In the world of art, few stories are as captivating and complex as the one surrounding the recent discovery of a 'new' Goldie painting. This unassuming artwork has sparked a debate that goes far beyond its aesthetic appeal, delving into the intricate web of cultural rights, historical narratives, and the enduring legacy of indigenous artists. As an expert commentator, I find myself drawn to the multifaceted nature of this tale, where every brushstroke and every question marks a layer of history waiting to be unraveled.
The painting, titled 'Lost in Thought, Ngāheke, An Arawa Chieftain', is not merely a canvas but a portal to the past. Its emergence has ignited a conversation about the rights of descendants in the context of artistic representation. The story begins with the revelation of a 'previously unrecognised' work by Charles Frederick Goldie, a renowned artist known for his portraits of Māori people. The painting, originally exhibited in 1917, had seemingly vanished from records until its sale in Australia in 2020.
What makes this particular artwork intriguing is the identity of its subject, Patara Te Ngūngūkai, a revered Te Arawa tohunga. The confirmation of his identity has brought to light a myriad of questions. Firstly, the painting's authenticity is under scrutiny, with some experts questioning its originality. This raises a deeper question: if the painting is indeed a genuine Goldie work, what rights do Te Ngūngūkai's descendants have over its depiction? The current legal framework, as explained by Lynell Tuffery Huria, a leading expert on Māori intellectual property rights, presents a complex landscape. People depicted in paintings generally have no rights, and these rights are extinguished 50 years after the artist's death, making the image public domain.
This leads us to a fascinating paradox. On one hand, the painting's public domain status means that anyone can use the image legally. This has resulted in the reproduction of Goldie's works, including the defacement or alteration of subjects and the sale of images on items like iPhone cases. On the other hand, the descendants, represented by Tūhourangi Tribal Authority, find themselves in a challenging dilemma. They appreciate the artwork and the genius of the artist, but they are also concerned about the image being taken and sold for profit.
The situation is further complicated by the Protected Objects Act 1975, which regulates the sale of culturally significant objects. While taonga tūturu, objects made, used, or brought to Aotearoa by Māori and more than 50 years old, receive strong protections, historic portraits of tangata whenua do not qualify as such. This means that despite their cultural significance, these portraits do not receive the highest level of protection under the law.
The story of this painting and its subject, Patara Te Ngūngūkai, is a microcosm of the broader struggle for cultural rights and recognition. It raises a deeper question about the relationship between art, history, and identity. As an expert, I find myself reflecting on the complexities of this issue. The painting's emergence has sparked a conversation that goes beyond the art world, touching on the very essence of cultural heritage and the rights of indigenous peoples. It is a reminder that the legacy of artists like Goldie is not just about the art itself but also about the stories and voices that are preserved and shared through their work.
In my opinion, this case highlights the need for a more nuanced approach to intellectual property rights, one that acknowledges the cultural significance of artworks and the rights of descendants. The 'Taonga Works Framework' and the Tiaki Taonga movement offer a promising direction, aiming to establish a commission that can oversee the development of frameworks in this space. However, as Huria notes, meaningful changes are a long-term strategy, and the current government's commitment to such reforms remains uncertain.
As the story of this 'new' Goldie painting continues to unfold, it serves as a powerful reminder of the intricate relationship between art, history, and identity. It is a tale that invites us to reflect on the complexities of cultural rights and the enduring legacy of indigenous artists. In the end, it is not just about the painting but about the voices and stories that are preserved and shared through the art of a bygone era.
