom and none of social reformation. This is quite different to his aims of the past. The second Gate series warned: THERE SHALL BE A VISITATION WITH THUNDER, AND WITH EARTHQUAKE AND GREAT NOISE, WITH WHIRLWIND AND TEMPEST, AND THE FLAME OF A DEVOURING FIRE

Storm Warning is a final manifestation of this bleak prophecy. If the Gate series is seen as encouragement to move through destruction into peace,

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Storm Warning should be read as the dire consequences of ignoring this message. At least three Tau crosses can be seen amidst the flames. The load bearing structure appears damaged and is falling apart. O’Brien describes it as having been dissolved in the acid bath of the oncoming storm.105 Through this acidic haze, McCahon speaks of a deterioration of the relationship between God and man. Hopes for enlightenment are lost in the smoke and fog. Employing his well-established lexicon of motifs,106 McCahon morphed transcendent spiritual light into the acid bath of Hell, eroding away his most profound symbol of loving, reciprocal spiritual power. The social history of this artwork is also revealing. The furore surrounding the sale of Storm Warning highlights its special place in New Zealand art history, and also the romanticised view of McCahon in his latter years and after his death. It raises questions about the way in which McCahon was received as a religious commentator. The artwork was gifted to Victoria University in 1981 due to its active religious studies department and connection to theological academics such as Lloyd Geering.107 Many supporters of McCahon and admirers of the image presumed that ownership would be permanent. The work was, however, unexpectedly sold by Victoria University’s Art History department in 1999 in order to fund the Adam Art Gallery.108 After a buyer was secured, a note by McCahon was discovered in which he stated that the work was to be public and not to disappear into a private collection. This was not legally binding and sale went ahead amidst criticism.109 It has, as such, been mythologised as an unnecessary and underhanded move. Bill Ralston received several anonymous faxes alleging “devious goings-on.”110 Numerous commentators—O’Brien is of particular note111—criticise this move as financially motivated and disrespectful of McCahon’s wishes.112 Most criticism centres on the idea that Storm Warning is more than just an investment. It is perceived as a powerful spiritual totem that deserves to remain on public display.113 The painting has become a symbol of the increasing value of McCahon’s art as a commodity due to his posthumous reputation and changes in the ethos of small galleries.114 This leads to questions of how the painting should be read, what kind of object it is, and where it belongs. Yule, for example, finds the sale of Storm Warning into a private collection “disquieting.” He feels that it should stay in the public domain where McCahon designed it to be housed.115 O’Brien agrees that Storm Warning has been turned into “a ‘gift’ in the material sense only.”116 He believes that viewing artwork as a commodity disarms its true meaning,117 and reflects the rise of capitalist culture.118

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Mary McFarlane, Dear Wee Storm Warning (1999), ink on paper, published in Sport 23. Reproduced with permission from Gregory O’Brien and Fergus Barrowman.

This supports the common—perhaps romanticised—argument that McCahon’s output is a set of spiritual tokens and guides as opposed to merely paint upon a surface. Through this lens, readings that focus primarily on the formal quality of the work are rejected as insufficient.119 Indeed, O’Brien recommends that one simply stand before the painting and experience it without the use of an intrusive methodological framework.120 Furthering a discussion on this perspective, Edmond divides McCahon’s audience (especially those who buy his works) into two categories: those who see the paintings as sites of meaning and communication versus those who understand them only as investment pieces.121 Recounting the narrative of Isaiah 53, Edmond suggests that McCahon’s body [of work] was taken from the cross and given to the rich.122 Both O’Brien and Edmond deny typical models of art history and commerce, claiming that McCahon’s spiritual message is ill suited to these worldly discourses. Such a mindset fits the perception of McCahon’s paintings as imagined acheiropoieta. For those who interact with his works as such, a secular lens is seen as deficient for understanding Storm Warning. A consumerist lens is presented as outright damaging. This artwork has become, to some, an important cultural item that transcends the economy and the formal qualities of paint. These aforementioned commentators present the painting as a precious spiritual object that needs to remain in the public sphere in order to dictate an important message. It is likely that McCahon would have been pleased to hear of his art being treated in this manner. Of course, this controversy happened over a decade after his death. In the early nineteen-eighties, at the end of his artistic career, McCahon was

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creating grim and upsetting pieces that speak of the loss of hope and the pain of the failed prophetic quest.

Final Thoughts Being that it is one of McCahon’s last paintings, Storm Warning is a point from which the artist’s prophetic journey may be summarised, along with the comingled thread of audience reception. Although it was reflective of his changing societal context, McCahon’s religious position was generally sustained throughout his adult life. His spirituality was born out of a nationalistic worldview that sought to usher in the Promised Land of New Zealand culture, prioritising a love of the landscape and a distinctly localised vision. McCahon’s self-determined prophetic mantle was the lens through which he created his artworks, providing a far greater guidance than any particular artistic genre. McCahon’s art pointed out a ‘direction’ geared towards peace, fraternity, and ecological preservation as the tenets for a society that could gain spiritual fulfilment from the Christian God. Although he never settled on a church, this remained McCahon’s guiding principle. His drive toward a Biblical Promised Land is profoundly evident in his Early Religious Works where time collapses to fuse modern New Zealand with scriptural narrative and the moral lessons contained therein. So too do they form a language with which to express the prophetic drive, imbued at this stage with an amount of optimism. Equally fundamental was McCahon’s exploration of the landscape as a site of spiritual drama and transcendence, coupled with a cry to love the neglected wilds of New Zealand. McCahon’s developing style never strayed from its Biblical origins or prioritisation of the spiritual bounty of the natural world. His Necessary Protection series spelled out a symbolic lesson of faith and nourishment, while his Beach Walk paintings encouraged the viewer to journey with Christ along the Muriwai coast in order to alleviate spiritual blindness. MƗori beliefs were merged with Christianity to create a syncretic supra-culture aimed towards peace and indigenisation of the PƗkehƗ. McCahon also used his art as a means of negotiating the perceived evils of war and industrialisation, which he saw as diametrically opposed to the peace and spiritual power of the natural world. With his iconic Word Paintings, McCahon reached out as a poet/prophet with a desperate desire to communicate his message, albeit one tinged with spiritual doubt. This drive to communicate may be observed throughout his body of work. The presence of disillusionment and anguish in McCahon’s oeuvre may be attributed to the disjunction between message and reception. His

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stylisation was often seen as ugly or blasphemous, and his messages were frequently received as unwanted evangelical intrusions into a largely secular society. Although his oeuvre also received a great deal of praise, particularly in the latter stages of the century, McCahon’s audience never desired the Promised Land he presented with the kind of passion or engagement the artist wanted. While these emotions were indeed felt by some, they were never employed in the creation of tangible social revolution. McCahon’s specific and demanding standards of reception were never satisfied, and his vision of social betterment never came to fruition. McCahon’s body of work is replete with this growing sense of a failed prophetic quest. Through a thematic analysis of his artworks and their reception, it is clear that the majority of his aims failed. McCahon was an artist with a clear social agenda, strongly influenced by the Nationalist Movement. This inspired McCahon regarding the necessity of constructing New Zealand culture, albeit a vision tinged with agony and labour. His clear desire to enact social change has led to a popular perception of McCahon as a prophet. Interestingly, he has not been as universally acknowledged as a Christian, despite the recurrent presence of this tradition in his body of work. McCahon’s Christian faith should be recognised, even if there is no official church body with which one may link him. McCahon’s highly personalised Christian vision feeds into the aforementioned nationalist construction of culture, with an emphasis on the necessity of peace and ecological conservation. Nevertheless, it is here where we may begin to see a schism between audience and artist. New Zealand’s PƗkehƗ audience may have yearned for a distinct and meaningful culture, but their inherent secularity meant that McCahon’s specifically Christian vision was problematic. In terms of contextualising McCahon as an artist, much has been said on his connections to other artists and art movements. These correlations are valid so long as they are understood in the specific context of New Zealand modernism, and tempered by a consideration of McCahon’s very particular communicative desires. The New Zealand audience for modern art was remarkably small, and the movement was often considered to be indulgent. Nevertheless, McCahon’s work gained popularity and acceptance over the decades. Although it is tempting to read McCahon in terms of his position as a modern artist and his connection to others in this category, this lens does not adequately reveal the very particular social aims that McCahon wished to propagate via painting. Instead, it is most appropriate to consider McCahon in light of his own claims on what an artist should be. McCahon was very interested in the notion of ‘direction’,

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and felt that a genuine artist was one who used his or her output as a means of illuminating certain goals. His particular goals related to the construction of culture along Christian lines. McCahon emphasised the importance of an art object reaching beyond its frames or its gallery and functioning as part of a broader social project. The two core elements of McCahon’s visual rhetoric are representations of Biblical stories, often conveyed in an empathetic manner, and the spiritual value of the New Zealand landscape. Via his Biblical references, McCahon aimed to convey his spirituality in a manner that was real and immediate to his audience and their context. This is a clear example of his desire to connect the construction of New Zealand identity to Christianity. In his Early Religious Paintings, McCahon also sought to speak out against war by presenting Christ as a source of illumination and purification as counter to aggression. It is in this context that we first see the Promised Land, with McCahon as a guiding prophet. This early manifestation of the Promised Land was an inherently optimistic venture. Although McCahon always implied the need for labour and the difficulties of social change, his earlier works show faith that this social change is possible. Nevertheless, audience responses to these Early Religious Paintings were not especially positive. The comic book stylisation, employed as a tool of direct speech, was generally received as crude and simplistic. Far more successful was McCahon’s use of the natural world as source of national spirit. The drive towards ecological preservation is clearly prioritised in McCahon’s religious ideals, and also in his works concerning the landscape. He wished to convey that the land was a protective and vital force, dichotomised with war and destruction. McCahon’s desire to construct culture is reflected in his constant calls for New Zealanders to truly reside within their own landscape as opposed to reaching back to Britain for an identity. This call to a relationship with the land has been broadly successful, with many respondents describing McCahon as someone who captures the ‘real’ and ‘true’ New Zealand. He is seen as an artist who conveys the essence of nationhood. In an attempt to refine and clarify his visual rhetoric, McCahon employed coastal artworks in which Muriwai and similar locations were used as a means of annunciating theological considerations and concerns. In these images, McCahon’s ecological focus is clear. He presents the land as a nourishing and protective force, and as a vocabulary for prescribing his religious lessons such as spiritual jumps. So too is this focus present in his use of the beach as an aid to grief. McCahon attempts to employ the coastal environment as a means of expressing tools that may be used by

