The Ghost in the Goldie: Cultural Rights and the Haunting of Art
There’s something deeply unsettling about the way a single painting can become a battleground for identity, heritage, and ownership. The recent resurfacing of a purported C.F. Goldie portrait, titled Lost in Thought, Ngāheke, An Arawa Chieftain, has ignited a conversation far beyond its brushstrokes. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it forces us to confront the uneasy intersection of art, cultural rights, and the legacy of colonialism.
The Painting That Refuses to Be Silent
On the surface, it’s a story about authenticity. Is this really a Goldie? Experts are divided, with some claiming it’s an imitation. But personally, I think the more compelling question lies not in the paint but in the subject: Patara Te Ngūngūkai, a Te Arawa tohunga. His descendants, the Tūhourangi iwi, were blindsided by the painting’s reappearance and its impending sale. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about a piece of art—it’s about the mana and mauri of a man whose image has been commodified without his consent or that of his whānau.
From my perspective, this raises a deeper question: Why do we still treat Indigenous subjects in art as mere objects of fascination rather than as individuals with living legacies? The painting’s estimated price tag of $420,000 underscores the financial value placed on Te Ngūngūkai’s image, yet his descendants have no legal say in how it’s used or sold. It’s a stark reminder of how colonial-era frameworks continue to dictate cultural ownership.
The Legal Labyrinth
One thing that immediately stands out is the glaring gap in intellectual property laws. Under New Zealand’s Copyright Act, once an artist has been dead for 50 years, their work enters the public domain. For Goldie’s paintings, this means anyone can reproduce, alter, or sell them without restriction. Imagine seeing your ancestor’s likeness on an iPhone case or defaced in a café—it’s not just disrespectful; it’s a violation of cultural integrity.
What this really suggests is that our legal systems are woefully out of step with Indigenous perspectives on ownership. The Wai 262 claim, filed in 1991, sought to address this by advocating for Māori intellectual property rights. Yet, decades later, progress remains glacial. Lynell Tuffery Huria, a leading expert in this field, aptly notes that while we’re getting better at acknowledging cultural concerns, we still lack the legislative teeth to enforce them.
The Double-Edged Sword of Visibility
For the Tūhourangi iwi, the painting is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s a chance to reclaim the narrative of Patara Te Ngūngūkai, to remind the world of his significance as a tohunga. On the other, it’s a painful reminder of their powerlessness in the face of commercial exploitation. Kirikowhai Mikaere, chair of the Tūhourangi Tribal Authority, poignantly remarked, ‘It still belongs to us.’ But how can they exercise kaitiakitanga (stewardship) over an image that the law treats as public property?
This tension highlights a broader issue: the commodification of Indigenous culture. Goldie’s paintings, while celebrated for their technical mastery, often reduce Māori subjects to exotic curiosities. If you take a step back and think about it, the very act of buying and selling these portraits perpetuates a colonial gaze—one that objectifies rather than honors.
The Way Forward: Reimagining Cultural Rights
The proposed Taonga Works Framework offers a glimmer of hope. By establishing a commission to oversee the protection of culturally significant works, it could give descendants a voice in how their ancestors’ images are used. A detail that I find especially interesting is how this framework would require consultation with iwi, hapū, and whānau, ensuring that any benefits derived from taonga are shared equitably.
However, as Huria notes, meaningful change is likely generations away. The current government’s reluctance to prioritize Indigenous rights underscores the uphill battle ahead. Yet, the withdrawal of the painting from sale—possibly due to doubts about its authenticity—feels almost symbolic, as if Te Ngūngūkai himself is asserting control over his image.
A Haunting Legacy
This saga isn’t just about one painting; it’s about the ghosts that haunt our cultural institutions. Every portrait of a Māori ancestor is a reminder of histories erased, voices silenced, and legacies commodified. In my opinion, the art world needs to reckon with its complicity in this exploitation. How can we celebrate artists like Goldie while ignoring the ethical dilemmas their work raises?
What this story ultimately reveals is the power of art to provoke, challenge, and heal. It’s a call to reimagine ownership not as a legal construct but as a moral responsibility. As Mikaere said, ‘It ultimately still belongs to us.’ And perhaps, in that assertion, lies the beginning of a new narrative—one where cultural rights are not just acknowledged but respected.
