An important concern for contemporary South Pacific museums is the responsibility associated with guardianship, particularly as it is applied to indigenous culture. This chapter explores guardianship in the Aotearoa New Zealand context, which was defined in the 1990s as a bicultural notion guided by curatorial policy and as the Maori customary concept of kaitiakitanga (guardianship). In more recent years it has been redefined in response to community discussion on repatriation, the legalisation of cultural guardianship as a concept, and the impact of digital technologies. Shaped by these influences, South Pacific museums of the future may have to accept the loss of key artefacts and change their curatorial and display policies to accommodate digitally replicated objects. They may also have to form close allegiances with tribal museums and adapt their bicultural mandates to acknowledge the increasing importance of cultural and intellectual property law.
In recent times museums have accommodated many new ideas in their emerging role as the keepers of culture and, as the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa states in its corporate principles, the ‘speakers’ of authority on cultural knowledge (Museum of New Zealand 2006; Museum of New Zealand 1996). One of the key concerns in the new museum movement is the responsibility associated with guardianship, particularly as it is applied to indigenous culture. This essay explores guardianship in the Aotearoa New Zealand context: defined in the 1990s as a bicultural notion guided by curatorial policy and as the Maori customary concept of kaitiakitanga (guardianship); and redefined in more recent years in response to calls for repatriation, the legalisation of cultural guardianship as a concept, and the impact of digital technologies.
The change in role experienced over the past few decades by the ethnological museum, from storehouse of empire to preserver of culture, and by the art museum, from treasure house of artist and period works to interpreter of visual culture, has been well documented, and is related to changes in curatorial practice and public perceptions. These changes run parallel to those in the institutionalised natural world, where zoological parks and botanical gardens have distanced themselves from their appropriationist origins to be aligned with the conservation movement – the fates of indigenous and natural objects often intertwined in Western imagination (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier 2002, 272–279).
While the facilities and collections might have largely remained the same, museum philosophies, staff and audiences have changed. In Aotearoa New Zealand the most significant philosophical shift has been the adoption, as a principle, of biculturalism, that bilateral relationship of justice and equality between Maori and non-Maori founded on the 1840 Treaty of Waitangi and codified around the time of the treaty’s sesquicentennial in 1990. Biculturalism can determine power relationships within an institution; the methods by which institutions appoint, train and use their staff; the way in which collections are managed, displayed and researched; and the types of relationships that are maintained with the Maori and non-Maori communities (Jones 1995, 33). At first viewed by the museum community as an ideal or moral commitment between treaty partners (Mane-Wheoki 1995, 6), biculturalism was codified into policy by civic institutions following the model of government departments, who were themselves influenced by changes in quasi-legislative systems. These policies quickly developed from notions of partnership to creating remedies for the almost invisible presence of Maori in the guardianship of the nation’s cultural treasures (O’Regan 1997).
The practice of guardianship has therefore dramatically changed in Aotearoa New Zealand civic museums and galleries over the past twenty years. Through policy, Maori are actively recruited to be involved the care of their own taonga (treasures), collections are handled and displayed in a way that observes ritual and customs, and sincere efforts are being made to repatriate highly tapu (restricted, prohibited, sacred) items, such as human remains, from offshore. A critical notion in bicultural curatorial practice is the Maori custom of kaitiakitanga, or the acknowledgment that cultural objects have guardians rather than owners, and that the primary role of these guardians is to serve the needs of the objects.
A culturally relevant guardianship or kaitiakitanga in an institutional setting involves collection divestment as much as investment. Smaller institutions, particularly private museums, are increasingly looking like dioramas of the custodial past as they become filled with imperialist items and display devices that civic institutions are only too keen to de-accession. Boy’s Own, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and royal birth, deaths, marriages and tour supplements sit upon shelves while plastic tiki, Maori doll and gollywog collections lie in cabinets. These museums have a different guardianship role, often parodied as the ‘last stop before the garbage dump’, that is significant for remembering the civic institutional practice of forgetting, a concept recently fabricated in Carole Shepheard’s Museum of Cultural Anxiety in Auckland and the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles.
