![]() It’s all to do with shifting these huge, subtle doubts that have been put into us about who we are, what we are worth, our place in this world.”ĭale Dice, the man lying on the mat in front of him, is receiving a puhoro, which can cover the thighs, buttocks and lower back. ![]() “Not because they are so blown away with how their face is changed – it’s nothing to do with the aesthetic. “You see wāhine when they receive their kauae, and they break down,” he says. The designs can tell stories of a person’s whakapapa (ancestry), their achievements, their responsibilities and place within their family.Īrtist Mokonui-ā-rangi Smith has wanted to tattoo moko since he was a child. It is a way to reclaim facets of Indigenous identity that were shamed, lost or attacked during colonisation. The process of receiving moko is more than aesthetic, Smith says. “Then not long after, like 20 or 30 years after, that’s when the next generation started to go hard at researching and trying to revive it.” When the early generations of artists died, “they took it back to the darkness”, he says, and many practitioners were buried with their tools. As he researched, however, he learned that many of the traditional tools and techniques had been lost by a generation who were forced – often violently – to assimilate. Smith, who works from a studio in west Auckland, says he had wanted to tattoo moko since he was a child. Photograph: Cornell Tukiri/The Guardian Reclaiming identity Mokonui-ā-rangi Smith works on a pūhoro (thigh tattoo) in his studio.
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