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his audience to negotiate their lives, faith, and troubles. Despite this, McCahon’s symbolism to this end is very obscure and complex. It is apparent that his lessons cannot be penetrated if an audience member is unable to study his works and statements in detail. This obscurity was, clearly, a major problem. Disheartened by PƗkehƗ culture, McCahon became increasingly interested in MƗori culture and religion. Within colonial MƗori history, McCahon found relatable narratives of prophetic Christian movements centred on peace. He also saw MƗori people as having a deeper relationship with the land. This was, of course, politically complex. The Nationalist Movement called for the invention of culture, which necessarily implies that pre-existing MƗori culture does not properly exist. So too are there conflicting issues of representation and ownership when PƗkehƗ artists use sensitive material such as whakapapa. These problematic dimensions are epitomised in McCahon’s Urewera Mural, which has been a clear site of cultural tension. Here we see a division between audience members who see McCahon as the creator of a powerful discourse on the majesty of the land, versus those who see him as an artist who stole or misrepresented material belonging to another culture. In his later works, McCahon was also increasingly troubled by political tensions such as the Cold War. This led him to believe that his message of peace and respect for the environment had gone unheard. Through the prophets Moses and Christ, McCahon was able to describe his concerns, fears, and failures. These latter artworks show the development of the artist’s feelings towards the likelihood of social redemption. In the Early Religious Paintings, an enlightened New Zealand in the wake of World War Two seemed an imminent possibility. With the emergence of the Cold War, hopes were fading. Nevertheless, McCahon did not abandon his pedagogical aims. The Gate series was a productive discussion on the presence and negotiation of obstacles. These rapidly closing gates depict the pressure of impending war and potential destruction, but also offer a way through the turmoil via the redemptive powers of Christ. In associated series such as Waterfalls, McCahon shows Christ’s powers of ablution and the erosion of social evils. McCahon was clearly worried that his audience were likely to miss the ever-narrowing gateway into social betterment. This was not unreasonable, as there is little evidence that his artworks were able to inspire the social change desired. McCahon’s Word Paintings are a clear reflection of his latter-day frustrations, as they demonstrate his desire to speak clearly and to address his audience with as direct a voice as possible. These images act as a

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bridge between verbal and visual communication with McCahon functioning as both a painter and a poet. With the visual directness of a blackboard or a road sign, McCahon presented a discussion of Christianity, the role of the prophet, and his wavering faith in the Promised Land. These images are perhaps McCahon’s most renowned pieces, praised for their originality. Yet this praise is largely connected to formalist concerns and often ignores his social messages. The frustration McCahon felt becomes most abundantly clear in his final four artworks, grim Word Paintings with bleak and desolate themes. These final paintings make his failure to communicate abundantly clear. They enunciate his latter-day desperation and anguish. Gone is the optimism of his early career. McCahon’s high standards of reception demonstrate an anticipation of real social change as a result of his paintings. He wished to reform New Zealand under a system of Christianity that prioritised pacificism and love for the natural world. Elements of these aims have been achieved to various degrees. Yet, on the whole, McCahon failed to inspire the change that he desired. While his Promised Land of New Zealand may have started off as an optimistic glimpse into the future, it ended with the decaying relationship between humanity and God as seen in Storm Warning. His complex and interconnected artworks outline a comprehensive social programme for betterment, yet their complexity frequently prevents the desired understanding of their visual rhetoric. Although McCahon has tangibly contributed to the construction of a distinct New Zealand identity, the secular core of this culture has meant that vital elements of his religious vision have been ignored or misunderstood.

Notes  1

William McCahon, introduction to Colin McCahon: The Last Painting (Auckland: Peter Webb Galleries, 1993), 2. 2 This work is difficult to date, as it was discovered without detail in 1987. Although its sister artworks were dated as 1982, Brown believes they were substantially completed in 1980. See: Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 14. 3 William McCahon, introduction, 2. 4 Hart describes I Applied My Mind as a “careful, obsessive journey of words … good and bad have merged. There is no space left.” See: Hart, “Colin McCahon: Writing and Imaging a Journey,” 8. The same could be applied to most of these final paintings. 5 Usefully, White notes McCahon’s high degree of receptiveness to suffering, both in himself and others. She writes, “Through the artist-prophet figure he evokes the

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 saving death and resurrection of Christ. This priestly role must carry the burden of the human condition on behalf of the whole world, like Christ carrying his cross. His lifelong questioning of human transgression caused him to suffer intermittent doubt as to the existence of a just God.” See: White, “Antipodean Translations,” 7. 6 Edmond illustrates the uncomfortable anxiety in these late works by claiming that he wants McCahon to stop, to rest, to die, and to be relieved of his pain. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 121-122. 7 Allen Curnow, “Poem XII,” in Not In Narrow Seas (Christchurch: Caxton Press, 1939). 8 Pound, “Topographies,” 123. 9 Pound, “Topographies,” 133. He also describes the movement becoming “unstuck” in 1968. See: Pound, Stories We Tell Ourselves, 12. Pangs of failure can even be read in the nationalistic introduction to the Penguin Book of New Zealand Verse (1960) in which Allen Curnow still calls New Zealand a country “which even yet wears its national identity hobbledehoyishly.” See: Allen Curnow, introduction, The Penguin Book of New Zealand Verse, 18. 10 McCahon to Nola Barron [19 Dec. 69] in Pound, “Topographies,” 123. 11 Pound, “Topographies,” 132. Pound does, however, ponder if the Nationalist Movement is truly gone or no longer needed. After observing the recently redeveloped National Library he remarked, “[i]t has a pohutukawa motif in wrought iron and I thought, ‘That’s nationalistic.’ By chance I’d taken a book on six Dutch architects away on holiday and there’s not a tulip in it. Part of me thinks that it’s still here, that anxiety to make that kind of New Zealand mark on things.” See: Pound in Wichtel, “Seeing the Light.” 12 Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 21. 13 Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 20. 14 Pound suggests that the themes of the Nationalist project did not vanish after 1970. Instead, most were rebirthed with altered meaning. For example, modern conservationism—a current project of constructing/protecting nationhood—has emerged out of older ‘green’ themes. See: Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, 361. McCahon’s later works like the Gate series could even be read as transitional pieces. 15 McCahon to Barron [19 Dec. 69] in Pound, “Topographies,” 123. 16 Brown is ever-cautious in his employment of biographical factors in the interpretation of McCahon’s art, which is most likely connected to his discouragement of too much conjecture and personalisation in the interpretation of their meaning. To this end, he explains that in McCahon’s latter artworks “a thread of associated ideas does show itself; ideas more pertinent to McCahon’s own dispirited state of being than was realized, at the time, by his most intimate friends.” Brown states that an understanding of McCahon’s depressive state as depicted in his imagery is usually the result of “accumulated hindsight.” See: Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 190. 17 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 17. 18 Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 25. 19 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33.

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 20

Brown claims that his “scepticism held in check his optimism.” See: Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 15. 21 For example, Prior recalls that he and his wife Elespie “had a strong sympathy for him because we could sense that he was having quite a hard battle.” See: Prior, Elespie and Ian, 71. The Barrs explain that McCahon’s drive towards privacy was for “protection.” See: Jim Barr and Mary Barr, “Public Figures, Private Lives,” Over the New and on the Table, June 29, 2009, accessed February 14, 2011, http://overthenet.blogspot.com/2009/06/public-figures-private-lives.html. Coley describes McCahon as “sensitive to the waves of denigration to which he and his work were often subjected.” He claims that McCahon was “hurt by influences of charlatanism and retired into seclusion.” See: Coley, “Colin McCahon – 19191987,” 2. His student from 1971-1972, Annie Baird, recalls, “[a]s a painting teacher he didn’t talk about his own paintings, but about the disappointments he had suffered … He felt he was rejected.” See: Annie Baird [1993] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 15. 22 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 58.50 – 59.05. Interestingly, McCahon claimed that what other people thought about his work was irrelevant to him. See: McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33. This is quite a confusing remark as a drive towards audience engagement is evident in every stage of his career. 23 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 17. 24 McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 33. 25 Ross Fraser, “Colin McCahon 1919-1987,” Art New Zealand 43 (1987): 45. 26 See: Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 37.12 – 37.30. 27 Lett thinks that McCahon had a complex and paradoxical personality. He was charming, lovely, and modest. He could also be capable of rage when affected by alcohol. See: Lett in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.00.07 – 1.00.36. 28 Claire Trevett, “Tax Viewed Through a Sherry Glass Darkly,” New Zealand Herald, May 8, 2003, accessed July 20, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/ article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=3500741. 29 Lett in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.00.36 – 1.00.41. 30 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 91. 31 William McCahon in Herrick, “Looking Back in Anger: Colin McCahon's Family Portrait.” William McCahon recalls that his father would be “consumed with rage at what was written by commentators about his work” but “remained pleasant and friendly to their face.” Nevertheless, he does ascribe some positivity to “damning criticism” as it made his father shift and develop thematic material in order to clarify it for them. See: William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 37. 32 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 56.13 – 56.40. 33 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. Unsurprisingly, Brown proposes that his alcohol addiction developed as a response to inner anguish and victimisation. See: Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 15. 34 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.02.07 – 1.02.56. 35 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 209. 36 Edmond, Dark Night, 17.

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37 Cartwright, Sweet As, 24. He also mentions Matthew McCahon who he befriended in the Ponsonby pub scene. With an excessive amount of pathos, Cartwright describes Matthew McCahon as a victim of his father’s carnage with “bovine eyes soaked in sadness.” 38 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.03.57 – 1.04.02. 39 Gordon H. Brown in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.04.50 – 1.05.22. Brown assisted by “stimulating Colin, getting him to respond with fresh eyes to his own work.” During this time, Brown also read he and Anne McCahon draft chapters from Colin McCahon: Artist. Although McCahon initially provided substantial emendations, he increasingly withdrew from the project. By the creation of the summary chapters, “Colin’s awareness had closed in upon itself.” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 3-4. 40 Caselberg, “Titirangi as Art,” 50. 41 Caselberg, “Retrospective,” 53. 42 Young, “Painting 1950-1967,” 4. 43 Tomory, “Art,” 183. 44 Interestingly, the press release for Te Papa’s exhibition ‘Colin McCahon: Four Paintings’ (2012) reads: “McCahon’s use of white suggests spiritual illumination— the triumph of life over death, faith over doubt, hope over despair.” See: “Michael Parekowhai, Colin McCahon, Jim Allen,” Te Papa, July, 2012, accessed July 30, 2012, http://www.tepapa.govt.nz/WhatsOn/exhibitions/Pages/MichaelParekowhai. aspx. These contemporary remarks are certainly reminiscent of Caselberg. 45 McAloon in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.06.40. 46 Pound believes that McCahon was trying to communicate actively in his last artworks, even through his state of despair. See: Francis Pound in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.07.07. 47 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 16. 48 O’Brien, “Some Disciplined Mayhem.” 49 Alexa M. Johnston in O’Brien, “Some Disciplined Mayhem.” 50 Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 29. In agreement with Johnston, Butler states that McCahon placed his paintings in important collections, cultivated influential collectors and curators, and made sure future scholars could access archives of his output. See: Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 30. After his death, McCahon’s family found out that all his paintings and drawings had been left to the Auckland City Art Gallery. See: William McCahon [1992] in Wood, Colin McCahon: The Man and the Teacher, 146. 51 Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 232. 52 Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 196. 53 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 11. 54 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 11. 55 Luit Bieringa in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.07.10. 56 ‘william blake’, September 15, 2006 (8:06 p.m.), comment on John Hurrell, “Can Paint Save Us? Will Words?” 57 Geering, Wrestling With God, 225. Geering finds it ironic that McCahon communicated the core notion of Ecclesiastes—the idea that nothing lasts—in a

