There’s something deeply satisfying about turning New Zealand’s wildlife into art—especially when you consider that most of them want nothing to do with the process. Take the Californian Quail for example: a quirky little import that is remarkably camera-shy, and famously lacking in photogenic poses. Yet, here I am, determined to capture its feathery essence in a print without it looking like a walking potato.
But that’s the beauty of printmaking. It’s all about embracing the quirks, the unexpected, and the sheer stubbornness of both the animals and the artist (me). So, grab a cup of tea and let’s take a journey through the wild side of printmaking, where birds (native and otherwise), ink, and a bit of chaos come together to create something...well, let’s call it unique.
The Birds Are Not Cooperative Models.
Imagine, if you will, that you’re out in the forest, camera at the ready, trying to get the perfect shot of a tūī. You’re poised, focused, and just as the bird does something majestic, a fantail (*piwakawaka*) flits across the frame as if to say, "What about me?" It’s in these moments you realize that New Zealand’s birds have little to no respect for the creative process. As a printmaker, I’m often inspired by these moments—because, really, what else can you do but laugh? Take the Foveaux Shag for example, they always look annoyed, they have a resting annoyed face that just exudes character and makes for a great art subject. The challenge isn’t just in capturing the physical beauty of these creatures, but also their personalities. After all, it’s not every bird that can look majestic while being vaguely ridiculous at the same time.
From the Forest to the Studio: The Translation Process
Turning one of my photos of a piwakawaka | fantail into a print isn’t as simple as you’d think. There’s a magical transformation that happens between seeing the bird in its natural habitat and carving its likeness into a piece of lino. And by "magical transformation," I mean a lot of head-scratching, erasing, and muttering under my breath. First, there’s the sketching. This is where I try to capture the essence of the bird, whether it’s the pūkeko with its legs that seem two sizes too long, or the ruru (morepork) with its wise and slightly judgmental stare. Of course, the sketch never turns out right the first time. The tūī looks more like an awkward penguin, and the kākāriki (parakeet) has an expression like it just heard a bad joke. But that’s all part of the fun. Next comes the carving—a delicate dance between me, a very sharp tool, and the lino block that, if it could talk, would probably beg for mercy. It’s during this process that I realize I have a choice: do I embrace the imperfections, or do I attempt perfection and risk my sanity? Spoiler alert: I embrace the imperfections. There’s something wonderfully liberating about seeing the quirks of the carving process add character to the final print.
The Ink Doesn’t Always Behave
Once the carving is done, it’s time to ink the block and make the print. Simple, right? Oh, how wrong you are. Ink, like wildlife, has a mind of its own. One moment it’s spreading evenly across the surface, and the next it’s decided to pool in one corner like a kererū stuck in a tree. But it’s all part of the adventure. I’ve learned to roll with the ink-related punches, embracing the smudges and blotches that somehow end up looking intentional. The key is to remember that no two prints are the same, and that’s the beauty of traditional printmaking. Each one has its own character, much like the birds I’m trying to depict.
Bringing Wildlife to Life
In the end, printmaking is a way of bringing New Zealand’s wildlife into your home, minus the feathers, bird calls, and, let’s be honest, occasional bird poo. Through my prints, I aim to capture the spirit of these creatures—their beauty, their quirks, and yes, even their sometimes chaotic nature. Because what’s art without a little bit of wildness? So, the next time you see one of my prints, take a moment to appreciate the journey it took to get there. From a forest full of uncooperative models, through sketching, carving, and inking misadventures, each piece has its own wild story. And remember, behind every print is an artist who’s probably just wiped ink off her nose and muttered, “Nailed it.”
Final Thoughts: The Wild Ride of Printmaking
Printmaking, like nature, is unpredictable, messy, and full of surprises. But that’s exactly what makes it so rewarding. Each print is a little snapshot of New Zealand’s wildlife, captured not just in its physical form, but in its spirit. And if that spirit includes a kererū that looks slightly tipsy or a tūī that’s giving you the side-eye, well—that’s the wild side of printmaking for you.
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