Apart from caring for collections in a culturally responsible way, repatriating valued treasures and willingly divesting objects, contemporary museum guardianship also involves relinquishing definitive items in the collection in response to community demand. There seems to be one or more of at least three general reasons, given by New Zealanders, particularly Maori, when they discuss the repatriation of taonga from institutions: first, that the taonga have a value in themselves, and to Maori people, that cannot be realised unless they are returned to their turangawaewae (place of tribal belonging); second, that their removal from their turangawaewae was sometimes the result of confiscation, deception and theft; and third, that they are misunderstood by ‘general’ audiences. The implication is that the museum’s redefined role as preserver of culture and provider of authoritative narratives is not one that is necessarily recognised by all sectors of the community.
In the past, a metropolitan museum display of taonga was not considered complete unless it included a whare whakairo, or decorated meeting house, and a pataka, or decorated storehouse. Following acquisition, these architectural signifiers of identity were, as some scholars have argued, digested and decontextualised in the museum context (Austin 2003). In his discussion of the Ruatepupuke meeting house, the writer, professor, former New Zealand cultural ambassador in New York and Ngati Porou tribal elder Witi Ihimaera writes: ‘My personal belief is that all of these meeting houses [in museums] should be brought back. Because, if our marae [tribal forum featuring a meeting house] is our turangawaewae, then while they are away the people who belong to them are in limbo’ (himaera 2002, 97). The house was completed in 1881 at Pakirikiri, passing from Ngati Porou into the hands of the German antiquities dealer J. F. G. Umlauff, who later sold the house to Chicago’s Field Museum in 1905. Since then, the Field Museum has maintained a relationship with the New Zealand museum community and the people of Ngati Porou, and certainly today the house is cloaked with a large amount of interpretive material (Ihimaera 2002, 89, 93–96). Yet Ihimaera is as forceful now in his opinion that Ruatepupuke should be returned as he was twenty years ago, when he saw the house during the opening of the touring Te Maori exhibition. For him, guardianship as kaitiakitanga cannot be properly realised in a public museum context, and he is not alone in his view.
Tribal authorities have had some success in realising their guardianship role as a property right, and repatriating museum-held taonga. The most well known instances of repatriation have involved meeting houses. The return of the Mataatua meeting house, from Otago Museum to the Ngati Awa tribe in 1996, marks this change in the definition of guardianship as a possessive right. Hirini Moko Mead, the celebrated Ngati Awa elder and scholar, was instrumental in securing the return of the house through 15 years of negotiation (Mead 1997, 213–218). His daughter Aroha Te Pareake Mead is an internationally renowned expert on indigenous intellectual property law. Together with their tribe they hosted the First International Conference on the Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples in June 1993, the most notable outcome of which was the drafting of the ‘Mataatua Declaration’, a non-government-organisation document presented to the United Nations (‘Mataatua Declaration’ 1993). The Declaration called for the repatriation of all indigenous human remains, an inventory of all museum-held indigenous objects, and the offer of repatriation by museums holding such items. It also placed the patenting of indigenous plants and human genetic codes alongside these concerns, in effect promoting the idea that the same guardianship role exists over both the natural and object/built worlds, the two described together as cultural resources or traditional knowledge.
The New Zealand Crown, in another high-profile repatriation case, recently admitted that, in its acquisition of the Te Hau-ki-Turanga meeting house, it had breached a guarantee in the second article of the Treaty of Waitangi not to disturb any taonga in Maori possession (Waitangi Tribunal 2004). This building, constructed by the Rongowhakaata tribe in the early 1840s, was confiscated by the Crown in 1867 during the New Zealand Wars and sent to the national capital, Wellington, where it remains today as the central exhibit of the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (Brown 1996, 7). The Crown admission was made during a hearing of the Waitangi Tribunal, a body that makes recommendations to the government for compensation to Maori groups who have suffered treaty breaches. It opens up the possibility that New Zealand museums may have to repatriate or negotiate loan agreements for any provenanced Maori object.