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 manner that rejuvenated consideration of the text within New Zealand culture. See: Lloyd Geering, Such is Life! A Close Encounter with Ecclesiastes (New Zealand: Steele Roberts, 2010), 122. 58 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 49. 59 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 49. 60 Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 49. 61 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 209. 62 Colin McCahon, draft manuscript for Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition (1972). 63 Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 7. 64 Arguing along these lines, Pound views the blank space as a mute and unseeable void of the modernist sublime. He feels that McCahon’s failure to sign, date, or complete this work purposefully feeds into the abyss. Pound refers to it as a representation of death. See: Pound, “Endless Yet Never,” 11-12. 65 McCahon [1975] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 33.59. 66 McCahon [1975] in I Am: Colin McCahon, 34.08 67 Steve Kilgallon, “The Power of Black,” Sunday Star Times, June 10, 2011, accessed July 20, 2011, http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/5261784/The-power-ofblack. 68 Doris de Pont in Rebecca Barry Hill, “New Zealand’s Dark Obsession,” New Zealand Herald, February 24, 2012, accessed February 27, 2012, http://www.nzher ald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=10787448. 69 de Pont, “Why do we Wear Black? An Exploration of its History and Context,” in Black, 9. 70 Barry Hill, “New Zealand’s Dark Obsession.” 71 Bail, “I Am: On Colin McCahon,” 46. 72 Harriet Margolis, “Writing on the Wall: Films by Bridget Sutherland,” May 29, 1998, archived online July 31, 1998, accessed February 17, 2010, http://www.latrobe.edu.au/screeningthepast/reruns/rr598/HMrr3a.html. 73 Stead, Art Icons of New Zealand, 17. 74 Other examples include Tim Corballis’ short story ‘Efforts at Burial’, which compares a funeral to “the strong lines and muted colours of a McCahon.” See: Tim Corballis, “Efforts at Burial,” in Great Sporting Moments: The Best of Sport Magazine 1988-2004, ed. Damien Wilkins (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2005), 117. In a theological sense, Woollaston sees McCahon’s art as “necessarily tragic” due to its connection with the crucifixion. See: Woollaston, draft manuscript for “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 75 Karl du Fresne, “Why are Kiwis so Drab and Gloomy?,” The Dominion Post, October 11, 2011, accessed October 11, 2011, http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominionpost/comment/columnists/karl-du-fresne/5762698/Why-are-Kiwis-so-drab-andgloomy. 76 Carolyn Bain et al., eds, New Zealand (London: Lonely Planet Publications, 2006), 42. De Pont also promotes black as a point of difference between New Zealand and Australia. Speaking of nineteen-nineties fashion, she reports that black “was the colour of the fringe within fashion, of alternative, intelligent

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 fashion, in contrast to the flashier, sexier style of the Australian designers.” See: de Pont in Barry Hill, “New Zealand’s Dark Obsession.” 77 Damian Hackett in Britton Broun, “McCahon Paintings Fails to Sell at Auction,” The Dominion Post, November 18, 2010, accessed July 20, 2011, http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/4360370/McCahon-painting-fails-tosell. 78 “Passionate Patron of Art,” The Dominion Post, June 1, 2009, accessed May 18, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/arts/2461567/Passionate-patron-of-art. 79 Prior, Elespie and Ian, 72. 80 Prior, Elespie and Ian, 72. 81 For example, Christopher Hartney demonstrates that “the retelling of traumatic incidents within narrative can be a powerful way of mitigating that trauma.” See: Christopher Hartney, “Between National Censorship and the Limits of Representation: On Thyestes, Salò, Cultural Warnings and Trauma,” Literature & Aesthetics 21:2 (2011): 160. Thus, he proposes films like Salò as works “of trauma and healing.” See: Hartney, “Between National Censorship and the Limits of Representation,” 167. McCahon’s I Considered all the Acts of Oppression and its void of nothingness deal with doubt and failure directly, and thus may be tools of trauma curing trauma. 82 Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 332. 83 Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 235. 84 Edmond, Dark Night, 103. 85 Edmond, Dark Night, 104. 86 Carr in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.07.40 – 1.07.56. 87 Yule believes that McCahon’s art juxtaposes the eternity of God and the temporality of man. He does not expect every experience of faith to be filled with positivity. Yule views McCahon’s darker painting as a representation of a particular faith experience, not a denial of faith as a whole. In regard to the perceived negativity of McCahon’s final text-based artworks, Yule states, “[i]f this be a ‘collapse of faith’, it shows how far secular society, with its shallow optimism, has moved from the realism of the biblical view of life, to which McCahon bore witness while his powers lasted.” He suggests that McCahon’s paintings are best viewed through the Christian mindset of their creator, not the secular viewpoint of the typical art historian. See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” In support of Yule’s reading, Stuart criticises commentators who want to turn McCahon “into an artistic archetype of what they believe is the inevitable journey of New Zealand society from faith to doubt and secularism.” He believes the final paintings are part of “the continuing dialogue we can discern between faith and doubt throughout the whole of his life.” See: Stuart in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 88 Pound in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.06.15 – 1.06.34. 89 Pound in I Am: Colin McCahon, 1.06.15 – 1.06.34. 90 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 220. 91 Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 235. 92 Hill, “A Filter of Faith.”

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For example, Kristy Wilson, Artbash participant, ponders: “he poured his soul into the work and shared his personal search for something higher. It’s like he was aiming to portray the sublime and unseen, yet at the same time his work was so imperfectly human. If his search for the sublime, as in God, ended in nothing, in retrospect is much of his work really just full of hopelessness?” See: Kristy Wilson, September 14, 2006 (8:22 p.m.), comment on John Hurrell, “Can Paint Save Us? Will Words?” 94 For example, in 2008, the Dunedin Public Art Gallery presented a McCahon exhibition that specifically divided paintings of this late era into a ‘Dark Days’ strand. See: Dignan, “Rare Opportunity to Explore McCahon’s Work and Influence.” Savage believes that the chronological ordering of ‘A Question of Faith’ allowed viewers to see McCahon’s ongoing spiritual struggles. When ruminating on the final works, she remarked “it’s terrible, he’s completely lost his faith in humanity—it’s a man in breakdown, in despair.” See: Savage in Herrick, “McCahon’s Lonely Road.” From this viewpoint, McCahon’s oeuvre is a voyage into faith and prophecies that ends in a negative conclusion. The audience is left with the feeling that life is pointless, and God is absent (or unimportant) and unable to cure human ills. Bloem, original curator of ‘A Question of Faith’ specifically intended to show just this. See: Bloem, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” 15. In regard to her reading of McCahon, Bloem states: “I believe in his art, but his own faith in it ultimately failed, because he stopped painting at a certain point.” See: Bloem in Crow, “Spreading the Word.” 95 Indeed, Grimshaw believes that all of McCahon’s paintings are variations of the “Mosaic Promised Land.” See: Grimshaw, “Believing in Colin,” 191. 96 For example, McDonald traces his abject fear of failure back to 1976 with AM I Scared Boy (EH) where the fading block of yellow light shows a diminishing faith in the Promised Land. See: McDonald, “Roadworks,” 51. 97 Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 345. 98 Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 20. 99 Foss, “Theory of Visual Rhetoric,” 143ff. 100 McCahon to Barron [19 Dec. 69] in Pound, “Topographies,” 123. 101 McCahon [c. 1966] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 147. 102 Brown also briefly compares these two artworks. In regard to the text of Storm Warning, he writes “these are the very things that contribute to the destruction of what the Promised land should be. Where now is McCahon’s vision of a peaceful land free from poverty or want?” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 134. 103 Edmond, Dark Night, 111. Similarly, Edmond notes an ochre band on the far right of The Emptiness of all Endeavour: Triptych, which he sees as “some kind of equivocal light to come.”103 He cannot tell if this is the light of dawn or hellfire. See: Edmond, Zone of the Marvellous, 234-235. 104 Many respondents to the piece agree with this reading of anxiety and impending doom. Indeed, Trevor Reeves calls it “an image of drear negativity.” See: Trevor Reeves, “Reviews of Recent Books,” Southern Ocean Review, accessed October 27, 2011, http://www.book.co.nz/revrev.htm. Edmond believes the “apprehension of catastrophe makes you doubt the possibility of redemption, just as you may also

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 doubt that any new human world will succeed ours when it falls at last into flames.” See: Edmond, Dark Night, 88. Working from a theological perspective, Mossman feels that the reds and black of this painting should be read as “evoking meanings of sacrifice, death, hope, but still though the colours of New Zealand – the colours of MƗori art.” See: Mossman in Mossman and Stuart, “Colin McCahon.” 105 O’Brien, “What Has Been Communicated.” 106 For example, Pound believes that van der Velden’s Otira River (Mt Rolleston) with its silhouetting of light against dark is reminiscent of McCahon’s output. Storm Warning is an obvious example of this correlation. Van der Velden used light as a symbol of Jesus and darkness as a symbol of the unending battle between them. See: Pound, Frames on the Land, 102. As previously discussed, van der Velden’s motto “Colour is Light—Light is Love—Love is God” directly influenced McCahon in his artistic practice. Via this reference to van der Velden, Storm Warning reaches back to the earlier days of McCahon’s creative output. As a side note, it is also interesting to consider that van der Velden’s decline was of a similar nature to McCahon’s. Tomory describes how “[i]n his last years he resorted to the consolation of alcohol and painted little. He exhibits the tragedy of the serious artist brought to his knees, not by antagonism, but by the sheer indifference of society.” See: Tomory, “Art,” 197. 107 Gregory O’Brien, “Metamorphoses,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed July 14, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d3-d1-d9.html. Additional information supplied to O’Brien by Alexa M. Johnston. 108 A comparable skirmish took place in 2009 when the Lower Hutt council attempted to sell Through the Wall of Death: A Barrier. The Barrs provide an account of this from a similar perspective to O’Brien. See: Jim Barr and Mary Barr, “Dowse Makes Moves to Flog Off Major McCahon,” Over the Net and on The Table, August 21, 2009, accessed June 1, 2011, http://overthenet.blogspot.com /2009/08/dowse-makes-moves-to-flog-off-major.html. 109 O'Brien maintains that “[t]he recent metamorphosis of Storm Warning into capital would certainly never have been a possibility McCahon would have entertained.” See: O’Brien, “Metamorphoses.” He thinks the sale of this artwork is like “McCahon's pessimism confirmed.” See: O’Brien, “‘McCahon's Gift is Still With Us’.” 110 Teri Fitsell, “Ralston Puts His Art and Soul into Show,” New Zealand Herald, May 13, 1999, accessed August 9, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/ article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=6531. 111 O’Brien has composed a poem of the same name, which borrows similar themes of blindness, deafness, and an oncoming disaster. See: Gregory O’Brien, “Storm Warning,” [1999] in Brown, The Nature of Things, 74. Brown acknowledges this poem as, on one level, a protest against the sale of Storm Warning. See: Brown, introduction, 10. 112 O’Brien reports that contacts close to McCahon felt that he would have been “appalled” by the sale. See: Gregory O’Brien, “Get Up, Stand Up,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed July 14, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-

