The audacious art of Kalisolaite ‘Uhila’s Mohe.
When was the last time you watched someone sleep?
I peeked into my niece’s room to check if she was breathing while babysitting last weekend, but I didn’t stay or look at her for long. Occasionally, I stare at my husband sleeping, hoping the intensity will wake him up. He is so unnerved by the green eyes staring at him when he does wake that I reserve this practice for boredom emergencies only.
Most of us don’t spend much time looking at people as they sleep, and unless you’re surveilling yourself, most of us don’t know what we look like when we sleep. Sleeping is private and intimate. Our guard drops, and we are at our most vulnerable.
Walters Prize-nominated artist Kalisolaite ‘Uhila knows exactly what he looks like when he sleeps. There are albums of photos documenting it. An abnormally large number of people also know what ‘Uhila looks like when he sleeps.
‘Uhila’s work Mohe involves him sleeping for six hours on a fala (mat) wrapped in ngatu (Tongan tapa cloth) in full view of strangers. He staged the work on select days at Te Wai Ngutu Kākā Gallery at AUT for this year’s Auckland Art Fair. When heavy rain thwarted his intended performance at Britomart a couple of weeks ago, Kelekele Mo’ui / Living Soil, he took Mohe downtown, sleeping in Britomart’s pavilion above the rumbling trains and in full view of office workers, long-lunchers, security guards, commuters and me.
I arrived at the pavilion after an irksome morning. I almost flagged going, but something told me it might be an antidote; a reprieve from numbering off silly little grievances in my head. A change of pace or activity, especially when it involves someone else’s talent and view of the world, is always a tiny step in the right direction. I find solace in art. I don’t like talking when I visit galleries and prefer to go alone. I left the office for Britomart, hoping for a short break from the noise in my head.
‘Uhila had been there, sleeping on the ground, for a couple of hours already. I stared intently at him for 10 minutes, determined to make a definitive ruling on whether he was actually asleep.
He was on his side with his hand under his head, facing me as I sat on a bench. I’d brought a cushion because my tailbone hurt. As far as I could tell, there was nothing but the fala and his clothing between ‘Uhila and cold concrete. His mouth moved in a way that confirmed he really was asleep, his lips smacking together gently. His eyebrows rose and twitched. He moved to sleep on his back and lightly punched at the ngatu as he arranged his arms into a comfortable position.
My interrogation of the authenticity of ‘Uhila’s slumber was instinctive, but it was also churlish.
Sleeping on the ground for hours in front of everyone might be beyond comprehension for those of us who sleep in our homes, warm and safe after a hard day’s work typing at our desks. Sleep is necessary for all, but for those whose work is properly hard or outside “normal” hours, sleep must be had when it can. Mohe relates to ‘Uhila’s night shift work.
For people who don’t have a home, where you sleep is inconsistent and irregular. The work that earned ‘Uhila the Walters Prize nomination was Mo’ui Tukuhausia. He lived homeless for two weeks, sleeping rough in Pakuranga. As curator Bruce Phillips wrote at the time, “On a daily basis Kalisolaite’s presence ignited responses that could have been produced by a 1950s social science experiment where the very best and worst of our local constituents were eked out. Public responses varied greatly and within a day had become instantly polarised. He was referred to as ‘that Thing!’ by one visitor, was spat on by another, and even accused of not smelling enough of ‘urine and faeces’”. Unsubtle and accidental commentary about the correlation between Mo’ui Tukuhausia and Mohe was made on a local Facebook page under a picture of ‘Uhila sleeping at Britomart. “Walked past 5 “performances” like this earlier today on queen st” it reads.
I watched the people watching ‘Uhila, or in many cases, ignoring him, as intently as I did the sleeping stranger.
Many were curious, stopping to read the sign that explained what was happening. A surprising number of people did not see him; their heads were down as they stared at their phones. Men in suits descended from stairs where ‘Uhila lay at their feet, and they were too deep in a very important conversation to see him. Others tentatively looked as if they wanted to know more. One foot would turn, ready to cross the tiles to read the sign, but politeness or nerves seemed to kick in as if they wanted to avoid disturbing him or their train of thought with confirmation of what was signified. Part of me wonders if ‘Uhila knows that watching the people watching him will become part of the experience he’s creating.
I studied Tracey Emin’s My Bed at university. It prompted a momentous round of pearl-clutching and controversy when it was unveiled. The work was just Emin’s bed after a depressive and very sexual phase in the artist’s life. The sheets were stained with bodily secretions, and her underwear, spotted with menstrual blood, was lying on the floor. Critics decried it as something anyone could do, a common response to audacious art. Emin famously responded, “Well, they didn’t, did they? No one had ever done that before.” It was base and vulnerable, exposing the viewer to aspects of life that we feel more comfortable about when they are kept private. The consensus on My Bed now is that it is a significant and enduring piece of art and an unapologetic reveal of the anxieties of life as a woman.
Watching ‘Uhila sleep did quiet the noise in my head, and the morning’s irritations were forgotten. I was grateful for his offer of this unusual communion in the middle of Auckland’s bustle.
Mohe at Britomart was quiet but unavoidable. ‘Uhila took up space but demanded little. His commentary about labour practices, work, rest, and the luxury of correctly balancing the necessities of life was brought to the place he once helped build as a construction labourer. He disrupted part of Auckland’s inner city without speaking. He moved only to breathe or find a new sleeping position. Like My Bed, Mohe is audacious art.
After 45 minutes, ‘Uhila rolled over and faced Takutai Square. I couldn’t see his face anymore. I took it as my cue to leave and let the stranger sleep, watched by someone else.
