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Photograph of an older Māori man wearing a dark, collared shirt, hands in pockets, smiling. Illustrations around him.
Gavin Bishop with illustrations from his thrice-over prize winning book, Atua (Images: Supplied; Design: Tina Tiller)

BooksAugust 10, 2022

He’s the man: Gavin Bishop cleans up at the children’s book awards

Photograph of an older Māori man wearing a dark, collared shirt, hands in pockets, smiling. Illustrations around him.
Gavin Bishop with illustrations from his thrice-over prize winning book, Atua (Images: Supplied; Design: Tina Tiller)

The 2022 New Zealand Book Awards for Children and Young Adults have just wrapped up with a ceremony at Wellington College. Books editor Catherine Woulfe has the results – and big feelings. 

Winner of the Margaret Mahy Book of the Year Award and $7,500; winner of the Elsie Locke Award for Non-Fiction and $7,500; winner of the Russell Clark Award for Illustration and $7,500: Atua: Māori Gods and Legends, by Gavin Bishop (Puffin, Penguin Random House)

Photo of an older man wearing a dark, collared shirt, beaming. Image of a book cover which is big and dominated by black, with an illustration of a Māori man clambering up through glowing vines.
Gavin Bishop and his masterwork (Photo: Martin Hunter)

Tonight belongs to Gavin Bishop. With his splendid hardback Atua, Bishop (O.N.Z.M, Ngāti Pukeko, Ngāti Awa, Ngāti Mahuta, Tainui) took out three of the big six categories, including the supreme award, the Margaret Mahy Book of the Year.

It’s the fifth time he’s won book of the year (more, even, than the award’s namesake Margaret Mahy), the third time he’s won the non-fiction category, and the fifth time he’s won for illustration. There’s all sorts of ways to crunch the numbers, plus a bunch of other awards and accolades not mentioned here, but at this point let’s just say he’s the man.

Atua begins with the story of creation – Rangi and Papa, the kids, the “sweaty darkness between their parents”. It moves from there into stories of land and sea, of war and the first woman, of Hine-nui-te-pō, Māui-potiki, Tāwhaki’s climb through the heavens. A blue, blue section at the end tells the story of the discovery of Aotearoa. “I have steered a linear path through the complex flow of stories,” Bishop explains in an extensive, generous end note. “Told differently by each tribe, from the creation of the sky and the earth to the establishment of the natural world where we live today.”

Atua was always going to be a champion among books. On my son’s bookshelf it assumes the air of a black-backed gull: it’s huge, and black, and just clearly superior. Then you open it up and you’re hit with wild splashes of lilac and yellow and corner-dairy blue, and what also comes through is a tangible sense of the artist’s own joy in creation – it’s clear that Bishop absolutely revelled in these humungous pages, and in filling them up.

Beautiful illustrated scene of ancient NZ forest, washed in pink and lilac.

He’s also managed to rewrite these old stories with a real sense of wonder, and a lightness in the text. “Tānemahuta was clearly his mother’s favourite,” he writes. “She gave him the best and biggest job – god of forests, birds and insects. But she had forgotten there was no room for tall trees between her body and her husband’s.”

A long and skinny image of seven Māori atua drawn in reds and blues on a black background.
Opened up, these fold-out pages near the start of Atua measure more than a metre wide (Image: Supplied)

Here’s convenor of judges, educationalist and author Pauline (Vaeluaga) Smith: “Atua is an instant classic, a ‘must have’ for every Kiwi household and library, that is packaged in stunning production values … The book is much more than a list of Gods and legendary heroes – it’s a family tree, presented with power and simplicity. The text is never overstated, with the glory of the illustrations as the primary mode of storytelling, rewarding the reader who closely examines them.”

(The other judges on the English language panel were writer Kyle Mewburn, public librarian Laura Caygill, children’s bookseller, reviewer and author Adele Broadbent, and Poutiaki Rauemi/National Manager Māori for Services to Schools at Te Puna Mātauranga o Aotearoa National Library of New Zealand, Ruki Tobin.)