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 body-d3-d1-d8.html. He also worries that the appropriate MƗori authorities were not consulted before this gift, belonging partially to them, was sold. O’Brien reads this as a questionable act in a supposedly bicultural university. See: Gregory O’Brien, “‘McCahon's Gift is Still With Us. We Have Just Changed the Nature of That Gift’,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed July 14, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scho larly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d3-d1-d11.html#Ba23Spo-fig-Ba23Spo031ahtml. 113 On this note, O’Brien recalls discussion amongst dissenters that the work might become involved in the kind of “committed re-claiming” experienced with the Urewera Mural. See: O’Brien, “‘McCahon’s Gift is Still With Us’.” 114 Indeed, Easton believes that the sale of Storm Warning is the consequence of “commercialisation policies spreading into the cultural sector.” See: Brian Easton, “KULTURKAMPF: Commercialisation Wars Against Arts,” Brian Easton, July 31, 1999, accessed August 16, 2010, http://www.eastonbh.ac.nz/?p=277. 115 Yule also points out the materialism at play. Although he believes McCahon warned that the spiritual side of life was the most important, his work was made inaccessible to public galleries due to its monumental price tag. See: Yule, “How the Light Gets In.” 116 Gregory O’Brien, “Nostalgia,” Sport 23 (1999), accessed July 15, 2010, http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d3-d1-d6.html. Curnow mentions Storm Warning and its sale when speaking of McCahon’s desire to participate in an “economy of gifts rather than of commodities.” See: Curnow, “Muriwai to Parihaka,” 139. 117 O’Brien, “Nostalgia.” 118 O’Brien sees the sale as “some grim parable of the unstoppable, unmeasured opportunism of New Right economics” and Storm Warning as “exactly the kind of painting a university in the present monetarist era didn’t want around.” See: O’Brien, “‘McCahon's Gift is Still With Us’.” 119 For example, O’Brien criticises the mainstream, secular appraisal of Storm Warning, which labels it as “primarily an example of semiotic sampling, an ambivalent re-rendering of lines from the New English Bible.” He blames this attitude for the university’s decision to sell the work. He suggests that they were unable to read it for what it was. See: O’Brien, “What Has Been Communicated.” He believes that Storm Warning is a difficult piece to cope with due to its confrontational nature. O’Brien advises against “retreating into formalism and seeing it as entirely self-referential and contained within a Modernist tradition of art speaking only to itself.” He points out that McCahon’s interactions with this school of representation had not prevented him from inserting “stridently voiced messages.” See: O’Brien, “Impeded and Unimpeded View.” 120 O’Brien, “Impeded and Unimpeded View.” 121 He asks if a painting such as I Considered All the Acts of Oppression can survive its own price tag. See: Edmond, Dark Night, 128. 122 Edmond, Dark Night, 130.

APPENDIX ONE POSTHUMOUS REPUTATIONS (1987-2015)

McCahon has a special position in the public imagination as New Zealand’s most prominent modern artist. This has led to criticism of high auction prices in the context of his artistic goals or stylistic choices; accusations of ‘lesser’ works denuding his hallowed presence in galleries; and an attempt to re-position him as a countercultural artist. In terms of overseas reception, McCahon is yet to see the same fame he has achieved in the domestic sphere, and his future prominence overseas is not commonly predicted. Examination of these posthumous trends is a useful way of understanding of the long-term impact of his visual rhetoric on a changing audience.

Popular Fame and Criticism In 2001 Michael Fitzgerald claimed, “[f]ourteen years after his death, [McCahon’s] shadow looms larger than ever.”1 In the proceeding decade, This statement remains accurate. The value of McCahon’s art has increased from 1987 onwards, and, if anything, his popularity is still on the rise.2 Cartwright feels that the deregulation of the New Zealand economy in the nineteen-eighties allowed the cognoscenti to profit from the emerging trade of McCahon’s paintings, which he presents in this context as trophies for the greedy elite.3 Interest in acquiring these pieces has indeed grown. In 2006 McCahon was described as the litmus test for the top-end of the New Zealand auction market.4 In August of 2009 Let Be, Let Be was sold for over $1.1 million, setting the record for the highest auction price of a New Zealand artwork.5 The Chief Executive of Te Papa has stated that $2.75 million is a reasonable price for a major McCahon painting,6 and a 2012 New Zealand Herald article described the purchase of a million dollar house as an easier feat than acquiring a McCahon original.7 In the wake of the global financial crisis, McCahon’s artworks have become desirable investments due to their enduring value. In 2012 Hamish Coney explained:

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[m]ajor paintings and sculptures, like a Colin McCahon, have an accumulated weight of cultural meaning that doesn’t vanish overnight. It’s not like buying shares in a company that two years later turns out to be fizzer.8

There is an irony here, as McCahon’s refusal to create commercially palatable objects is presently fuelling their commercial desirability and cultural importance. Epitomising this is the 2011 ‘Behind Closed Doors’ exhibition pamphlet. This document recapitulates the common current description of McCahon as New Zealand’s greatest artist. The evidence given for this is “the seriousness of his purpose” and the creation of ‘paintings to live by’ in “an era when art was being stripped of its ethical and spiritual meaning and reduced to mere material surface and exchangeable commodity.”9 Retrospectively, McCahon’s fame and value is often traced to his eschewal of popular and profitable trends for the sake of his original vision. Thus, he is posthumously imagined as an artist who transcended cash value whilst his output simultaneously dominates recordbreaking art sales. Due to a series of cultural shifts, McCahon has grown from an obscure and maligned painter into the champion of New Zealand modernism. His reputation as New Zealand’s greatest artist is often stated as though it is unquestionable. Butler calls him “the near-mythic painter revered as the greatest artist in the modern history of the country.”10 Cartwright agrees that he has been “deified” by dealer galleries, art theorists and wealthy tycoons.11 In the present era, McCahon has been named the “Elvis Presley and Bob Dylan of the art world,”12 “New Zealand’s most famous artist,”13 “New Zealand's most acclaimed contemporary artist,”14 “[o]ne of New Zealand’s greatest artists,”15 “the greatest painter this country has produced,”16 and “New Zealand’s major modernist”17 to mention but a few of his accolades. It is obvious that cultural attitudes have shifted and McCahon’s style of art is now seen as valuable, fashionable, and acceptable. Despite this, criticism against him seems as vitriolic as ever and his spiritual themes still cause discomfort. In many cases, complaints appear to be spawned by tall-poppy syndrome as audience members question whether or not McCahon deserves the fame lavished upon him. The internet has made these critiques readily available via blogs and forum postings. In 2005 one such participant remarked, “I think Colin McCahon was an over-rated complete nutter.”18 A similar point of view expressed is: “I just don’t buy into the ‘he’s a “name” so any rubbish he churns out must be good’ [sic] attitude.”19 Citing McCahon’s impact upon nationalistic sentiment, Scott Higham-Lee tweeted “is it un-new zealandish to think colin mccahon cant

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paint? its just words that dont make sense on a background. [sic]”20 Congruently, ‘Candide’ remarks, “had I lived in New Zealand in recent years my own judgement may have become clouded about McCahon because of the over-promoting and nationalism associated with this painter.”21 Although McCahon is generally celebrated for his contribution to national identity, this has also been a source of irritation for some viewers. The potential $1.5 million sale of a McCahon painting in 2009 led one internet user to declare: [a] couple of artists (one an art teacher) that I know will quietly tell the McCahons are rubbish. Quietly because the desperately ‘in’ people will talk up the marvellousness of McCahon and will vilify anybody who says otherwise.22

Negative comments about McCahon are often framed as reactions to his undeserved fame. Many respondents to his art feel as if McCahon’s popularity reflects a craze amongst critics and dealers rather than actual talent. Admiration of McCahon appears to be status quo, thus present-day commentators phrase their dislike of the artist as something taboo or counter-culture. So too is it seen as rebellious for an art critic to discuss low points in McCahon’s output. For example, Reid is brave enough to suggest that McCahon’s works are not all completed to the same high standard. He feels that McCahon’s art is “surrounded by the cachet of various agendas.”23 Reviews of his oeuvre are often affected by a desire to combat negative public opinion or to defend his place on the highest echelon of New Zealand modernism. Comparably, Reid complains “McCahon is most often turned into a mythic figure.”24 This does not leave much room for a formalist critique of his achievements. On this note McNamara admits that “[t]he adulation of McCahon’s work looks like becoming an industry. His unevenness as a painter is often overlooked.”25 He also feels that “McCahon was an increasingly uneven painter in his last years though he could achieve inexpressibly moving work.”26 The fear of being too negative towards McCahon shows the substantial changes in reception that have taken place since the nineteen-forties when formalist critiques abounded.27

‘Parade’ and Other Controversies In 1994, a special ‘McCahon Room’ was proposed for the Auckland City Art Gallery. Johnston explained this decision as, partially, a response to

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McCahon’s growing importance in the secondary and tertiary art syllabi.28 McCahon’s increasing magnitude in this era is evident in the staging of his artworks, and the reactions to these curatorial decisions. For example, in regard to the McCahon Room, Pound critiques the idea of McCahon as single, supreme national artist. He remarks: I place him very highly, but I nevertheless find it irritating the way there is, say, a McCahon Room. Why not a Mrkusich room or a Walters or an Angus room? Just picking out one – there’s something ludicrous about that. It’s like Holland could only have Rembrandt and not Vermeer.29

