Huri, ka huri, huri noa

A sound based electronic media installation for the Codec internet project incorporating concepts of language and power, cultural appropriation and crossover. People randomly selected and solicited to read Maori proverbs were recorded. These recordings are juxtaposed with a native speaker. All spoken sections are introduced by segments of a 1960s NZ sound recording of "Mori the Hori" by the Howard Morrison Quartet. Voices and song overlap and intertwine in aural exhibition.

"Sticks + Stones..."
There is an interest in words around the words. The extras which support the language. The unnecessary auxiliaries of speech. In English we use and accept "ums" and "ahs" frequently and subconsciously. In whaikorero we hear the guttural cough between phrases. These fillers allow us time to construct, to think of how to say what next. And so these pauses, omissions, coughs, fillers and extraneous bits the speaker may include are the elements that frame speech. These are the things which make speech subjective, dynamic and unpredictable.

Take for instance the game of Chinese Whispers - a game dependent on this very aspect of spoken language. Each player attempts to understand in terms of their rules of language the "phrase" that they receive and transfer to the next. But what about if you don't understand the rules of the phrase that you receive? Do you apply rules that you know in an attempt to impose quasi-order upon the unfamiliar? What then is transferred? --------- When I was young, my mother used to talk on the phone - half in Dutch, half in English - the most appropriate language was determined the instant before a word was said. We would hear a subconscious pause in conversation while she searched for the language of the word that best expressed her line of thought, then there would be a complete switch over to the Other. It was natural to us all.

In New Zealand we are somewhat removed from things that are foreign and when these are encountered we feel the need to frame them with a sense of NZ and give them place within Godzone. This demands a certain disregard for meaning and ignorance of context.

"Mori the Hori" (Howard Morrison Quartet) appears to be a product of this process. Performed "just for laughs" the tune is based on "Ahab the Arab" a derivative of a European song which itself parodies another culture. As we see in the project, the sophisticated image of a Maori Boys band is far removed from that of the "grass skirt" clad concert parties. With lyrics written by Pakeha T. Wilson and further adapted by H. Morrison, it is an example of the eclectic nature of being Maori in the 60s. In their adaptation they parody the tradition of myth telling, incorporate the haka and twist the familiar. In effect does this mean that the Quartet reappropriates cultural appropriation? It's all very intriguing, popular and weird. ---------- Elisabeth Buck examines the ideas of language and power, and myth domination in Hawaiian culture in her book "Paradise Remade". In particular she looks at the eclipsing of oral based culture by that of writing, and the appropriation of Hawaiian culture throughout music and industries of culture. As can be expected Maori culture parallels the Hawaiian phenomena observed by her.

"...the linguistic intrusion of the West is integral to every aspect of Western penetration and its subsequent domination of the islands. Three fundamental changes in language were initiated in Hawai'i as a result of contact with English-speaking Westerners. Along with the radical shift from orality to literacy came the displacement of Hawaiian by English as the dominant language of discourse. The first altered basic cognitive processes and the second shaped social consciousness. The repositioning of the Hawaiians and their culture by Western discourses about Hawai'i further reconstituted social relationships and shifted sites of power." 1

"Huri, ka huri, huri noa..." looks at language dominance, ignorance and non-translation. What is lost in pronunciation? What is formed at the interface of languages? How will people react when confronted with the unfamiliar?

Written language has no room for an impromptu response. By nature speech relies on and is speckled with omissions, errors and repetition, things that would be frowned upon and deleted from written works. Does this mean that the spoken word is less correct, less precise? Does it mean that speech assumes a more primitive role than writing? I suspect that depends upon which way you hang and the way you wear it.

"Consequently, the literate world imposes the condescending terms 'oral literatures' or 'folk literatures' on the spoken arts of oral cultures and reduces them to predecessors of writing." 2

The project deals with this commonly unchallenged hierarchy in two ways. Firstly, by giving dominance to the voice and secondly, by denying translation. We aurally compare two readings without the opportunity to think about translated meaning and are forced to focus merely on the sound of voices, voices which are supported only by the meagre vital statistics of the owner.

Maori is one of two official languages of New Zealand but to listen to the sound recordings on the site, this is not apparent. ---------- A computer is a tool. The internet an empty, endless ream of attempts at authorship and cleverness and commercialism. A tool for wasting time and compiling grotty pictures.

There are restrictions for dealing with sound on the internet. File size, software, equipment and the capabilities of the end user can reduce a piece to industrialised wallpaper. The rhythmic whirr and clink of machinery is identifiable, lulling and mind numbing. Aural wallpaper of pretty flowers, gaudy geometric patterns, naturalised nudes and fig leaves. The trade off is time delay and reduced audience.