Here’s what I wrote about Atua when I first saw it:

A masterwork. A big beautiful hardback masterwork. My boy grabbed it the moment it arrived and gasped, “Is this for kids?”

It is, but it’s also for adults, and it’ll make them gasp too.

The format is similar to Bishop’s recent picture books Aotearoa: The New Zealand Story and Wildlife of Aotearoa, both terrific, both involving immense amounts of research, illustration and writing, but there is an extra layer of magic to Atua. Here Bishop is working with stories, and with whakapapa, and he is weaving meaning. I think it is the best work he has ever done … 

Illustration of a waka charging through bright blue seas, with kiva (frigatebirds) dominating the foreground.

I still think Atua is Bishop’s best ever, which is saying something for a guy who’s put out more than 60 books. (I do adore, as well, his recent series of sweet board books, especially Koro, about a kid making pūha and egg sandwiches with their grandpa.) But what’s really exciting about Atua, and about this point in Bishop’s career, is the energy – each page practically crackles with it, and you put the book down knowing there just have to be more, so many more beautiful stories to come.

Winner of the Wright Family Foundation Te Kura Pounamu Award for te reo Māori and $7,500: I Waho, i te Moana, written by Yvonne Morrison, translated by Pānia Papa and illustrated by Jenny Cooper (Scholastic New Zealand)

Mugshots of three women, all beaming, arranged beside an image of a book cover showing an illustration of a seal mum and bub.
Yvonne Morrison, Pānia Papa and Jenny Cooper, with their winning picture book (Photos: Supplied)

I don’t speak te reo so will steer clear of any analysis here in lieu of the judges’ comments: they praised its standard and beautiful flow of reo as well as the expertise of the translator, and said the illustrations bring to life the authenticity of this story about the many taniwha that act as guardians in the moana.

I’ll add that the illustrations are fantastic, with a quiet sense of humour – I love the goggle-eyed flounder – and make this a book that you could happily pore over with a child even if you’re not familiar with te reo.

(The judges for this award were Anahera Morehu, tumuaki tuākana/immediate past president of the Library and Information Association of New Zealand Aotearoa; communications specialist Te Amohaere Morehu; online content service and rauemi developer – te ao Māori at the National Library, Horowaitai Roberts-Tuahine; and Ruki Tobin, who was also on the English language panel.)

Winner of the Picture Book Award and $7,500: Lion Guards the Cake, by Ruth Paul (Scholastic New Zealand)

Photo of a woman sitting with her dog; image of book cover showing illustration of a lion sitting in front of a giant pink cake.
Ruth Paul and her winning picture book (Photo: Supplied)

In my strong and impassioned opinion, something went wonky with the picture book judging. I’m shocked that the Huia titles, The Eight Gifts of Te Wheke and The Greatest Haka Festival on Earth, both dipped out. I’ve raved about both before – they’re exceptional even by Huia standards – and thought they were clear and obvious favourites for the prize. Te Wheke especially. It’s a book about a gnarly old octopus pulling a kid into the sea, and her brother figuring out a trick to get her back. 

“The story is so strong you could read it without pictures and it would still be lush and tense and creepy as hell,” I wrote of Te Wheke. “But the illustrations are astonishing … Another thing I love: the mum in this book is drawn big and strong and she has boobs. She looks like she gives great hugs but takes zero shit. She looks real.”

Lion Guards the Cake is a sweet story about a lion statue hopping off its plinth and gradually gobbling up a cake, then whipping up a George’s Marvellous Medicine-esque replacement. The judges “loved the masterfully blended words and images, calling it confident storytelling of the highest calibre.”

It’s not that it’s bad, I don’t mind reading it (and I do resent reading a lot of picture books, especially when they’ve tried rhyme and failed, which is almost always). It’s just not as good as others. 

I asked my seven-year-old to give me his picks and he said “The haka festival, then straight next would be Te Wheke. Then leave a bit of a gap and then we put My Cat Can See Ghosts, and then Bumblebee Grumblebee. And then a really really really big gap, and then Lion Guards the Cake.”