Here Pound makes the reasonable observation that many artists have been overlooked in the post-1987 quest to promote McCahon as New Zealand’s singular creative genius, while many others have been irritated by other artworks or artists that are perceived to detract from his greatness. The clearest example of a staging controversy emerged over the 1998 ‘Parade’ exhibition at Te Papa. The museum was criticised for displaying the Northland Panels next to a 1959 Kelvinator ‘Foodarama’ refrigerator, which was representative of scientific progress. This fridge was placed in a mock-up of a Farmer’s department store window. Nearby sat a nineteenfifties television playing contemporaneous advertisements and popular pottery of the era. Contextualising these curatorial decisions, Paul Williams believes that McCahon’s work was “art from a previous epoch” that was “put to the service of identity” in ‘Parade’.30 Therefore, Williams suggests that the Northland Panels could be read in this context as a “more traditional and elite reflection” of New Zealand beliefs.31 The depiction of McCahon as traditional and elite emphasises the degree to which his work was accepted and even canonised over time. This perspective is supported by suggestions that Te Papa were wrong to denigrate the Northland Panels by placing them in such a domestic, mundane exhibition. One of the curators of ‘Parade’, Paul Rayner, argues that both McCahon’s artwork and the fridge were reflective of American minimalism. He recalls critics finding it an “insult” to place this household item next to the work of a major painter. Revealingly, Rayner feels that the artworld of the nineteen-nineties were more to blame for the controversy than the general public, who seemed less phased by the contrast between the McCahon painting and contemporaneous whitegoods.32 Helping to reveal why this might be so, Williams writes of the unusual viewer experience in ‘Parade’. Because the exhibition handled everyday goods in addition to what would conservatively be deemed ‘art’, it is the everyday New Zealander (as opposed to the New Zealand artist or art critic) who is the central focus of the display. Williams writes:

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The glorification of the everyday creates an environment where taste validation is transferred from the curator-expert to the visitor, who, to bend the cliché, might not know much about art, but knows what he or she believes should qualify as such. The aim of making art and commodities equal partners in social and historical inquiry is to produce a co-operatively evolved text, where the object is denied transcendence and the visitors are ostensibly granted the right of interpretive authority above the curator.33

Boundary management was employed in abundance to shake off the aberrance of such an unusual approach to the hallowed art object. Northland Panels was seen as a ‘real’ artwork sullied by co-mingling with the mundane. Paul Walker and Justine Clark propose this controversy as an example of how criticism of Te Papa “has revolved around its failure to maintain, or more accurately its clear decision to repudiate, traditional category differences.”34 At this stage, McCahon was elevated enough the artworld that his work was perceived as an artistic standard rather than a peculiarity. Rayner mentions then-Prime Minister (and minister for the arts) Helen Clark’s comment that Te Papa was wrong to place such objects together.35 She is echoed by Fran Dibble who calls this particular blending of cultural items “probably the most spectacular example of how badly this can go.”36 Williams gives an in-depth description of the tension between Northland Panels and the nineteen-fifties domestic items surrounding it. He believes that Te Papa presented an era in New Zealand that had experienced a very high standard of living and was “culturally comfortable.”37 In direct contrast to these items of domestic comfort that speak to “a universal Western suburbia,” Northland Panels is “unnerving in its human absence.”38 Williams believes that McCahon’s artwork, and art in general, often seeks to reflect a different vision to mundane domestic realities, thus making it poorly suited to a display of commodities.39 It does not escape Williams’ attention that McCahon and other artists often operated in critique of mainstream consumerist culture.40 He also points out that the mundanity and loud, excited atmosphere of ‘Parade’ was a stumbling point for those who wanted to view Northland Panels in the traditional “austere and rarefied space of quiet contemplation conventionally assumed to befit transcendent modernist art – not unlike a church” of the traditional gallery.41 Denis Dutton was perhaps the most outspoken about ‘Parade’, writing: In this motley confusion, you’ll find Colin McCahon’s “Northland Panels,” one of this country’s most significant postwar paintings, jostled by an old TV and a Toby jug on one side, and some Hamada pottery and a 1959

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Kelvinator Foodarama fridge, complete with display from a department store window, on the other. A witless press release tries to justify this shoddy little stunt.42

Further emphasising the now lofty place of McCahon, Dutton remarks, “whinge about Te Papa’s charmless degradation of a New Zealand icon, and you’re just being ‘elitist,’ trying to maintain an outdated, snobbish caste system that still believes works of art are better than refrigerators.”43 ‘Parade’ also prompted criticism that MƗori artefacts have been given greater prominence than PƗkehƗ ones, and that PƗkehƗ art had been made profane by its inappropriate treatment in the gallery space.44 By the turn of the century, McCahon had become a standard for quality as opposed to a supposedly detrimental addition to the artworld. Revealing comparable attitudes to those underlying the ‘Parade’ controversy, Luke Wood received the following anonymous feedback to his Hocken Library McCahon typeface exhibition in 2003: I am shocked to see the McCahon project occupies the main gallery while McCahon originals are placed as secondary in the back gallery – Don’t see the purpose of this computer project, it seems to ‘cheapen’ the artist’s work. It merchandises and trivialises the work of McCahon.45

Again, McCahon is presented as an artist who should be foregrounded by the gallery, whilst other artworks in his vicinity are viewed as potentially detrimental to his images. Note also the suggestion that McCahon’s work should not be viewed in a mercenary manner. In this spirit, Roger Schülbeuys calls the SoFA exhibition of Luke Wood’s font “self-defeating and cheap.” He contrasts McCahon’s lettering, which was “strained out of blood, bone and muscle,” with Wood’s vinyl replication, finding the latter to be weak and pretentious.46 Wood’s work is seen to cheapen the original genius of McCahon. This shift in attitudes is also demonstrated via the controversy over the 2004 selection of a ‘donkey toilet’ artwork for New Zealand’s submission to the Venice Biennale. This contentious choice saw McCahon labelled as something that was seen as monstrous thirty years ago, but is now viewed in a very different light.47 Comparatively, Paul Sumpter’s text on intellectual property law quips that graffiti qualifies as a painting in the eyes of the law “just as a Colin McCahon masterpiece would.”48 Perspectives have certainly mutated since Fairburn’s “graffiti on the walls of some celestial lavatory” comment. McCahon has been shifted from renegade to mainstream.

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A Note on Recent Overseas Reception Even with the peak of his success in the mid-eighties, McCahon was still referred to as “relatively unnoticed beyond Australasia.”49 This was not an unreasonable observation. Turner notes that McCahon has been promoted as an example of New Zealand art overseas since the nineteen-sixties, but only gained the attention of a wider audience with his Sydney Biennale presence in 1984, three years before his death.50 Picking an even later date, Saines and Block mark the 1999 ‘TOI TOI TOI’ exhibition as the point at which McCahon finally received the acknowledgement in Europe that he deserves.51 Similarly, the New Zealand Herald describes this exhibition as the “breakthrough” of New Zealand artists in Europe, centred upon McCahon.52 This seems like a very late debut into the artistic mindset of the Northern Hemisphere. Two years later, a 2001 Australian exhibition of McCahon in the National Art Gallery of Victoria was reported by the New Zealand Herald as something as equally surprising as hearing OMC’s ‘How Bizarre’ in Miami or finding a MƗori carving in a Japanese park.53 It is suggested as a cultural abnormality, and thoroughly unexpected, to see McCahon enjoyed by foreigners – even in Australia. The Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam initiated the ‘Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith’ exhibition as a means of forcing the artist into mainstream art history. The aim was to make McCahon as familiar as Northern Hemisphere artists of the same era.54 Bloem and Fuchs also believed their exhibition would “at last offer an opportunity to appreciate the complex issues at the core of McCahon’s practice” for Australian and New Zealand viewers in addition to a European audience.55 This implies that such an opportunity was not available before 2002. Bloem complains that the New Zealanders she dealt with in the creation of the exhibition were difficult and did not want to share McCahon despite their flagging efforts to promote him on an international scale.56 She felt pressured to limit her exhibition to McCahon’s ‘mature’ late nineteen-sixties works in which he appeared to be “a slick, sophisticated Modernist” who would reflect well on New Zealand.57 Indeed, in his review of the exhibition, Skinner admits that McCahon’s work has become politically loaded due to his notoriety within New Zealand.58 He suspects attempts at censorship for the sake of an international audience. McCahon’s early, less modernist abstractions have been seen as too provincial to be shared.59 Skinner is not alone in this observation. Bail recalls the embarrassment caused by McCahon’s Biblical and dull-coloured artworks in the wake of Pop Art and its secular fluorescence.60 This conveys the sense of awkwardness felt by New Zealand towards his less refined or ‘modern’

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pieces, and also a desire to retain ownership of their most domestically renowned artist. Fuchs and Bloem suggest that small countries “prefer a natural discreetness in their cultural behaviour,” which is why a ‘secondrate’ German or American artist can be better known than a ‘first-rate’ New Zealand or Dutch artist.61 Bail does indeed warn that persons approaching a McCahon painting from outside New Zealand will “be struck by its concentrated awkwardness, its stubborn hectoring quality.”62 Here a line is drawn between local and international audience, suggesting that the latter will find his content brash and unrefined. Fuelling this cautious attitude, New Zealand-born Cartwright recalls a conspicuous lack of visitors when he attended the Stedelijk’s ‘Question of Faith’. He recollects a humiliating lack of ‘buzz’ that revealed what a “derivative, and often bad” painter McCahon really was.63 There is an enduring, but presently counter-cultural, belief that McCahon is simply undeserving of attention on the international stage. In an online forum, one participant claimed the following: I am interested in art and I can tell you that most New Zealand artists are fairly untalented by world standards. Some of the biggest names in NZ art wouldn’t get anywhere on the world stage – their work is derivative and poorly executed in many cases. Even our most “important” artist, Colin McCahon, is totally overrated, and is a good example of how we in NZ are prone to self-delusionment. [sic] The rest of the world doesn’t care about McCahon, and non-NZ art critics have been very unkind about his paintings. And yet the myopic art-scene here just can’t help hyping him up so some tasteless nouveau-riche collector will pay $500,000 for his hideous work.64

‘MrSocko’ is of a similar opinion: Colin McCahon used as his technique the simple and sole expedient of spraypainting Bible verses onto black canvas. That’s all. Only in a terminally backward little village such as New Zealand could such a fraud ever by [sic] doxologified [sic] by critics and the simpleminded public. The idea that this clown, or future clowns like him, are owed a tax-funded living, must rate as the last word in antipodean foolishness.65

Here we see a dismissal of New Zealand tastes as either backward or deluded, with McCahon presented as overrated, fraudulent, and part of a false economy. Unsurprisingly, McCahon’s supporters have suggested other reasons for his international absence than a deficit of talent. Jim and Mary Barr