The Maori community is, of course, not calling for the return of all taonga, since there are instances where guardianship as kaitiakitanga has either been transferred for a mutually agreed purpose or cannot yet be assigned to an appropriate group. There is a history of Maori occasionally gifting, loaning or selling items to museums, their reasons for transferring kaitiakitanga usually having a spiritual or ritual basis. For example, in 1929 Wiremu Ngawati gave David Graham, an Auckland War Memorial Museum research officer who was on a collecting trip in the northern part of the North Island, a pou rahui (boundary post, AM 22061), probably used to protect an eel fishery (see Neich 1991). Ngawati had an association with the spiritual leader Tahupotiki Wiremu Ratana, who advocated that Maori should abandon taonga, including carvings, for their spiritual wellbeing (Brown 2003, 75). Indeed, Ratana had his own ‘museum’, the Whare Maori at his eponymous settlement near Whanganui where ‘objects supposed to contain spirits’, in this case taonga with customary associations or disability devices left over from healing sessions, could be placed under his mana, or greater kaitiakitanga, so they could do no harm (Henderson 1972, 79).
In 1922 the selling of a whakawae (door jamb, AM 6394; see Figure 9.1) to Auckland Museum by Kapowairua Moki, a female member of the Ngati Whatua tribe, may have represented a ritual transferral of kaitiakitanga. The carving was one of a number that the tribe had intended to put in the museum some years before. After being struck down by the 1918 influenza epidemic, they had decided against the deposit, as the disease was interpreted as a punishment for violating the tapu of the carvings (Brown 2003, 113). Moki’s actions could be interpreted as a form of whakanoa, or an attempt to free the carving and its people from restriction by violating its tapu through a financial transaction, money and women-being-noa (free from tapu) elements. In these instances from the early twentieth century, the museum was regarded by Maori as a benign guardian, a place where the power and presence of an object could not escape to harm them.
It is estimated that 95 per cent of taonga are held by museums, the majority in the care of the four Aotearoa New Zealand metropolitan museums (O’Regan 1997, 78), with small but significant collections in the British Museum and the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem Massachusetts. A large proportion of these taonga do not have any attributions to a tribe or region aside from being described as ‘Maori’ or ‘from New Zealand’, and therefore it would be difficult to repatriate such items to a specific group. Foreign collections of taonga also present different guardianship issues: would the educative value of a taonga, or group of taonga, in a foreign public collection outweigh its significance and value once it returns home? For example, would the collections associated with Captain James Cook and his voyages lose their ‘collectioness’ if they were returned to New Zealand? Or is the notion of an explorer collection an artificial curiosity in itself, in a repatriation context? There are also a surprising number of faked taonga in overseas museums and a large number of works produced by inexperienced Maori artists. These novice-produced items are evidence of the artistic experimentation that took place in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and are still part of a Maori heritage. If these items were to be repatriated to an Aotearoa New Zealand institution, who would assume their kaitiakitanga?
Furthermore, overseas collections of indigenous arts are enjoying a new period of kaitiakitanga from diasporic communities. In the United Kingdom, the Maori expatriate organisation, Ngati Ranana (or the London tribe), has formed an alliance with the British Museum and the Cambridge Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology to keep their taonga warm. The relationship is a reciprocal one, the museums having a community to provide kaitiakitanga, as a form of cultural guardianship, to their collections while Ngati Ranana has a cultural touchstone that localises their diasporic situation. As the Maori community migrates, such alliances may become more commonplace in other parts of the world.
Figure 9.1 Whakawae (door jamb) from a rua tahuhu (storehouse). Reg. No. 6394.
Auckland Museum Tamaki Paenga Hira.
The possible protections offered to indigenous cultures by intellectual property law – in particular copyright, trade marks and patents – have been a topic of debate for almost a decade, and were prompted by the realisation that other groups, through international law, were appropriating indigenous culture, including art objects, foods, medicine, design, music and genes. Over this time, indigenous people, many governments and the legal profession have also grappled with how cultural guardianship could be legally developed to prevent the commoditisation of indigenous culture. Aroha Te Pareake Mead describes the threat posed by the commoditisation of traditional knowledge as ‘the second wave of colonisation – grabbing what few resources Maori retained after the first wave of colonisation left us landless and marginalised’ (Mead 2002). It is interesting that the distinction characterises recent changes in museological thinking in Aotearoa New Zealand, the first an attempt to forget or overcome the colonial past through a process of bicultural curatorial practice, and now an uncertain path of repatriation as indigenous people assert their cultural property rights.
