Waitangi Day is like a New Zealand St George’s Day. Actually, it’s more like the Fourth of July. No . . . it’s to celebrate a truce between the English and the Maori . . . or was it between colonists and the King of Britain? It’s definitely about a treaty in the 18th century. Or was it the 1820s? Or 1840?
It’s Kensington on a Saturday afternoon, and a scrum of young New Zealanders are probing the significance of Waitangi Day. All are drinking, smoking and happy. They agree that I’d probably find the history behind it boring but that the vital things to remember are: a) it “s***s on Australia Day”, and b) if you are a Kiwi in London, you must take part in the Circle Line pub-crawl.
There is no law enforcing this but, given the number of eager attendees, you’d think there was. “Mind the missus, mate,” gurgles a chubby man as I knock into the inflatable sheep clasped under his arm. It’s a recurring theme. A group of stocky blokes, white and Maori, are in crude lamb outfits and are being playfully prodded by girls who have draped themselves in New Zealand flags.
“It’s a bit feral,” admits Glen, 24, from Christchurch. “But you gotta understand that living in London can be pretty lonely if you come from New Zealand. No one talks to you on the Tube and that’s different from home. Today you can talk to people without feeling weird.” As he speaks, a pretty blonde next to him gets walloped on the back of the head by a rugby ball. She turns and gives a thumbs- up.
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They start lurching towards South Kensington Tube. There are maybe 500 in this flock, and another 5,000 or so scattered along the route. It looks as if a line of police have blocked the station entrance but, grinning, they allow the crowd to pass. “I’m asking you as a personal favour, don’t all charge into the next train,” pleads the voice on the tannoy. It is ignored.
We arrive, excited and desperate for a wee, at Parliament Square, where all the good-natured colonial buffoonery transforms into poignant, steely-eyed patriotism. I attach myself to a group of Maoris, who are milling around waiting to do their traditional war dance. One of them belches and the others fall about giggling.
Before Big Ben tolls 4pm, the Maoris fall in with 200 other shirtless men and begin the haka. They shout, roll their eyes, stick out their tongues as far as they will stretch and make threatening gestures at an unseen foe. For a moment we all feel mysteriously proud, then the shirtless men start taking pictures of each other with their camera-phones, and the moment passes.
Woozy and fatigued, a Maori later explains: “It’s not about New Zealand or waving flags or getting pissed. It’s about reminding you that there’s a treaty between our two peoples. We remember it — it’s a shame you don’t.”
BEN MACHELL
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“Chigwell was a disaster,” opines the mild-mannered artist Benjamin Sadler. He is one half of the Gallery of Chance, a “live” art collaboration with his partner Charlie Henry.
Ben and Charlie put up public art galleries in unlikely places: railways bridges, telephone boxes, canal tunnels, front gardens. They then donate the works shown to the local community — or, in the case of Chigwell, their first such venture, to a puzzled man in Great Owl Street whose front garden wall was the gallery.
The Chance team arrived at Chigwell, Essex, through a series of complicated glimpses at licence plates or piano notes to obtain a page and grid reference in the London A-Z. Yes, it’s a bit art student-meets-the-Dice Man, but their intentions are honourable and they are ever so nice, quite unlike these urinating-on-stage, self-mutilating, candlesticks-in-unsuitable-orifices performance artists. They are simply putting up galleries to which everyone is invited and where those who view the art can also take it home with them, free.
At first glance it might just be a photograph of some dead fish, mounted in a phone box between adverts for massages with beauty queens or punishments from stern, fishnet-stockinged headmistresses — but it’s a delightful photograph, the fish all gleaming and lined up tidily for sale on a local stall. It makes you want to buy those fish, pump money into the local economy. To hell with sex, some punter might think. I fancy a nice trout supper.
Chigwell was “a disaster” partly because the quality of the work was questionable: found objects on the journey there from Central London, such as pieces of string and bolts. “We mounted the objects on the wall and went to the front door with a bottle of wine. We were going to invite the owner to the opening — a private view,” says Benjamin. At first he refused to let them in. “I think he felt invaded. But eventually he came to see what we had done and said ‘I think you are really lost. You don’t really know what you are looking for. To be honest, I think you need Jesus in your lives’.”
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Worse, the unwilling new gallery owner wanted the show dismantled. “We were imposing on his personal space and the show was more about our journey than his relationship with his environment,” admits Benjamin. “That was a mistake.”
More successful were photographs of a railway bridge on Brooke Road, Stoke Newington, mounted on the bridge itself. “You are most welcome to take one of these photographs away with you” read the sign. It made usually grumpy, in-a-hurry people smile. Londoners stopped and talked to each other.
So what constitutes success, if the cost of putting up the show (about £40) exceeds the profits (none)? “Coming away with good conversations, feeling like we’ve made a difference,” says Benjamin.
If you would like an opening in your street, contact www.galleryofchance.com
MICHELE KIRSCH