Jae Frew: My story as told to Elisabeth Easther

Jae Frew's exhibition is showing at the Parnell Gallery.

Jae Frew is one of New Zealand’s leading stills photographers, with prime ministers, heads of state, models, screen stars, and prominent sports people among his subjects. Most recently, Frew has swapped human beings for native birds, and his exhibition, Manu Kōingo - Birds of Yearning, is showing at Parnell Gallery until April 4.

When I was 7, dad decided our family should move from Christchurch to Tauranga. He was usually quite conservative and had only one job prior to that, working at a furniture manufacturing factory where he’d started out sweeping up sawdust. By the time he finished, he was the foreman, so in Tauranga he started his own furniture business. Just him alone, working from home. He began by making bedroom furniture in the style we now call mid-century. That was standard in the 60s and 70s, and now it’s really popular.

Because dad worked from home, my brothers and my sister and I, we were always under his feet, and we all learnt how to build furniture by making stuff, and trying things out, Dad had a big influence on all of us, but we never felt any pressure to follow in his footsteps. Instead, he quietly encouraged us to tinker, and much of his knowledge rubbed off. My older brother now builds beautiful laminated timber kayaks as well as kitchens. Mum was also very creative, and when she had four kids under 5 years old at home she had her own craft business before she became an administrator. Mum was also very organised and driven.

I always had an affinity with native birds, and birds in general, and when I was about 12 I built an aviary that I shared with my twin brother Simon. We made little bird boxes in dad’s workshop and we bred birds including doves, finches and quail. There were successes and failures, but we sold enough birds to buy netting and sacks of seed as required.

Mum made all our clothes and when we were younger, Simon and I were dressed the same, although as babies, we were so identical, mum painted our nails to tell us apart. As adults, Simon is often mistaken for me, and because I take pictures of so many people, strangers sometimes approach him in the street or the supermarket and hug him, because they think he’s me. Only he’s not very huggy. At one point I had to ask him to be a bit more friendly because people were telling me I’d snubbed them. I said to him: “Please just say, ‘I’m Jae’s brother’ rather than shake your head and walk away.” One actor saw my brother in a carpark and insisted Simon was me, to the point Simon had to pull out his driver’s licence to prove he wasn’t.

A portrait from Jae Frew's Manu Kōingo - Birds of Yearning exhibition.

I was a diligent student, although I wasn’t great at exams, but I got through, just passing, not making a fuss. I also had a camera back then, and I enjoyed photography, but I didn’t want to make it my job. It was just a hobby, mainly doing still life, portraits of my friends or landscapes. It was handy that my best friend’s mother owned a photographic lab as I’d take my film to her to be processed, and quite often she didn’t charge me. She was someone who really helped influence my life’s direction, and I was very sad when she passed away not long ago.

I also had a mentor in my teens. David Vernon photographed weddings and he let me tag along and help him. He was so patient, even though I’m sure I asked way too many questions and got in his way, but he was always patient and kind. I learnt so much from him. Like a sponge, I soaked it all up and we’re still great friends today.

After school, dad insisted I get a trade and because I’d always been interested in technology, I did an electronics apprenticeship at a television repair company. But I hated it. I wasn’t very good at it either. I used to electrocute myself, and sometimes blow things up. My boss was also an alcoholic, which didn’t help, and I was straight out of school and not particularly confident. I suspect if he’d been a more encouraging boss, and he knew how to relate to people, it might’ve been a different story.

After the apprenticeship, I moved to Auckland, and worked for a film production company while also tinkering as a sound technician for a band. That taught me new skills. I even met my wife Jo while doing lighting for a show. I remember looking up and seeing her, and instantly I thought, she’s going to be someone special in my life. It wasn’t love at first sight, it was just an inkling. Nothing more, nothing less. Although at first, she didn’t like me that much, then we became friends. We’ll have been married 33 years this year.

I spent a couple of years dubbing tapes for Reynolds Film Productions on Ponsonby Rd, until the parent company went under. We were all called into the boardroom and told to pack our bags. Film editors who’d been there for 30 years just got in their cars and drove away. I was more concerned for the older people than myself because I was young, so it was merely inconvenient, then I had my Sliding Doors moment.

Manu Kōingo - Birds of Yearning is at the Parnell Gallery until April 4.

That very week, a new channel called TV3 was about to go on air and I walked straight into a job as facilities manager. I was totally unqualified for the role but, over 18 months, I figured it out and then came the first wave of redundancies. By that stage I was picking up weddings at the weekends when I heard TV3′s publicity photographer was leaving, so I asked if they’d give me a go, and if they didn’t like my work, they simply didn’t have to use it. My first images were of Danny Watson who was hosting a Kiwi version of Candid Camera. They loved the pictures and that’s how I moved full-time into photography.

Being a freelancer, I’m used to upheaval. I’ve also had wonderful clients who’ve been my bedrock over the years, so it’s all balanced out. But when Covid came along, much of my work stopped overnight, as it did for so many. As there’s only so much gardening a person can do, I used that unexpected headspace – I also had a great coffee machine - and I decided I wanted to do an exhibition.

I then hit a complete brick wall, because I wasn’t sure what the exhibition should be about. I had no ideas. I thought about focusing on Shortland Street, as I’ve shot lots of images there, but I’d have needed to get permission from everybody, then somebody else did it anyway. But Covid also took me back to thoughts of childhood, and nostalgic feelings rose up for some of the things I’d loved as a child. Including birds. Could I combine my love of birds with my skills as a photographer? Then the idea of creating portraiture of endangered birds emerged. I imagined an old-school feel. I wanted to conjure feelings evocative of Rembrandt, Goldie and Lindauer, and use endangered timber to build bespoke frames.

Having had my eureka moment, I needed to find birds, so I phoned Te Papa. Would they let me photograph their taxidermied birds, which would give me more control over lighting, and the shots would almost appear as if the bird had turned its gaze? So when you walk past the picture, you get a sense of a twitch. Did the feathers ruffle, or the eyes move slightly? It was as if I was reanimating the birds, bringing them back to life.

The curators at Te Papa were so helpful. They took me down to their huge bird store. All temperature-controlled and earthquake-proofed too. Cabinets and cabinets of birds, because what you see displayed in a museum is just a fraction of the collection. With so many drawers and cabinets, it was hard to know where to start, but I only had half a day, so I loaded a trolley with the best specimens, and wheeled them up to another room where I’d set up my lights. I did this on the proviso that there must be somebody with me at all times, as these birds - especially the extinct ones - are priceless taonga.

I am very fortunate that Professor Ngahuia Te Awekotuku conceived the name for this exhibition. Manu Kōingo means birds of yearning. Kōingo also means fretting, longing or trying to remember a revered place, object or person, one that is usually gone forever. But to remember that, after the grieving process, there comes a sense of hope for the future, because there are so many people within all sorts of organisations, like DOC and Forest and Bird, all working or volunteering, to ensure no more of our precious birds become extinct.

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