Helene Olivia Smith and Michael Springer

To All the Ghosts that Haunt Us

2021

Helene Olivia Smith’s smoke-fired sculptural ceramics pay homage to the beloved caves and rugged volcanic landforms of her home on the banks of Lake Wairewa.

When winds allow, the heavily gouged vessels are fired in a pit, burning garden prunings, pine cones, dried cow dung, seaweed, shells and driftwood.

The pots are scorched and scared by the flames in unpredictable ways. Smoke in shades of ghostly greys and carbon black is trapped into the clay body, giving the works an aura of a mysterious history, a life lived and lost, marked by natures force and the relentless passing of time.

Gathered plant material from Smith’s surroundings is dried, soaked then twined and woven into table wreaths to elevate the work but also anchor the pieces with a sense of innate belonging with the unique nature of the place she lives and loves

Seven years ago in New Brighton, Michael Springer climbed into a rubbish skip to rescue a bundle of sugar sacks, this year they migrated onto his studio wall at Te Mata Hapuku (Birdlings Flat). Springer lives and works between three bodies of water bound by stone, two shallow lakes, and the wild southern ocean. A dramatic landscape of crumbling cave- infested volcanic bedrock, towering cliffs of banded iron-reds and ochres, dripping white guano from great flocks of pigeons, shags, black swan and geese. At the close of everyday Springer crosses the lake to walk the hills in company with the restless spirits who watch over this place. They ooze in and flow out from his brush onto the heavy hessian weave. Giving a tapestry-like effect to the already intricate pattern of interwoven life-forms that populate Springers work.

To All the Ghosts that Haunt Us

The cave is the haunt of resting seals,

nesting birds and languishing bones

that lay below the muted groans
of the relentless pounding sea.

Flickering flames flare gold,

over stony faces, their stories told

linger on long after the glare dies

bright scattered ashes drift in our eyes.

Dusk falls, chasing sparks of last light

our hands meet, we hold on tight

losing all edges in the deepening dark.

We speak of our worse days

when ghosts gather, muttering prayers
for times past and the coming waves
of endless change, the tides turning, we trust

in the sun that keeps on burning

There is some semblance of shelter here

amongst rotting kelp and broken shell while

screech of gulls wheel high in howling air.

So, we stay, share soup made of wild things

then retreating to our rocky bed,strive to

settle spirits that lurk in our heads,

make peace with the clamour of the dead

And all the life that remains