Representation matters, but the piece of the puzzle that’s missing is the freedom to represent no one but yourself. To be an individual and all that comes with it, writes Preyanka Gothanayagi. 

As a southeast Asian immigrant living in New Zealand, I’m used to being a cultural ambassador. I’ve had a lifetime of fielding many, many curious questions (“What’s the significance of Diwali?” “Do your parents own a dairy?”) – so much so that I’ve learned the answers by rote. It was part and parcel of growing up in Aotearoa in the early 2000s, and I’ve always accepted it as the unspoken price of admittance. It’s only as an adult that I, and others, have begun to talk about what this experience was actually like. 

But nothing speaks louder than the art we create. 

I first discovered artist Abhi Chinniah on LinkedIn (yes, really), and immediately became obsessed with her work. In direct contrast to the broad cultural representation I’ve always felt shoehorned into, her art is all about the individual. Individual backgrounds, individual experiences and individual identity. A collection of her pieces, titled A Migrant’s Path, is currently on display at the New Zealand National Portrait Gallery, Te Pūkenga Whakaata, and it’s a direct response to the ways in which we silence ourselves.

Colourism isn’t something we talk about much in Aotearoa. We’ve at least opened the conversation on racism, but colourism remains pervasive in part because it exists in quieter spaces, while we as a country hash out other issues. Much of the overt colourism we face comes from within our own diaspora communities, whether as a holdover from a colonial past, or something much older. And we don’t talk about it, or the scars it’s inflicted. It’s a hard concept to explain to friends who have never even heard about Fair and Lovely cream.

The first part of Chinniah’s collection, from a body of work called Melanin Rising, challenges our collective – and my personal – silence. The exhibition opens with six larger-than-life portraits of six individuals, each wearing the cultural attire of their heritage, each photographed outdoors. It’s a powerful statement, centring people who have been “othered” squarely within distinctive landscapes of New Zealand, allowing them to express all the elements of their identity. It’s also powerful that these individuals take front and centre both literally and metaphorically – there’s no sense of the person behind the camera.

Chinniah later told me that each photograph was the result of a deep and trusting relationship. Each person chose what they wore, and the accompanying essay, detailing their experiences with colourism, was entirely their own. It was the inverse of so many, many examples of photography where the subject becomes an object, and the work belongs to the photographer alone. Instead, here was community and belonging, captured in small details. 

A pounamu necklace sitting alongside a gold pendant. The dying sun painting black hair gold. A twisted native tree framing a deep blue headdress. The pallu of a sari draped across the long grass. Toi toi dancing behind the hanfu of a fifth-generation New Zealander, who is still asked “No, where are you from really?” Each portrait contains multitudes to soak in.

The phrase “representation matters” has been used so many times that it’s begun to lose its original meaning. Now that we have heroes and heroines who look like us on big screens and small (see: Simone Ashley), there’s a sense that we’ve made it; we’re there now. But the piece of the puzzle that’s missing is the freedom to represent no one but yourself. To be an individual, and all that comes with it. That’s what Chinniah’s work speaks to, whether we like it or not.

“You know, you’re doing it for all of us,” I overheard an uncle say to Chinniah. “Because of you, others can also get ahead.”

“I don’t want to do it for everyone,” Chinniah replied, clearly startled. “It just is.”

The second part of the exhibition was a series of short stories and accompanying images about the way certain cultures treat mental health. Spoiler alert: we don’t do it well. Abhi’s series No. 13 explores the ways people lose themselves, when they fall through the cracks of community. It’s darker and more surreal – but somehow also more hopeful.

I didn’t realise before visiting the gallery that Chinniah’s background is so similar to my own – we’re both from Sri Lankan Tamil Malaysian families, and I immediately recognised the world she was writing in. One that fluidly switches between different traditions and four languages, where keeping up appearances is a survival instinct.

Bharatanatyam, a classical South Indian dance form, is performed to Erik Satie’s haunting ‘Gnossienne No.1’ – representing the grief and madness of a woman cut loose from the safety of family. A fabric hoop, made from pieces of cloth with sentimental meaning, is a portal between the past and the present. And in my favourite image of them all, a cacophony of marigolds eats a woman’s head. 

It’s less straightforward than Melanin Rising, but also more personal to the artist – you can feel that these pieces are part of her working through her own past, for a brighter future. It’s what a lot of third-culture kids do – now we’ve reached a level of safety in Aotearoa, we unravel the intergenerational trauma that our parents refuse to acknowledge. No. 13 is all about what we do and don’t say, to ourselves and one another. 

And it’s clear that Abhi Chinniah, in her art, can no longer stay silent about any of it. Her work is evidence of a new norm in Aotearoa – one that blends belonging and identity, creating a new path forward. It’s a narrative that challenges the fact that even in the most recent census, there was a “New Zealand European” ethnic category, but not a “New Zealand Chinese”. An address of the monoliths and stereotypes we’re reduced to – that maybe, we’ve internalised. A defence of the individual.

Because we are here. We just are. This collection speaks to that, and Chinniah fought to make it happen. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited her exhibition, bringing friends and family to experience the same thing I have. Over the past few weeks, we’ve had new conversations and opened old wounds – we’ve been moved by art that feels almost just for us. In a world where I don’t see myself often, Te Pūkenga Whakaata turned its walls into mirrors.

I can only hope there’ll be more work like it in the future.

Abhi Chinniah: A Migrant’s Path will be available to view at the New Zealand Portrait Gallery Te Pūkenga Whakaata until December 8, 2024.