I have always been drawn to quilts and have long resonated with the art form. There is something powerful in taking discarded fabric scraps and irreparable clothing and transforming them into something beautiful — something vital, warm, and comforting. A quilt is something that can be held onto for a lifetime. Treasured. It carries memories and legacies of family, friendship, and love. There is something deeply moving in knowing that someone held you in their heart and mind with every stitch — that the fabrics themselves once lived a life alongside that person. I have not personally experienced receiving such a taonga from my tīpuna. Others in my whānau have, and I am truly happy for them. At some point, we all may feel a pull to prepare a tāonga — to leave behind, reminders of who we are, of our identity and our legacy. Whether in a diary, a recipe book, a song, a jar of seeds, an audio recording, a photo album, a whakapapa chart, a piupiu, a quilt, or even a video showing how to make one. I know our loved ones will want to know us when we are gone. They will look for us — and perhaps hope to see themselves reflected there too.

I have been patiently waiting for light all week. Heavy rains, overcast skies, weather warnings for strong winds and flooding. This morning I woke before sunrise to check the horizon. Each time I looked out the window, it grew brighter and brighter. I rolled up the quilt, grabbed my tripod and camera, and ran to the beach to capture the final shots — to bring this kaupapa to its close. There’s always a sense of relief when I complete a project. It asks a lot of me. And by the end, I feel both emptied and ready — already looking toward the next journey.

A quilt is basically a layer of batting—wool, cotton, or now polyester—sandwiched between two fabrics and stitched together to form a single piece. I start by securing the base layer—often an old sheet—to the frame. The batting and quilt top are pinned to this foundation. Tension is built gradually: first by drawing the front and rear bars apart, then by pulling twill straps pinned along the sides of the quilt taut across the cross grain. A quilting frame is used to hold all three layers in place, maintaining even tension to prevent distortion and puckering. When quilting on the frame, I work in a way similar to a typewriter, moving from right to left and from front to back, working as far as my reach allows. Once a section is complete, it is rolled onto the front bar like a scroll. The excess layers are then unrolled from the rear bar, re-tensioned, and the next section is worked. Depending on the quilting pattern, this process can be straightforward or more complex, particularly when the pattern includes a central point. Once the quilting stitches reach the opposite side of the quilt, which is typically a few months later, I loosen the tension on the frame. The side straps are removed and the quilt is cut out along its perimeter. I then sew around the edge of the quilt and prepare the binding, which conceals the raw edge. The binding is made from joined strips of fabric, prepared in advance to ensure the total length matches the full circumference of the quilt. Once the strips are joined, the binding is ironed in half lengthwise, creating one folded edge and one raw edge. The raw edge of the binding is sewn to the edge of the quilt. The beginning and end of the binding are then sewn together to form a seamless join, and finally the binding is stitched down to finish the quilt. The folded edge of the binding is then turned to the underside of the quilt, secured with clips, and finished with a blind stitch worked around the entire edge. I used pins for years and was constantly getting poked, but the clips are far better. Hand quilting takes time and labour, but the beauty that comes from that attention is well worth it.

My apologies to all whom have already liked, commented and shared this post. I had to repost due to copyright issues with the music. I mainly add music when there is too much noice pollution, in this case its me breathing into the camera when Im doing close up shots. IG only allows the use of music in reels no longer than a minute and my videos are mostly longer than that. So my first task today was to find another option and not long into my search I came across the music service Epidemic Sound which allows access to a database of royalty-free music. You must have a subscription to use this service, which grants you permission to use their music. Anyways, I am finally finished with the tuitui on this kuira. I had hoped to complete it before my last trip home, but there was too much going on at the time. Finishing it now brings a real sense of relief, especially as other projects are waiting for my attention so Im excited to share this. I did not make the quilt top (the top/patterned layer)which is so beautiful! I just do the hand quilting and turn it into a quilt. This will be included in body of work exhibited later this year. I made this quilting frame over ten years ago from an old bed frame someone was throwing away and two sawhorses. The idea is simple: it keeps the quilt layers taut while quilting them together to help prevent puckering. A frame doesn’t need to be fancy—you can use almost anything, sticks even. It really comes down to your ability to work the frame to achieve its function. That’s what I love about these old art forms: they’re founded on resourcefulness. Once the frame is set up, the quilting can begin. Hand quilting involves a lot of sitting, repetitive movement, focus, discipline, and a certain kind of stamina to continue stitching over long periods of time. I have grown to love quilting; I find it meditative. While I’m focused on the stitching itself, my thoughts move from place to place. As I stitch, there are areas of the quilt that are more engaging—full of twists and turns—while others are just continuous straight lines. Those sections demand the most focus and perseverance. They’re also where I have been strengthened the most.

Rangitāmirohia te ara kōtui ki a Papatūānuku. Twist together the weaving line that connects you to Papatuānuku.

He mauri tuku iho, He mauri taketake. The mauri of a piupiu does not arrive at the end of its making. It is already there, long before the first leaf is cut. It comes from the soil that feeds the pā, from long nourishing rains, from sun and wind whose movement of light and air cleanses and sustains the harakeke. It comes from the waters—streams, rivers, and springs that descend from our sacred mountains. It comes from te ahi tipua, the subterranean fires carried across the great ocean from Hawaiki. It comes from lifetimes of observing the natural world— from ancient knowledge shared, refined, and passed down, enduring time and change. This piupiu is a receptacle of knowledge, holding memory, relationship, and continuity— With this understanding, it is no surprise that when a piupiu is secured around the waist, its mauri shifts the wearer—uplifting, inspiring, and instilling a deep sense of pride.