But then the three-year-old started whacking her honey-loaded butter knife on the table and hollering LION GUARDS THE CAKE! LION GUARDS THE CAKE! 

I can only imagine something similar went down in the judging room. 

Winner of the Wright Family Foundation Esther Glen Junior Fiction Award and $7,500: The Memory Thief, by Leonie Agnew (Penguin Random House NZ)

Photo of a woman with light skin and dark hair, smiling, holding a copy of her book. Close up pic of the cover which depicts a boy with tousled hair, set against a dark sky with a moon.
Leonie Agnew and her brilliant creepy book of trolls (Photo: Wayne Martin, Times Media)

Extremely strong field here – I’ve read all the finalists and could see a path to victory for each one of them, and that’s unusual. 

(I love Sonya Wilson’s Fiordland faerie eco-adventure Spark Hunter the most by a long shot, but she at least won the NZSA Best First Book Award, plus $2,500.)

Photo of a woman with amazing long curly hair and a lovely smile. Image of her book cover which features an illustration of a child walking into a forest of dense green and huge old trees.
Sonya Wilson and her winning debut, about fairies in Fiordland (Photo: Supplied)

What I really like about the winner, The Memory Thief, is that it has a good big dollop of scary. The main character is a boy who is also a troll. He’s confined to a park and turns to stone every dawn. This means the action happens at night, which right away makes it creepy and inneresting. There’s also the merest hint of a love story, disguised as a top-tier friendship. Ideal. (I want a YA version of this book so bad.)

Plus, Agnew is very good at the craft side of things: her sentences sing, and she keeps the threads of tension stretched pingingly tight. 

One of the main themes is how a person is made up of memories, and what happens when those memories disappear. It could’ve all got very complicated (the troll survives by “eating” memories, and each day forgets his own) but she somehow kept it clear and compelling. Cool.

Winner of the Young Adult Fiction Award and $7,500: Learning to Love Blue, by Saradha Koirala (Record Press)

Photo of a woman with long dark hair and glasses, smiling, leaning against brick wall. Image of her book cover which features a record player, and is entirely blue.
Melbourne-based writer Saradha Koirala and her second, winning, YA (Photo: Supplied)

So that was unexpected. I really thought it was Eileen Merriman’s year – Violet Black is pacey as hell and it’s about vaccines and a weird fever and an elite team of superkids in the desert, plus pashing – but the judges were clearly in the mood for precisely the opposite. 

Learning to Love Blue is the sequel to 2017’s Lonesome When You Go. It’s a quiet and mundane story about Paige, a musical teenager who’s left her home in New Zealand to try her chances with bands in Melbourne. It’s about that weird bedding-in stage where you don’t have any friends yet and you’re not sure if stuff’s going to work out. 

When I said mundane before I meant it in both senses: this book is a bit dull, and it’s also very much of this earthly world. There’s heaps and heaps of text spent on setting up instruments and plugging in amps and small talk and arranging to meet later and getting from A to B. Conversely, our protagonist falls in love almost entirely off the page, and seems to be more into Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell than she is Spike, her paramour. I adore YA but I’m really not feeling it.

‘He mea tautoko nā ngā mema atawhai. Supported by our generous members.’
Liam Rātana
— Ātea editor
Keep going!
Compelling photograph of three women embracing and crying with joy.
Sarah Hirini, Portia Woodman and Kelly Brazier embrace after winning Olympic gold in 2021 (Photo: Dan Mullan/Getty Images; Design: Tina Tiller)

BooksAugust 9, 2022

Leave mana in your wake: a new story of the Black Ferns Sevens

Compelling photograph of three women embracing and crying with joy.
Sarah Hirini, Portia Woodman and Kelly Brazier embrace after winning Olympic gold in 2021 (Photo: Dan Mullan/Getty Images; Design: Tina Tiller)

Arizona Leger reviews Rikki Swannell’s book Sevens Sisters, the story of how our women’s sevens team reset – and triumphed – after their heartbreaking loss to Australia at the 2016 Olympics. 