There have been some inventive initiatives using trade marks to protect physical cultural property and legally enforce indigenous guardianship. Since 1990, the United States Indian Arts and Crafts Board has awarded registered trade marks for indigenous artists, and tribal and pan-tribal collectives, and reserved the name ‘Indian’ for products manufactured by Native American people or organisations (Battiste and Youngblood Henderson 1990, 158). Similarly, Te Waka Toi, the Maori arm of the government department Creative New Zealand, registered the TOI IHO trade mark for a similar purpose in 2002 (see Toi Iho 2006). The intellectual property divisions of central government in Aotearoa New Zealand have also been involved in this evolving process of legalising guardianship as kaitiakitanga, and have consulted widely within the Maori community in the formulation of their policies and initiatives. In 2003, the Maori Trade Marks Advisory Committee was established to advise the New Zealand Intellectual Property Office (IPONZ) of the offensiveness of trade mark applications containing Maori words or devices (Intellectual Property Office of New Zealand 2006).1 This committee is the first indigenous consultative body on international property law recognised through sui generis provisions. Between 2000 and 2006, the World Intellectual Property Organisation (WIPO) has held ten intergovernmental meetings on ‘Intellectual Property and Traditional Knowledge, Cultural Expressions and Genetic Resources’ and have considered the misappropriation of indigenous visual arts to be as significant an issue as biopiracy (World Intellectual Property Organisation 2006). Its contribution to the guardianship debate may be the extension, through international or sui generis law, of trade marks, copyright and patents to indigenous cultural expressions for the benefit of indigenous communities.
The continued conflation of the indigenous and natural worlds, as seen in the movement towards conservation in museums, zoological parks and botanic gardens and also in the ‘Mataatua Declaration’, is apparent in legal responses to cultural guardianship. Indeed, WIPO’s intergovernmental meetings on traditional knowledge also examine genetic resources. That a single set of guidelines might be developed to cover both may be an issue of concern for museums and indigenous arts professionals alike. Museum curators, academic researchers, independent scholars and artists do not, in practice, operate in the same ethical and professional environment as the patent attorneys of multinational pharmaceutical companies. Possibly the old oppositional notion that indigenous people, unlike Westerners, are somehow so inextricably linked to their natural environment that their technology cannot be separated from the flora and fauna of the material world has dominated thinking in this area.
One current application to the Waitangi Tribunal touches on issues that could dramatically affect local museum practices with respect to guardianship. The Wai 262 Flora and Fauna claim includes demands present in the Mataatua Declaration, and claims that the Crown has breached the second article of the treaty, by not guaranteeing Maori the ‘unqualified exercise of their chieftainship [rangatiratanga] over their lands, villages and all their treasures’ (Waitangi Tribunal 2006). As David Williams writes in his Wai 262 report to the tribunal, ‘it is up to the Crown to show how, if at all, it is proper to claim that whare whakairo, waka tupapaku (bone caskets), koiwi (human remains), mokaikai (preserved heads), etc., are now rightfully in the ‘full ownership’ of a museum in New Zealand or overseas’ (Williams 2001, 14).
Intellectual property law, as it now stands, will not achieve the types of protections that the Mataatua Declaration and Wai 262 suggest should follow on from the transferral of guardianship for cultural objects from museums to indigenous people. The notion of a cultural ‘property’ implies an individualised commodity; however this concept is alien to tribal, sub-tribal or community understandings of kaitiakitanga. For the law to be more inclusive, the definition of intellectual property would need to be expanded to account for not only material expressions but also collective ideas, held in perpetuity rather than just for an individual’s lifetime. As discussions at forums such as WIPO, museum conferences and hui (formal meetings) on marae continue, a general consensus is emerging in Aotearoa New Zealand that the law can enforce some aspects of kaitiakitanga, while biculturalist policies and social morals have a role to play in reinforcing the importance of other aspects.
