Dennis Makalio, photographed in Porirua, in the early 1980s. Photo / Ans Westra
(Acclaimed photographer Ans Westra died yesterday. This article was first published by Canvas last month.)
A Facebook post by Wellington journalist Jeremy Rose offering people a ride to see a retrospective show of photographer Ans Westra’s life work in Foxton led to the photographer herself sitting down for a cup of tea with Mongrel Mob member Dennis Makalio, more than 40 years after she took his photo.
The subject: Dennis Makalio
It was just an ordinary day. We were at the Te Mana Trust – which was also a pad – and we were drinking as usual. Back in them days the trust was the way we could all work together we had scrub cutting business and a drain-laying business.
And this woman with a camera just rocked up.
It would have been 1982 when those photos were taken. I’d got out of borstal in 1978. The gang was full of guys who had been in borstal and boys’ homes.
The borstal was in Invercargill. It was the place where they put people who were too young for jail but too old for boys’ homes. It was harder than jail.
There should be an investigation into that borstal. They had the 111 diet – bread, fat and water. It was tougher than Mt Eden or Mt Crawford or anywhere like that.
Anyway, on that day we’d just finished a convention and were winding down for the day. That was the place we would drink. The place we would hang out. The place we’d work. The place we’d congregate. So, it wouldn’t have mattered whether there had been a convention or not. We would have been there, regardless.
I really take my hat off to Ans. She just rocked up and took our photos. When you think about it and you look at her photos, they’re just so natural. I’ve had my portrait taken by other photographers and they’ve made me sit for hours.
Her photos are all about natural beauty. That’s what I like about it. Taking on the spirit of the moment. Other photographers call their photos art and add a whole lot of stuff afterwards, which isn’t true. Ans’ photos are just natural.
In that era no one would just walk in do something like that. She would have had a lot of self-esteem. Other people would have tried to have a meeting with the top dog to talk about taking our photos and it would have been a staged thing. But with her, it was just a natural, everyday thing.
She reminded me a lot of Shirley Smith [a Wellington lawyer and left-wing radical who often represented gang members in 1970s and 80s.] The way they were interested in us and not seeing us in a bad light. Most people would have said: “There’s no way I’m going through that gate.”
That was a different era. The clothes were different. The kaupapa was different. Everything was different. You could never capture that again.
I first came across Ans’ photos when I was going around the country collecting photos of headstones. Because so many of the brothers had passed away. I’ve got close to 300 pictures of headstones now. And I started looking for photos of the brothers who had passed and Ans’ photos started popping up.
A lot of the photos have been shared on the Mongrel Mob’s Facebook page.
It was nice to discover Ans is still alive and to meet her after all these years. I’m in my 60s now and I’ll always treasure that gift she’s given me. It’s hard to explain it. It’s the memories that these photos have left us with. The beauty that she’s given us. It’s just her love and passion for photography.
The photographer: Ans Westra
I’d seen an article in the Evening Post, saying the Mongrel Mob was having a convention in Porirua. And I thought: that could make for some interesting photographs.
It was on an Easter Weekend, and I drove up in the little Volkswagen I had in those days. And I just went and asked if I could take pictures. They were quite happy to co-operate. To give me free rein.
No, I wasn’t at all intimidated. I saw them being happy, jolly just relaxed, really. I asked if I could take some photos and they said, yes. They seemed keen for a good side of the gang to be seen.
I stayed around for a bit. I didn’t listen to the conversations, so much as observe the faces, the people, what they were up to.
I remember the way they were in a circle around the car. They were very friendly. And I think they liked performing for the camera. Acting up a bit.
I think maybe being a foreigner and being a woman helped. They certainly weren’t threatened by me. They were wanting to give their side of life, really.
Did they flirt with me? No, I don’t think they were playing up to me in that way. There was one older person, a European, who was a bit aggressive and wanted to know what I was doing there and kept asking me questions. Maybe that was his way of flirting, I don’t know.
I think I took two rolls of film. The Rolleiflex only takes 12 shots – so 24 photos in total. Nowadays people take so many photos with their cell phones. More than you need really.