Growing up, rugby sevens was a beautiful mystery. I had heard about it, seen it played a couple of times on TV and I knew my dad had played it, but for the longest time I couldn’t comprehend the sport despite the title being a dead giveaway. The 2012 Epsom Girls’ Grammar School rugby sevens team marked my first attempt at giving it a go. We made the national schools tournament that year. I quickly fell in love with the sport and the culture surrounding it.

Later that year, my coach called to ask whether I’d like to play for the Auckland women’s sevens in a one-off tournament, as they were short on numbers. Within 48 hours I was sitting in the same van as an injured rookie superstar who would go on to make her mark on the world as Tyla Nathan-Wong. She had no idea who I was, but I had every idea who she was. That’s been my constant experience with women’s rugby. We’ve grown up alongside some of the best in the game so it hasn’t been hard to be a proud and staunch supporter of them over the years. We essentially witnessed history unfold as childhood superstars became national sporting heroes.  

Portia Woodman, Sarah Hirini (or Goss as she was at the time), Gayle Broughton and Tyla Nathan-Wong were some of my childhood icons. They have been household names for many dedicated rugby fans and aspiring athletes for a long time. I held them in the same regard as the Richie McCaws of the world, and I still do. They were proof of how talented women are on the rugby field. It was because of them that I believed I could give rugby a go. 

That might be why I found reading the stories and direct quotes of these women throughout the new book Sevens Sisters such a powerful experience. I learned that Gayle Broughton’s nana once offered a $20 bribe to get her to trial. Tyla Nathan-Wong reminded me of the power of provincial rugby: “It reignited the love. To go back home and represent the Cambridge Blue of Northland.” And Niall Williams on the human side of high performance: “I always say a scoreline should never define you as a person, how you treat someone in your team or how you look at them, because no one goes out to lose, drop a ball or make a mistake.” 

Photograph of three women's rugby players. One is curled up in a ball on the ground, the others are bending to comfort her. They look strong but devastated.
Portia Woodman, Huriana Manuel and Ruby Tui after the loss in Rio (Photo: Alexander Hassenstein/Getty Images)

It felt as if they were talking directly with me – and it dawned on me that a conversation younger me only ever dreamed of will now be a reality for many young wāhine who encounter this book. That’s because there has been a monumental shift in the identity and confidence of aspiring women and girls in rugby. And it’s precisely why we need to keep recording and retelling our own histories.

In her 15 years as a sports broadcaster, author Rikki Swannell has commentated countless the HSBC World Rugby Sevens Series matches and attended multiple Olympic and Commonwealth Games. Having been there to witness and articulate so many of New Zealand’s biggest sevens moments, she’s the perfect person to write this book.

A special keepsake to the past, present and future of women’s rugby, Sevens Sisters (subtitle: How a people-first culture turned silver into gold) shares the true and transparent story behind building, coaching and becoming a Black Ferns player. It’s an insightful and emotional read filled with teachable moments, even beyond the world of sports. 

Head and shoulders portrait of a blonde woman in blazer; her book cover featuring photograph of women rugby players embracing.
Rikki Swannell (Photo: Supplied)

I’m an easily distracted millennial who reads a chapter per day at best. (The last sports book I read properly was Irene Van Dyk’s Shooting for the Top and that was when I was 11 and dreaming that I might one day become a tall, athletic, South African Silver Fern.) So I opened the first page of Sevens Sisters at 6pm on a work evening with average hopes for my attention span. Almost immediately I was highlighting lines that I connected with and felt inspired by. Sentences that confirmed that the Black Ferns Sevens culture is underpinned by Māori values, the importance of “people first” cultures and leaving mana in your wake. Four hours later I had finished all 11 chapters and almost every line was fluorescent pink. 