Digitisation further complicates debates over the meaning and assertion of cultural guardianship in museum contexts, specifically the role of digitisation in the imaging of taonga Maori and the spiritual significance of digital replicants. In her book Decolonising methodologies, Linda Tuhiwai Smith warns that any fruitful discussion between ancient taonga and contemporary observers that is enabled by new technologies may be undermined by interactive processes that reduce discussion to predetermined, or even uncontrolled, access through buttons (Smith 1999, 102). Aside from standard computer screen and keyboard interactive interfaces, the continuing development of three dimensional software, scanners, studio-based recording facilities, printers and head mounted displays (HMD) offers museums a wide range of possibilities as well as significant issues to consider. With this technology it is now possible to insert three-dimensional digitised cultural objects or people into our real world field of vision using augmented reality (also known as mixed reality) HMDs, or insert ourselves into immersive environments with virtual reality HMDs. Original objects can be scanned as three dimensional images, and if the object is museum-held, then the potential exists for the institution to retain a digital replicant and repatriate the original, or visa versa. The same scanned data used to visualise the object can manifest it in the real world through a three-dimensional printer. These technologies can also transport us into a virtual environment, belonging to any culture, place or period of time, either recorded from life or animated or a combination of both.
Extending Smith’s argument further, we might ask whether the essential qualities of a taonga, those that provide its meaning and significance, are transferred to a digital copy. If this is the case, are the kaitiakitanga rights over the original also transferred to the replicant? In attempting to quantify and qualify the essence of taonga, Paul Tapsell, Tukuaki Maori (Director Maori) of Auckland War Memorial Museum, identified a number of interrelated qualities: mana (authority power and prestige); tapu (the protected or sacred or prohibited); korero (oratory and narratives); karakia (recitation or incantation); whakapapa (genealogy and systematic framework); wairua (everlasting spirit); mauri (life force); ihi (spiritual power); wehi (the incitement of fear and awe); and wana (authority and integrity) (Tapsell 1997, 326–331). Although none of these qualities are visual – the sense that augmented and virtual singularly relies upon – it is my proposition that some, if not all, of these cultural values are transferred by digital replication, to a lesser or greater degree, depending on circumstance. This observation is based on the way that metropolitan and central government public archives, including museums, currently manage Maori photographic material as if it is, not just a representation, but an actual manifestation of the taonga illustrated. In keeping with their bicultural policies, Auckland War Memorial Museum and the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa have assumed kaitiakitanga of these photographic images and established Maori consultative bodies that determine the accessibility, display and reproducibility of this material on an application-by-application basis.
While it is likely that similar bicultural principles of kaitiakitanga could be applied to virtual taonga, as new imaging technologies are adopted by museums for archiving and display purposes, the law may also be invoked to enforce indigenous perspectives of cultural guardianship. If Wai 262 achieves some degree of success at the Waitangi Tribunal, then the recognition of indigenous rights over genetic material, and its replication through cloning, could be extended to digital imaging of taonga, beyond the limitations of copyright. This would be an unexpected but advantageous development from the conflation of the natural and object/built worlds. Wai 26, another claim that opposed the sale of radio and television spectrum rights because bandwidths for Maori had not been reserved, successfully argued that the Crown’s kawanatanga (governorship) did not empower it to create property rights over any part of the known or unknown universe, including the digital domain, without first consulting Maori (Waitangi Tribunal 1990). According to the findings of the Waitangi Tribunal for Wai 26, it would seem that indigenous virtual objects, people and environments placed in the digital frontier should have their cultural significance legally recognised and protected as if they were real objects, and be cared for according to the principles of kaitiakitanga.
The redefinition of guardianship in terms of kaitiakitanga, associated with changes in intellectual property law and the development of digital imaging processes, will not necessarily lead to the emptying out of indigenous art from Western museums. If we accept that, over time, indigenous people will be successful in realising absolute guardianship of provenanced taonga through repatriation, then museums will have to accommodate the loss of key artefacts. They may have to return curatorial practice to the Cabinet of Curiosity model, or negotiate with indigenous guardians for the rights to display electronic images of objects, people and environments next to those treasures that have been retained. In the latter scenario, museum architecture will become part gallery, part virtual diorama. Municipal museums will have real and digital collections, possibly networked to tribal museums that have kaitiakitanga over key cultural treasures, and curatorial policies that are as much driven by intellectual property law, as bicultural and multicultural practices.
1 The author of this chapter is a member of the Maori Trade Marks Advisory Committee. The views expressed in this chapter do not necessarily reflect those of the Committee or IPONZ.
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Cite this chapter as: Brown, Deidre. 2006. ‘Museums as cultural guardians’. South Pacific museums, edited by Healy, Chris; Witcomb, Andrea. Monash University ePress: Melbourne. pp. 9.1–9.10.
© Copyright 2006 Deidre Brown
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