Mar 19, 2025 People
Abigail Dell’Avo: Your art spans various mediums — performance, installation and spoken word. How do you choose which form to express an idea?
Rosanna Raymond: That’s a great question. Over the years, I’ve developed my own vocabulary because terms like ‘performance’ didn’t capture the depth of the whakapapa — the genealogy and stories behind the work. I coined the term ‘acti.VĀ.tion’, and became an acti.VĀ.tor, FABricator and culti.VĀ.tor of spaces. Everything I do starts there — with the vā, the space between. I usually begin with an idea or research, often diving into mythology, which is a big passion of mine. Those oral histories teach us so much.
My journey as an artist really began with the Pacific Sisters [in the early 1990s]. I never saw myself as an artist before that — I thought art was just painting and sculpture. Indigenous expressions like performance and body adornment weren’t considered art in the same way. But with the Pacific Sisters, we started using bodies and our hands to tell stories, painting the pictures we wanted to see. Many of the Sisters — like Suzanne Tamaki, Niwhai Tupaea and Ani O’Neill — were master craftswomen, and they taught me a lot about technique.
The body became my main canvas for storytelling. This was pre-digital — no Photoshop, and film was expensive. A lot of art forms weren’t accessible then, so we worked with live sound and performance. Today, I create moving-image works that capture that performative essence, layering them with the sounds of te taiao, the environment. We were urban, New Zealand-born Islanders, not Islanders from the islands. The term ‘Urbanesian’, coined by Courtney Meredith, describes us well. We were navigating what it meant to be Pacific in urban spaces.
Often, my work is site-specific. I sit with a space, and the environment dictates how the piece will unfold. Sometimes, though, the scope of the project depends on funding. I call it ‘how long my piece of string is’. If it’s short, I work with what I have — often my body, which is the cheapest material I’ve got. I don’t argue with myself either! However, I usually work collectively, so the project’s scope also depends on whether it’s collaborative or individual.
AD: How have your experiences with the Pacific Sisters and the SaVĀge K’lub shaped your artistic journey?
RR: Oh, there wouldn’t be a SaVĀge K’lub without the Pacific Sisters. They were the first collective I joined, and they’re embedded in my artistic whakapapa. Without them, I wouldn’t be an artist.
The Sisters made it possible for me to be both a mum and an artist, which was huge. Collectives aren’t easy, but they’re natural for indigenous people because we think collectively. Art school tends to individualise and standardise your work, but collective knowledge — shared knowledge — has always been powerful. No one can own it because our tīpuna created it. We’re just continuing that journey, existing in the past, present and future all at once.
I felt lonely working individually after I moved to England [in 1999], so I started the SaVĀge K’lub. It grew from the work I was doing in museums, recontextualising collections and exploring museums’ responsibilities to the living. The relationships we formed in that space became part of the artwork itself, emphasising the vā, whether performed or displayed.
The Pacific Sisters’ revival was amazing. We’d been working for years, often under the radar. People were shocked when we did the big show at Te Papa [in 2018] and later in Auckland. They asked, “Did this really happen in the 90s?” Yes, it did! But we didn’t have social media back then, so much exists only in photographs and analogue archives.
The Sisters were part of a broader cultural movement — the Māori Renaissance, the revitalisation of te reo Māori, the rise of hip-hop and the push for indigenous activism. We were creating spaces for Pacific people to be seen and heard because we weren’t represented in mainstream media then.
AD: Your work is very physical and personal. How has your relationship with your body and identity evolved over time?
RR: Many people first encountered me in the 1980s as a young model. I started at 17, but by the time I was 19, I was already considered too old for the modelling industry. That world never felt comfortable for me. I came from a culture of bigger Pacific bodies, and in modelling you were always being squeezed into these sample sizes.
When I returned to New Zealand [in 1989, after modelling overseas], I started working in fashion shows, street shows and nightclubs, where we embraced all body types. We were living diversity before it became mainstream — showcasing brown bodies, queer bodies, trans bodies, all of it. There wasn’t a ballroom scene, but voguing was happening in the clubs, and it was so inclusive.
Using my body more in my work became necessary, especially when I didn’t have the resources to hire others. My body became my muse as I aged, and that’s been powerful. There’s something disruptive about presenting a female body that’s not sexualised but still visible. People react strongly — sometimes with discomfort. My performances aren’t about sexuality; they’re ancestral. I’ve used my body to challenge fears, confront the status quo and celebrate the visibility of wāhine and ancestral bodies.
AD: Can you tell me about your current PhD research and its focus?
RR: I’ve become an ‘indigenerd’! After so much time working in museum spaces, I’ve realised the importance of telling our stories in our own voices. My master’s was a chance to reflect on my 30-year practice, but my PhD is about digging deeper into concepts I’ve developed — like the ‘Vā body’ and the ‘SaVĀge methodology’.
It’s about creating frameworks that recentre indigenous practices, instead of always decolonising, which still places the coloniser at the centre. I want to explore how bodies can affect archives. Often, when art enters museums or galleries, it gets commodified and locked away. I’m interested in ways to keep those relationships alive so future generations will hear my voice, not just the institutions’.
I’ve been lucky to have mentors like Albert Refiti and Albert Wendt. We’ve reached a point where we can read texts written by our own peers instead of relying on Western perspectives. Finishing my PhD at 60 is a gift to myself. It’s an opportunity to reflect on my journey, challenge perceptions, and explore identity through my body.
AD: What do you think the future holds for art, especially regarding re-indigenisation?
RR: Re-indigenisation and re-Moanafication hold huge potential for Aotearoa. It’s not just about geography, it’s about centring our ways of being, knowing and doing. We’re tangata Moana — we belong to the Pacific, but we also hold space for tangata whenua. The concept of re-Moanafication (a term coined by Jaimie Waititi) is about reclaiming our narratives and placing indigenous worldviews at the heart of our work.
Right now, the art world is under attack in some places. Politicians often don’t see the value in art, but we know it’s crucial for mental health, community healing and cultural expression. Yet artists are underpaid and undervalued. I don’t own much but don’t owe much, and I love my life. How many people in 9–5 jobs can say the same?
We need to make sure that funding — or the lack thereof — doesn’t limit our creativity. Sometimes we must return to basics, use what we have, and keep practising regardless of external pressures.
AD: Do you think collectivism plays a role when resources are limited?
RR: Absolutely. Collectives offer stability in tough times. We can share costs, like studio space, and pool our knowledge. But collectives are dynamic, and working with people is always interesting! A strong collective needs a solid kaupapa — an underlying philosophy — to keep it grounded. We’re only as strong as our weakest link, which is something indigenous cultures have always understood.
AD: Any final thoughts?
RR: Last year, Australia kept me going, not New Zealand. Even with all my experience, making a living as an artist here is still hard. I’m tired, and it’s tough to find balance. But despite the challenges, it’s a rewarding life. I just hope that Aotearoa continues to support the arts and recognises the value we artists bring.