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blame a lack of major pieces available for sale. They suggest that key international museums such as MoMA and the Tate have been unable to purchase works that would have seen McCahon represented in major Western museums.66 In a similar vein, Fuchs and Bloem were unable to interest any other museums in Europe or America to take on ‘A Question of Faith’, as they were concerned about his low profile.67 Adding another dimension to this overseas audience dilemma, Johnson feels that placing McCahon’s works in an international context can be deceptive as it discounts their regional attributes. She sees their main function as a personal vision of the New Zealand landscape.68 This was indeed McCahon’s aim, and it remains to be seen if his anti-touristic vision can significantly interest an overseas audience.69 There are a few commentators who argue that McCahon is internationally renowned. Front of house auction manager Leigh Melville calls him “New Zealand’s most recognised painter of much international repute.”70 Comparably, McAloon believes there is a “considerable market for his paintings in New Zealand and internationally.”71 Despite this, McCahon’s international presence is minimal when considered against his dramatic impact on New Zealand art. His distance from the centres of modernism and his deviations from generic conventions have often left him excluded from the retelling of art history in overseas textbooks and academic material. In a letter to Art New Zealand, one reader complains of Roy Lichtenstein’s designation as the first modern artist to focus on words as a narrative device within his paintings when McCahon’s work clearly fits into this category. The reader rather aptly suggests that art history focuses on those who were in the right place at the right time.72 Curnow agrees that American painting has been recorded as art history while recollections of McCahon are “condemned to autobiography.”73 McCahon’s isolation has left him to slip away largely unnoticed by international scholarship.74 Butler and Simmons believe that historical revisionism would be necessary in order to insert McCahon into international art history, and are not convinced that this would even be possible after so much time has elapsed.75 There also seems to be very little international interest in such a retrospective act. Art historians and audiences within New Zealand are also blamed for McCahon’s lagging international presence. In 2009, actor Sam Neill complained “there is no great book on Colin McCahon. That’s a national shame to me.” He expressed disappointment that Bail was never encouraged to write his definitive tome due to his Australian citizenship.76 This is an unusual remark considering books such as Brown’s Colin McCahon: Artist. Pound, in his introduction to The Invention of New

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Zealand: Art & National Identity 1930-1970, admits he “suspected that in their heart of hearts New Zealanders did not believe anything in this place to be of sufficient interest or worth to justify a large study.” He also notes that writing about New Zealand leads one to a highly limited overseas audience.77 It would be fair to say that paintings about New Zealand lead to a similar result.

Notes  1

Fitzgerald, “Soul Mining.” Interestingly, Butler and Simmons believe that McCahon worked hard to ensure that future spectators could observe his work. They argue that his oeuvre permits openness to the future and acts as a reflection of the concerns of new generations of art viewers. They compare this to the Hegelian notion that Christ continues to exist in the communities of his worshippers. See: Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 345. McCahon’s growing importance and acceptance is indeed indicated in acts such as, for example, his inclusion in The Nationbuilders (2002), a biographical document outlining skilled and visionary citizens of New Zealand who formed its very culture. A photograph of McCahon is one of a few featured on the back cover, and The Promised Land can be found on the front. 3 Cartwright, Sweet As, 24-25. 4 “NZ Record Price for MƗori Cloak Sold at Webb’s,” Scoop News, April 13, 2006, accessed July 5, 2009, http://www.scoop.co.nz/stories/BU0604/S00261.htm. 5 “McCahon Sets Another Record at $1.1 Million,” The Dominion Post, August 28, 2009, accessed July 5, 2009. http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/national/28090 33/McCahon-sets-another-record-at-1-1-million. Interestingly, the two comments left on this news page are highly critical: “Its [sic] a case of hype creating money. This emperor is not wearing any clothes” and “[s]omeone clearly has more money than sense. McCahon's paintings are awful.” These responders promote the idea that McCahon’s value is not equivalent to his artistic merit, fostered by fame as opposed to talent. 6 “Te Papa Says Price Reasonable,” One News, July 18, 2004, accessed July 10, 2009, http://tvnz.co.nz/view/news_national_story_skin/436765?format=html. 7 Geraldine Johns, “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?,” New Zealand Herald, April 15, 2012, accessed April 15, 2012, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm? c_id=1&objectid=10798999. 8 Hamish Coney in Nicola Russell, “Arts Fans Open Wallets With Glee,” Stuff.co.nz, January 1, 2012, accessed January 3, 2012, http://www.stuff.co.nz/busi ness/6205502/Arts-fans-open-wallets-with-glee. 9 Behind Closed Doors, 8. 10 Butler, “Periphery,” 109. 11 Cartwright, Sweet As, 24. 2

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Peter Dornauf, “Gordon Brown’s Recent McCahon Book,” EyeContact, July 29, 2010, accessed July 20, 2011, http://eyecontactsite.com/2010/07/gordon-brownsmccahon-book. 13 Necia Wilden, “Rural Bliss, With a Kiwi Edge,” The Age, November 13, 2008, accessed March 3, 2010, http://www.theage.com.au/travel/rural-bliss-with-a-kiwiedge-20081113-63rq.html; Gabriella Coslovich, “Blanchett Coverage,” The Age, April 17, 2008, accessed March 3, 2010, http://www.theage.com.au/news/arts/blan chett-coverage/2008/04/16/1208025284305.html. 14 Jeni Porter, “Hut Sweet Hut,” The Age, October 1, 2008, accessed March 3, 2010, http://www.theage.com.au/travel/hut-sweet-hut-20081113-63p5.html. 15 Colin McCahon: Land and Spirit. 16 “McCahon Honoured and Imitated,” 1. 17 Nick Waterlow, “Letter from Sydney,” Studio International, February 7, 2002, accessed March 8, 2010, http://www.studio-international.co.uk/reports/letter_sydne y.asp. 18 Dave Homewood, May 2, 2005 (3:47 a.m.), comment on “New Zealand.....?,” Key Publishing Ltd. Aviation Forums, May 2, 2005, accessed July 19, 2011, http://forum.keypublishing.co.uk/archive/index.php?t-42018.html. 19 Geoff McCaughan, May 13, 1999 (6:00 p.m.), comment on soc.culture.newzealand, accessed July 22, 2011, http://groups.google.com/group/soc.culture.newzealand/browse_thread/thread/d5472d7815f1af40/a2bf60690ae5407?pli=1. 20 Scott Higham-Lee (@scotthighamlee), June 19, 2011 (6:05 p.m.), Tweet, accessed 27 November, 2011, http://twitter.com/#!/scotthighamlee/status/8235831 5698491393. 21 ‘Candide’, November 19, 1999 (4:02 p.m.), comment on “Diary of a Frog – New Zealand Elections,” The Mote, November 19, 1999, accessed November 15, 2011, http://themote.info/archive/archive_nz-elections.htm. 22 ‘Rick’, August 21, 2009 (5:54 p.m.), comment on Fitzsimons, “McCahon Sale Could Net $1.5m for Council.” 23 Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” 24 Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” 25 McNamara, “McCahon’s Answering Hark.” 26 McNamara, “Work of Master Returns Home.” 27 Despite these comments, it is important to note that critics such as Brown have drawn attention to what they consider flaws or weaknesses in McCahon’s work for many decades. Brown, for example, has managed to do so in an even-handed manner that is motivated more by a sense of aesthetics and visual balance than it is by the shock of ‘ugly’ abstraction. 28 Alexa M. Johnston in “McCahon Room for New Contemporary Art Facility,” Colin McCahon Research and Publication Trust Newsletter 4 (1994): 2. 29 Pound in Wichtel, “Seeing the Light.” 30 Williams, “Parade,” 16. 31 Williams, “Parade,” 16. 32 Paul Rayner, “Paul Rayner: Painter, Curator, New Zealand,” Arts Dialogue (2001), accessed 19 July, 2011, http://bahai-library.com/bafa/r/rayner.htm.

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 33

Williams, “Parade,” 22 Paul Walker and Justine Clark, “Museum and Archive: Framing the Treaty,” in On Display: New Essays in Cultural Studies, eds Anna Smith and Lydia Weavers (New Zealand: Victoria University Press, 2004), 167. 35 Rayner, “Painter, Curator, New Zealand.” 36 Fran Dibble, “For Keeps,” Manawatu Standard, June 3, 2011, accessed July 19, 2011, http://www.stuff.co.nz/manawatu-standard/features/arts-on-friday/5096158/ For-keeps. 37 Williams, “Parade,” 20. 38 Williams, “Parade,” 20. 39 Williams, “Parade,” 20. 40 Williams, “Parade,” 25. 41 Williams, “Parade,” 23. 42 Denis Dutton, “Te Papa: National Embarrassment,” The Weekend Australian, June 6-7, 1998, accessed July 19, 2011, http://www.denisdutton.com/te_papa.htm. 43 Dutton, “Te Papa: National Embarrassment.” 44 For a discussion of this criticism see: Margaret Jolly, “On the Edge? Deserts, Oceans, Islands,” The Contemporary Pacific 13:2 (2001): 447ff. 45 Anonymous comment in Luke Wood, “McCahon,” in Printing Types: New Zealand Type Design Since 1870, ed. Jonty Valentine (Auckland: Objectspace, 2009), 51. 46 Roger Schülbeuys, “Up the Arts,” Canta 23 (2003): 24-25. 47 “Donkey Toilet Not Going to Venice,” NZCity News, July 15, 2004, accessed February 22, 2010, http://home.nzcity.co.nz/news/article.aspx?id=41283&cat=975. 48 Paul Sumpter, Intellectual Property Law: Principles in Practice (New Zealand: CCH, 2006), 26. 49 “McCahon Honoured and Imitated,” 1. 50 Turner, “Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 222. 51 René Block and Chris Saines, foreword to TOI TOI TOI: Three Generations of Artists from New Zealand (Kassel: Museum Fridericianum, 1999), 11. 52 Cleave, “Exhibition Marks Breakthrough in Europe.” 53 Reid, “McCahon Magic in Melbourne.” 54 Rudi Fuchs and Marja Bloem, preface to Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith (Nelson: Craig Potton Publishing, 2002), 9. 55 Marja Bloem and Rudi Fuchs, acknowledgements to Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith (Nelson: Craig Potton Publishing, 2002), 6. 56 Marja Bloem in Angela Bennie, “Titanic Struggle With Faith,” Sydney Morning Herald, November 14, 2003, accessed June 24, 2009, http://www.smh.com.au/artic les/2003/11/13/1068674315384.html?from=storyrhs. William McCahon angrily counters this suggestion. He claims that the McCahon family “were never expected to have a voice or even to be seen as having a valid claim to McCahon as intellectual property.” He believes he had to fight to be heard in the ‘Question of Faith’ exhibition. See: William McCahon in Herrick, “Looking Back in Anger.” 57 Bloem, “Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith,” 16. 34