As a young wahine Māori and teine o le moana who once gave rugby a go and is now working toward delivering our women’s Rugby World Cup this year, this story makes a world of difference. It showcases national sporting success that is grounded in tikanga Māori, player-centric systems and proudly wāhine led, a leadership model that many current organisations’ diversity and inclusion strategy attempts could learn from.

From the outset, both Swannell and Te Kapa Raupango Takiwhitu (our Black Ferns Sevens themselves) demonstrate the importance of recording our own histories. That when history remembers a win, loss or draw, it is just as important to retell the stories and journeys that put those numbers into perspective. Collectively, they take us on a journey from women’s rugby sevens’ inception in 2012 to Olympic victory in 2022. A tribute to the decade of growth. I laughed, cried, and celebrated along with them.

In particular, Sarah Hirini recognising the importance of being named as one of our nation’s flag bearers for the Tokyo Olympics 2021 had me quietly sobbing. Hirini saw it as being about so much more than herself: “… Being a Māori woman and putting sevens rugby to the fore was very moving and also knowing that somewhere a young kid was watching and might one day want to do that too…”

I remember when head coach Alan “Bunts” Bunting announced he was stepping down from the role after the Tokyo Olympics. There was an outpouring of appreciation from current and former Black Ferns’ flooded social channels. In that moment, you could tell he was a special part of the team’s success, but Sevens Sisters demonstrates exactly how groundbreaking his leadership was. Although I’ve never met Bunts I’ll be starting an official fan club for him, Cory Sweeney and the wider team management in recognition of their innate ability to believe in our women, even in moments where they hadn’t quite believed in themselves. To anyone implying that women couldn’t play rugby, Bunts would reply, “Yes, they can, they just need opportunities to fail and learn.” After a few years in the programme he talks about the impact of looking after athletes, especially when the road is getting rough, saying “you can still get the best out of people and not kick them out of your environment”. 

Photo of a woman grimacing as she races with ball in hand, other players in her wake.
Alena Saili in the Commonwealth Games bronze medal match against Canada last month. NZ won 19-12 (Photo: Richard Heathcote/Getty Images)

I’ll throw my remaining bravo roses at the vulnerability embedded throughout the book. As a nation still learning the power of being honest about our feelings, it’s that tone of vulnerability that separates this story from past historical recountings. I’m sure that the team could’ve strictly recorded the highlight reel of their journey if they wanted to. We could’ve read the Instagram version of their wins, trophies and personal bests – but instead we are granted an experience that goes much deeper than the best moments.

It was in the honest, prickly sentences that I felt most connected to each of the athletes. Niall speaks vulnerably about her journey through the injury that ended her Tokyo Olympic dream. Shiray Kaka reflects on her own growth journey over the years and Gayle Broughton keeps it real about the make or break moments of her career from an early age. The reader feels the heavy shoulders of that finals loss in Rio, likewise the rush of tears when that full-time whistle blew in Tokyo five years later. It’s a true measure of the “people first” culture that they are globally known for and, as Bunts puts it, “heart performance”. “If you’ve got the hearts of your people, the high performance has no ceiling,” he says. That’s now a quote I keep close as we crunch down the final 70-ish days before hosting the women’s Rugby World Cup here in Aotearoa.

Throughout, you feel like you’re there on the field, in the gym, or sitting next to our nation’s best sevens players in their most challenging, or equally victorious, moments. I’ve a newfound appreciation for the level of discipline and resilience that it takes to be a Black Ferns Sevens athlete. But even more, I closed the book reassured that a culture underpinned by Māori values, wāhine leadership and a mutual agreement to serve a vision bigger than oneself can achieve Olympic gold outcomes. 

I challenge sports history to share more of these unseen stories, especially in the women’s sports arena. Sevens Sisters is a lesson in the importance of being the author of our own histories – and a timely reminder that there is always more to the story than the final score. 

Sevens Sisters: How a people-first culture turned silver into gold by Rikki Swannell (Upstart Press, $39.99) is available from Unity Books Auckland and Wellington.

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