It wasn’t the first time I’d photographed gang members. I took photos of Black Power in one of the houses they lived in on Hankey St and took some Cuba Mall. They are fascinating people with their tattoos. They have the power to stand back and be removed. They very much form a group.
I was taking photos for a book on Māori: Whaiora. I think a photo of Dennis appears in it.
So, I was gathering material all over the place. I just went wherever I was welcome and went along and photographed.
Nobody was specifically photographing Māori in those days. Pākehā wouldn’t go on to the marae. That was an area they didn’t feel comfortable. Maybe it was easier for me with my accent and being seen to be a visitor. And I think it was easier for me, with my Dutch vowels, to pronounce Māori words than it was for Pākehā.
I knew individual Māori words but I didn’t have te reo. I would just let it wash over me when I was on the marae taking photos. But I don’t think gang members had te reo either.
It was interesting meeting Dennis and his wife Liz after all those years and seeing how important the photos were to them. And it was interesting to hear that the photos have a life on the gang’s Facebook page.
It was lovely seeing what a family man Dennis has become.
People often get in touch with me wanting photos. They’re often Māori or Pasifika families. I’m happy to help them locate them and we’ve got a special rate for them.
The journalist: Jeremy Rose
The photo of me with a toy gun is from 1970 – I was 4 or 5 at the time. I have no memory of it being taken or having ever seen it until I was looking through some of Ans’ photos on the Turnbull Library site.
But my earliest memories of being photographed are of Ans taking our pictures. I don’t recall Mum or Dad ever having a camera. Probably because of that my grandparents commissioned Ans to visit our home in Ngaio and take photos a couple of times.
There was no posing. Ans would just spend a few hours taking photos on her distinctive Rolleiflex camera.
Earlier this year, when I saw Ans’ exhibition after HANDBOEK was on in Foxton, I put a note on Facebook offering anyone who was keen a lift up there. There were a few takers and we agreed we’d set a date. Then I promptly forgot about it.
About a week before the exhibition was to close, I got a message from Ans saying if I was still planning to go up the line, she’d be keen for a ride, and could give a floor-talk to anyone who wanted to come up.
I was surprised and delighted to hear from Ans. The last time I’d seen her was more than 30 years ago when I visited her at her Karori to see if I could access photos she’d taken of an alternative school, Matauranga, in the 1970s, for a book I was writing at the time.
I remember being amazed when she told me – seemingly off the top of her head - the negative numbers to look for in the photos stored at the Turnbull Library. As I was leaving she asked to wait for a minute. After rummaging in one of rooms for a minute she emerged with an exhibition-size print of me and my brothers, Mick and Tim.
Tim’s on Mick’s shoulders, I’m on the floor in a clown costume staring up at my brothers, oblivious of Ans’ presence. It’s a classic Ans picture.
Ans now lives up in the hills above Lower Hutt. Her campervan with the personalised number plate, Ans, sits in the carport unused. She’s no longer able to drive. So her travels around the country taking photos are much reduced but she’s still taking photos.
On the trip up to Foxton she probably took 10 or so photos on a small digital camera. She seemed particularly delighted by a calf in a trailer in a car in front of us.
Writer Nick Bollinger was among the group of us who travelled up that day. He mentioned some of Ans’ photos were going to appear in his then-forthcoming book, Jumping Sunday.
Artist Barry Thomas was also there keen to talk to Ans about photos she’d taken of a guerilla art project where he planted a cabbage patch on a demolition site in 1970s Wellington.
It was magic listening to Ans recall photos and talk her distinctively unassuming way about her extraordinary life’s work – work that continues to speak to us now.
A couple of weeks later I received a Facebook message from someone I didn’t know called Nizz, asking if there were any more exhibition talks by Ans.
Nizz, it turned out, was the son of Dennis Makalio, a Mongrel Mob member Ans had photographed in 1982.
“Those photos are like gold to us all now,” he wrote.
Most of the others in the photos were long since dead and it would mean a lot to his dad to be able to acknowledge Ans’ contribution, he said.
Ans didn’t hesitate when I suggested we pay Dennis and his family a visit in Cannon’s Creek.
It was hard to tell who was more chuffed when they met for the first time in four decades.
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