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Skinner, “I Believe!,” 79. In counter to both these suggestions, Bloem and Fuchs thank a variety of New Zealand scholars and art dealers for their help in the ‘Question of Faith’ exhibition catalogue, including William McCahon. See: Bloem and Fuchs, acknowledgements, 6-7. 59 Skinner, “I Believe!,” 82. 60 Murray Bail, “I Am: On Colin McCahon,” Heat 4 (2003): 46. 61 Fuchs and Bloem, preface, 10. 62 Bail, “I Am: On Colin McCahon,” 41. 63 Cartwright, Sweet As, 25. 64 ‘timj’, 2008, comment on “Materialism and Issues Surrounding It,” Biggie, 2009, accessed February 14, 2011, http://www.biggie.co.nz/discussion/materialism _and_issues_surrounding_it. 65 ‘MrSocko’, 18 November, 1999 (5:09 p.m.), comment on “Diary of a Frog – New Zealand Elections.” 66 Jim Barr and Mary Barr, “Into the Void,” Over the Net and on the Table, June 24, 2010, accessed February 14, 2010, http://overthenet.blogspot.com/2010/06/into -void.html. 67 Fuchs and Bloem, preface, 10. 68 Johnson, “Colin McCahon,” 196. 69 Although he does not seek to emphasise a nationalist reading of McCahon, Butler agrees that in Australia his work “seems to have little or nothing in common with its previous New Zealand life.” See: Butler, Colin McCahon in Australia, 12. 70 Leigh Melville in “McCahon Fetches $571,875,” New Zealand Herald, April 13, 2011, accessed July 1, 2011, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/entertainment/news/article .cfm?c_id=1501119&objectid=10718892. 71 McAloon in Slade, “McCahon Painting Seized.” 72 Warwick Brown, “Before Lichtenstein, McCahon,” letter published in Art New Zealand 11, accessed July 7, 2009, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Issues11to20/l etters11.htm. 73 Wystan Curnow, McCahon’s “Necessary Protection”: The Catalogue of a Travelling Exhibition of Paintings from Colin McCahon’s Various Series from 1971 to 1976 (New Plymouth: Govett-Brewster Art Gallery, 1977), 4. 74 The vast majority of sources dealing with McCahon originate in New Zealand from New Zealand academics. A small portion are from Australia, with occasional scholars such as Bloem publishing out of Netherlands. 75 Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 329. 76 Sam Neill in Joanna Hunkin, “Old Mates Span the Great Divide,” New Zealand Herald, February 27, 2009, accessed May 27, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/ent ertainment/news/article.cfm?c_id=1501119&objectid=10558978. 77 Pound, The Invention of New Zealand, xiii-xiv.

APPENDIX TWO MCCAHON’S SERIES AND THE REPEATED MOTIF

When examining McCahon’s body of work in detail, it is important to consider the primacy of series and recurrent symbols within his oeuvre. McCahon had a consistent vision for what he wanted to communicate to his audience. The use of repeated symbols and the grouping together of certain artworks functioned as a means of expressing his prophetic message as clearly as possible. McCahon was also obsessed with refining his work to assist in communication, going so far as to throw out more art than he kept.1 The complexity of McCahon’s message has proven problematic, as has the tendency for his audience to interpret his symbols in a personalised manner. McCahon set up very specific standards of representation for himself, which were often unmet. He explains: [m]ost of my work has been aimed at relating man to man and man to his world, to an acceptance of the very beautiful and terrible mysteries that we are part of. I aim at a very direct statement and ask only for a simple and direct response, any other way the message will get lost.2

McCahon was genuinely optimistic about a future audience comprehending his symbols and aims as an artist.3 His desire to communicate a complex and sustained socio-spiritual message is reflected in his serial approach to artmarking. While McCahon’s body of work shows stylistic alteration over time, his leitmotifs endure throughout his generic experimentation. Rather than overhauling his symbolic language with stylistic changes in his body of work, McCahon focused on making his motifs increasingly complex and interrelated so as to better communicate his prophetic vision for humanity. His use of series allowed McCahon to explore certain ideas, or the progression of lessons, over multiple interlinking canvases. Much has been written on the organisation of McCahon’s oeuvre.4 It is clear that he created groups of paintings in dialogue with one another. These groups are best described as ‘series’. Curnow dates the emergence of series production to McCahon’s return from America.5 This origin seems valid, as discreet, named series such as the Numerals One to Ten

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did not occur until after his return. Conversely, Brown believes his series emerged with the kauri motif of the Titirangi and Kauri paintings.6 Whatever the exact date may be, McCahon’s previous artworks were purposefully connected to one another as part of an ongoing conversation, and it would be detrimental to ignore these connections when considering the artist’s lifelong subject matter. McCahon’s series are often divided into ‘closed’ and ‘open’. The former refers to his artworks that were created together and often feature similar formal qualities. Many of the artworks in closed series share the same title and are given numbers, for example the Towards Auckland (1953-1954) paintings. Brown calls a series of this nature “tightly formed and self-contained;”7 “each is an integral part of a coherent sequence that has a beginning and ending.”8 McCahon’s open series are artworks grouped together by shared symbols despite being created at different times or with different techniques. These open series are less easy to categorise, relying on the recognition of common themes. Brown also identifies open series such as Necessary Protection, which are composed of what he calls “semi-independent sub-series” like the Jump paintings. These sub-series may in turn be open or closed.9 Expanding this further, Curnow states that McCahon’s ‘life-work’10 is the “largest and most open of all the open series.” He believes that McCahon hangs on to symbols in his eclectic desire to utilise any expression at his disposal.11 Curnow feels that his works are bound by an artistic personality; none of them are singular.12 In keeping with this mindset, Young identifies a difference between works intended to be individual paintings such as the early religious works versus discreet images such as Northland Panels, which were to be read “as essentially a single work” like Giotto’s St Francis frescoes.13 He does not even consider these works to be series, but rather “a fully integrated whole.”14 Supporting this argument, McCahon viewed his themes as members of a family tree. He describes the ‘Stations of the Cross’ symbolism as a close relative of the Numerals, Waterfalls, and Easter Triptych series, to name but a few of the correspondences he provides in his writings.15 Again, it is important to examine the connections McCahon’s artworks have with one another, which spans many series both open and closed. McCahon’s use of series was a means of instructing his viewers and guiding them on a spiritual journey in keeping with his mantle of prophecy and evangelism.16 His paintings were designed as a means of altering social structure and the behaviour of individuals. This expansion beyond the boundaries of the canvas has already been explained to in the prior discussion of McCahon’s framing (or lack thereof). As demonstrated in

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McCahon’s Beach Walk artworks, the artist intended for his audience to travel through the didactic series as one travels through a religious ritual.17 This requires the audience to perceive McCahon’s symbols, understand their interwoven insinuations, and follow their path to Christianised notions of enlightenment. The complexity and intensity of McCahon’s demand is clearly prohibitive to many. On the most basic level, one must first realise that McCahon is making a visual statement that is intended as a communication device. As Butler and Simmons argue “it is the act of exegesis or interpretation itself that is the faith or belief at stake in McCahon’s work.” They feel that the act of following meaning across McCahon’s artworks is “both the proof and activity of belief.” Butler and Simmons suggest that the “ultimate meaning of the work is put off just so this interpretative activity might continue forever.” This mode of audience engagement presupposes the idea that there is a sense of order to be found. Butler and Simmons call it “faith before faith,” a system in which one will only be rewarded with evidence after one believes.18 Thus, McCahon’s symbolic language may be read as something that requires a pre-assumed faith in the artist’s ability and desire to communicate. One must have some level of belief in the existence of a symbolic lexicon prior to the act of searching for it. Even if one does opt to take this leap of faith into a journey through the symbolic lexicon of McCahon, the content therein is highly complicated and conflated.19 Painting in series allowed him to produce intricate and multi-layered statements. The concept of ‘layers’ is developed by Brown as a means of accounting for the complexity of McCahon’s symbolism and its development over time. Brown warns that the index of these layers requires knowledge of McCahon’s entire body of work.20 The “casual spectator … can be left groping.”21 This obviously privileges those who are well informed above the cursory viewer. He believes that McCahon’s “references become meaningless if one lacks a good knowledge and visual memory of McCahon's creative output as seen as a whole.”22 Brown suggests that paintings such as Walk are so compressed in their symbolic message that meaning is conveyed only through acquaintance with previous artworks. He also explains the necessity for a familiarity with McCahon’s spoken and written statements, which are often the only clues to decoding the hidden intentions of his imagery.23 Even recognition of what should function as a symbol requires comprehensive study. The floating rectangles of the Gate series are easily lost, as are the tiny dots that simultaneously represent birdlife, roses, and the soul. Viewers can be flummoxed by individual pieces due to a lack of holistic understanding. The difficultly in understanding McCahon as

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confessed by the academic community demonstrates the oracular ambiguity of his oeuvre. For example, McCahon is described by Coley as an “artist who never made an easy painting.” His artworks have more layers than can be fathomed upon initial engagement.24 Even Lynn, an artist, critic, and curator stated, “McCahon, like the Bible and other legends, is full of untidy ends.” He found no total solutions to the problems and questions posed by his work.25 Many others have come to the same conclusion.26 Although it is by no means necessary for an artist to produce a comprehensible and discreet message, failing to do so can be problematic if the artist wishes to communicate a specific agenda as McCahon did. His lessons must be read together or important elements are lost. McCahon’s paintings and teachings are complex, and weaved in and out of each other as the years progressed. It is thus rare that an audience member will understand his images as deeply as the artist desired. McCahon’s artistic statements are not designed to dictate overt lessons to his audience. Instead, he tried to encourage his viewers to understand different components of his practice and symbolism so that they could better participate in the complex act of engaging with his oeuvre and the myriad concepts within. Paula Savage, among others, comprehends the long-term commitment required to decode McCahon. She ensured that the City Gallery Wellington had no cover charge on the ‘A Question of Faith’ exhibition so that viewers could return many times. Savage explains that “McCahon’s work is complex and layered, and the more time you spend with the work, the more you see and understand.”27 Congruently, TheNewDowse director Cam McCracken aims for Through the Wall of Death to be hung in one of the Dowse galleries for several months, four or five times per decade. He wants viewers to develop a “relationship” with the piece as “[e]very time you see it, you’re definitely going to get a new meaning, a new experience of it.”28 McCahon hoped that his viewers would dedicate their efforts in such a way. The obscurity of McCahon’s didactic message may be accounted for by a few important factors. On one level, his abstruseness may be a modernist decision. William McCahon reports that “[t]he characteristic that most distinguishes my father’s art from that of his contemporaries is its ambiguity. He believed that this was the key element that made art in the twentieth century ‘modern’.”29 McCahon certainly stepped away from the mimetic in order to point in his own direction. He truly valued the idea of an artistic journey.30 As such, he had to negotiate between the territory of direct preaching and a prophet who leads his people through an exploration of ideas. He wished for his paintings to unfold in meaning as

