For generations, the people of the south ascended into the thin air of the Southern Alps during the brief summer window. They came for the tīkumu, a plant that evolved to survive ultraviolet radiation and biting winds by growing a thick, woolly layer on its underside. A practitioner must carefully peel this tomentum—a dense, silvery-white pellicle—from the underside of each mature leaf, a process of patience and precision that yields a material as soft as felt but as resilient as hide.
These extracted strips were once essential to life in the high country. Using the whatu twining technique, artisans attached hundreds of these silver fibers to a base of harakeke. The resulting pōkeka, or rain capes, were more than just garments; they were sophisticated engineering that trapped warm air and repelled water, allowing travelers to cross freezing mountain passes without the risk of frostbite.
The exhibition, titled Taku Rau Tīkumu, represents the first time this specific tradition has been centered in a major gallery. Beyond the waterproof capes, the tīkumu held a place of quiet reverence. Its leaves were fashioned into tauā, headbands worn during mourning, and the most pristine leaves were worn as ear adornments by rangatira, signaling a status as lofty as the peaks from which the plant was gathered.
By bringing together rare records, oral histories, and contemporary art, the curators are not merely looking at the past. They are documenting a living revitalization. As Hamuera Aporo-Manihera observes, the act of reconnecting to these specific practices and the places they belong is essential to the wellbeing of the people. In the museum halls, the silver-white fibers of the tīkumu shine once more, no longer a fragment of a lost era, but a tangible bond between the land and the hands that know how to work it.