The internet is by nature glossy, gratifying, remote and faceless. But perhaps that is how the viewer likes it. Guzzling and fickle. Spoon fed and instantly gratified. ----------- I think she said it best with: "A rose is a rose is a rose." iii

Sitting a short distance back, he is observed. Soft punctuation accompanies a glazed stare. Letters, abbreviations, numbers, paragraphs and commands behind the glossies that engage and fix our gaze. The typewriter was a female tool until it became useful. The typewriter - obsolete and bought at the dump for $2. Miles and miles of unused ribbon spooled and waiting for dictation. He has a keyboard and a language which when translated converts text to image. But still I think she did it best without machine. Huri, ka huri, huri noa.... (Keri Whaitiri & Mike Dunn.)

Friday night and out in town. Groggy from lack of sleep. But strolling knowingly through the stacks she observes them from behind. All engrossed and unaware. But this place is perfect. All backs turned and heads down. She sits behind and observes. Time to rehearse and act. Time to read. Time to approach. Time to process.

She speaks sideways. Speaking her words they listen and sit. Sit before with back in front, turned back to her and unaware but here. To read a book not watch as she does. She stands here to watch them read. Reading with their eyes and mouths. The eyes are fast and mouth is slow. Eyes soak and glide with backs turned unaware. Mouth stumbles, labours in awkward writhe from end to end. Turning, turning, turning.

The Readers Nameless: Forty-ish. Who knows. In an armchair facing the street. Could be anywhere. Doesn't read but takes off his shoes. Her eyes sting and nostrils tighten. At a reasonable distance this is not a good idea. But with momentum she carries forward from behind. Eyes fixed to tangled hair. She see his eyes and know he won't do it. She has his attention. He flinches and recedes into the chair. As can be expected, his answer is a relief. She leaves him to his makeshift bedroom. And he remains as before.

Maureen: She is seen. Sitting between plants and fiction. Her grandmother frame. Grey hair bunned and eager. She can see her eyes from behind. She'll do it before asked. She stumbles unafraid of sound by sound picking through. She lends an accent to the words.

Lynley: She sweetie sweet and young awaits the night. She looks to read but waits instead with eyes on text. Avoiding others gaze perhaps. Eyes caste down she is not aware of her approach. She talks to her. She concedes more from embarrassment at being caught not reading.

Karen: Wide rabbit eyes. Blink. And crazed hair. She sits beside and tries not to listen. She cannot help it. Hot flushes of paranoia. Clipped words and apprehension. She fears loss and damage. Banks and personal if she submits. Briefly reassured white hair and brow and lips through which she gives words voice. Wide eyed stare and blink.

George: Familiar boy with height and voice approaches. The only one forward coming. Observer turns observed it turns for her. He listens to the lullaby she spins for the other. And waits. Waits for his turn to bind his voice to tape. Sweet baby.

Phillip: This one's a riddle. Clipped voice and dress and mind. Well versed in games of hiding. He does not allow one to slip through. Perfect and aloof. Precise and dismissive. An age from her at 28. He reveals not one.

Carolyn & Mike: These two together. One first then other. But only one. She speaks for him and him for her he speaks. Well meaning. Well sounding. Well taught. Well that's all.

Mohammed: He has been here not so long. Not so long with book poised reading and rereading unfamiliar words. She hears him write. He writes in curls and flourishes. The flourish then is said. Thick and broad and sweet to the ear.

Sean: He sits there taking in the world. A worldly man with hot hot eyes. He speaks in soothing tones transferring one to other.

David: He is a union man submersed in news and paper. Korero mai e hoa. Learnt a bit of Maori in his time. He is aware of sorts with good intentions. Listen to his words. How far away they are from what they are.

Mike: Pure kiwi thick and broad. He awaits Ali with fists unclenched. But first he reads for her. The first to admit a problem with his tongue. Pure and full and honest.

She sits. Fabric on her knee. Brooding over meetings. The fabric soaks up spare moments as thread by thread she passes pins. Squinted eyes she reads the cloth. She pushes into form the bits that now are not.

Is it what she said it is? Did it have the form before the thread? Does it fit the form that she said? She said yes and no and left it there. Finished.

Form is slow and fast. Form is a thread that moves along determined by the end. Squinted eyes she moves it slow. Closer slowly until finished later to be pulled apart and ripped and lost and used again. Form is slow and painful slow. Determined by the end and later.