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the viewer progressed through them, such as the Second Gate series with its “slowly emerging order.”31 McCahon intended to guide his audience through subtle concepts. His complex lessons cannot be immediately comprehended. They require deep spiritual thought and imaginative interaction. Although the presence of a Christian message may be easily noted in many artworks via Biblical quotations and imagery, McCahon’s specific religious agenda is far from apparent without detailed consideration of these themes. Revealingly, McCahon disliked McIvor’s “esoteric symbolism.” She notes her surprise at this, stating that she thought he had his own brand of it.32 ‘Esoteric’ is not the correct term for McCahon’s pronouncements.33 He did not wish to speak to a small group, but rather to the New Zealand public as a whole. Again, tension can be found between action and aim. McCahon is renowned for his unwillingness to account for the content of his artworks.34 To his family members, McCahon made it clear that every symbol within his work had a meaning that could be decoded. Nevertheless, he was reticent to explain these meanings and often tried to assist instead through implications and obscure discussions.35 McCahon’s works offer clues rather than explanations.36 He dearly wished for his audience to understand him, but not at the cost of diluting spiritual mysteries. McCahon’s works are about intuiting his questions, answers, and fears as opposed to simply being told of their existence. The interactive component is vital. Ambiguity tends to beget diverse readings. There is debate as to how much personal imagination is acceptable when analysing McCahon’s images and lessons. William McCahon states that his father’s works contain ‘Idolonic vision’, that is, “things seen only by the individual in his/her mind, and not by all.”37 This reading suggests a psychological layering of the work. Images on the surface are used to evoke new mental pathways. He believes: Colin implies and infers, leaving his audience to decide at what level they will engage with his imagery. These multiple meanings allowed him to develop audiences who saw his relevance in different ways—as a spiritual Christian; as a landscape painter: or purely as an abstract modernist.38

William McCahon feels that his father purposefully allows an imaginative, spiritual relationship with his artworks that involves the viewer’s personal input. Congruently, Bloem believes “he paints an understandable story, and then you can give it multiple interpretations.”39 Both value the viewer’s choices, needs, and variant interpretative capacities.

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In contrast, Woollaston warns about the dangers of interpreting McCahon’s symbols in a manner that is too personalised. He fears that the profound and subtle nature of McCahon’s symbolism may be left behind for the sake of an individualised theory of meaning.40 Brown is also concerned by excessive personal insertion. He warns, “[t]oo frequently the tendency is to read into the symbols, used in a particular painting, a meaning never intended.”41 He recommends a study of McCahon’s statements about his works as “[i]nterpretation involves gaining possession of the facts rather than trying to construct some fancy theory which is more in the viewer’s mind rather than being related to the information offered by the painting.”42 Brown feels that the insertion of such external theories is a contemptuous act.43 In writing Colin McCahon: Artist he endeavoured for a consistent examination of “McCahon’s work reasserted in its own light” without having his oeuvre coloured by mythology or critical theory.44 Brown admits that many of McCahon’s symbols contain multiple meanings. He does not reject the complexity of McCahon’s symbolism, but cautions against pure invention on behalf of the viewer. While it is difficult to muster any personal resentment against various emotional and spiritual reactions to McCahon, the artist clearly had a specific goal in mind. McCahon frequently updated, clarified, and restated his symbolism in order to properly express a specific message to his audience. He acted as a prophet, a teacher, and a social revolutionary. McCahon used art as a way of touching people, but with the aim of instructing his audience down particular paths of behaviour and perception. His art was intended to be personally touching, but not totally subjective. McCahon produced his art to convey a particular meaning, making multiple readings problematic in terms of the standards of reception he set up for himself.

Notes  1

McCahon in Keith, “Colin McCahon: A Very Private Painter,” 32. McCahon in Centenary Collection, 11. 3 Garrity recalls how McCahon “kept saying ‘well one day the balloon will go up’, you know, as if the whole thing will be understood.” See: Tim Garrity in I Am: Colin McCahon, 19.52. 4 For example, Leonard believes that McCahon employed “cross-fertilizing ways of making paintings.” He dates this development to 1958. See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 29. 5 Curnow, “McCahon and Signs,” 50. 6 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 51. 7 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 51. 2

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 8

Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 175. Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 175. 10 Brown presumably agrees, as he titles a concluding chapter in Colin McCahon: Artist as ‘One Unified Life Work’. He believes this life-work notion could have been overtly known to McCahon, as Caselberg had written to him remarking “[h]ow right Proust is – a life-time of work is the making of but one continuous work.” See: John Caselberg to Colin McCahon and Anne McCahon [29 Apr. 75] in Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 193. 11 Curnow, McCahon’s “Necessary Protection”, 11. 12 Curnow, “Devotions Unlimited,” 9. Of course, this could be said about the output of many artists. Curnow’s statements do not apply to McCahon alone, but are nonetheless illuminative of his approach to communication and integrity of theme. 13 Young, “Painting 1950-1967,” 4. 14 Young, “Painting 1950-1967,” 9. 15 McCahon, draft manuscript for Colin McCahon: A Survey Exhibition (1972). 16 Therefore, Jason Smith states: “McCahon installed his paintings to emphasise the serial investigation of particular motifs, and to support an association of his work with the concept of ‘the journey’. This journey is one from the visual to the emotional and intellectual, and one that McCahon hoped would extend beyond the boundaries of the picture plane and exhibition space to personal and spiritual considerations, as well as new ways of being in the world.” See: Smith, “Colin McCahon.” 17 Numerous commentators support this idea of a journey through art in McCahon’s series. For example, Woollaston feels as if McCahon’s paintings move the viewer through a system of simple shapes and colours in order to explore the complexity of sky, earth, words, the cross, shafts of light, and bird song. See: Woollaston, “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” Keith declares McCahon’s output “a progression of landscape images … or of ideas.” See: Keith, “Colin McCahon,” An Introduction to New Zealand Painting, 193. Curnow believes that his series have narrative connotations created by movement in time or space. See: Curnow, McCahon’s “Necessary Protection”, 9. 18 Butler and Simmons, “‘The Sound of Painting’,” 344-345. 19 Most scholars affirm this inter-relativity. For example, Brown believes that McCahon’s series grew, overlapped, and gained “subtler overtones” with the addition of each new work. See: Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 21. Congruently, Pound feels that a “doubleness or tripleness of meaning” is “typical of McCahon.” See: Pound, “Topographies,” 133. 20 Brown, ““The Speaker”, The Painter, The Discursive Dialoguer,” 16. 21 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 5. 22 Gordon H. Brown, “Colin McCahon: A Basis for Understanding,” Art New Zealand (1977-1978), accessed July 20, 2011, http://www.art-newzealand.com/Iss ues1to40/mccahon08gb.htm. 23 Brown, “The Autobiographical Factor,” 18. 24 Coley, “Colin McCahon – 1919-1987,” 2. 9

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Lynn, “Colin McCahon: The View From Across the Tasman.” For example, O’Reilly agrees that “coming to terms with new paintings by Colin McCahon has never been easy. Their power can be felt whilst their meaning and beauty are being struggled for.” See: Ron O’Reilly, preface to Curnow, McCahon’s "Necessary Protection", 3. Errol Shaw makes the apt summary that “McCahon's paintings are paradoxical: simple, almost nondescript in their imagery, but revelational in their complex readings, cross-referencing and interpretations.” See: Errol Shaw, “Review: The Invention of New Zealand: Art and Identity 1930-1970,” Nelson Mail, March 24, 2010, accessed October 11, 2010, http://www.stuff.co.nz/nelson-mail/entertainment/book-reviews/3499876/Th e-Invention-of-New-Zealand-Art-and-Identity-1930-1970>. Jim Barr agrees that McCahon “states his case with eloquent simplicity. But in all things the simple statement of binding truth is often the hardest to grasp.” See: Barr, Colin McCahon at the Dowse Art Gallery. 27 Paula Savage in Linda Herrick, “McCahon’s Lonely Road,” New Zealand Herald, December 7, 2002, accessed July 26, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/life style/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=3008278. A similar approach was taken at the Auckland show. There is evidence of people taking advantage of this gift. Heather Burgess writes “[t]here was too much for me to take in on one visit, but it’s free: you can go back and back.” See: Heather Burgess, “McCahon’s Faith Show a Must-See,” New Zealand Herald, April 10, 2003, accessed September 21, 2010, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/news/article.cfm?c_id=6&objectid=3351 620. 28 Cam McCracken in Simon Edwards, “Still Here, and Coming Out Again,” The Hutt News, March 23, 2010, accessed January 25, 2012, http://www.stuff.co.nz/do minion-post/news/local-papers/hutt-news/3492372. 29 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 33. 30 Leonard aptly explains that McCahon “combined a search for simplicity and directness—public address—with density, difficulty and self-reference.” See: Leonard, “Colin McCahon,” 26. 31 Colin McCahon to John Caselberg [10 Aug. 61] in Colin McCahon: A Question of Faith, 197. 32 McIvor, Memoir of the Sixties, 131. Curnow also specifically argues against McCahon’s works as esoteric. See: Curnow, “Colin McCahon.” 33 Lynn offers an interesting argument against McCahon as ‘esoteric’. Comparing his style to neo-Expressionism, Lynn writes, “its many painters are concerned with esoteric and private myths and oblique references to accepted legends; and such is their alchemical mingling of allusions that they discourage positive comment. McCahon’s work welcomes it.” Lynn argues that this is because McCahon’s message and aesthetic devices are meant to be extremely direct. See: Lynn, “Colin McCahon: The View From Across the Tasman.” 34 For example, his friend Lusk never asked McCahon to explain his works, nor did he ever offer. She believes that one must read the messages for themselves. See: Lusk, “Doris Lusk Remembers Colin McCahon,” 3. 35 William McCahon, “A Letter Home,” 34. 26

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36 Based on experiences during his friendship with McCahon, Brown notes how the artist would generally refuse to give interpretations of his painting. Brown argues that McCahon’s audience were expected to discover the meaning of a painting themselves. He writes, “[o]ften the issues conveyed in McCahon’s paintings relate to matters of life and death. The viewer, therefore, needs to wrestle with the implications of a painting in order to have a satisfying encounter.” See: Brown, Towards a Promised Land, 1. 37 William McCahon, “Colin McCahon: A Simple View,” 7. 38 William McCahon in Turner, ”Colin McCahon: Shadows of Doubt,” 222. 39 Bloem in Crow, “Spreading the Word.” 40 Woollaston, “Man’s Predicament in His Own World.” 41 Brown, “Colin McCahon: A Basis for Understanding.” 42 Brown, “Colin McCahon: A Basis for Understanding.” 43 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, 204. 44 Brown, Colin McCahon: Artist, x.

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