Documentary photographer Ans Westra died on Sunday. Aaron Smale reflects on her work and significance.
Among the stack of photography books I’ve got of photojournalism and documentary photography from around the world, one of the ones I treasure the most is Ans Westra’s Handboek.
Westra died on Sunday but she left behind one of the most significant archives of images of this country’s history. Her work was wide-ranging but the core of her collection captured a hugely important but fleeting moment in 20th Century New Zealand – the urbanisation of Maori.
Demographers have called the transition of Māori from a predominantly rural people to urban within one generation as one of the most significant shifts of any population in the world. It fundamentally changed race relations overnight and has political implications to this day that we’re still grappling with.
I remember the first time I saw Ans at Rātana Pā I was somewhat in awe. I watched her work from a distance as she quietly and unobtrusively glided around, stopping to look down through the viewfinder, exposing the large format film to capture images that invariably combined a beautiful balance and composition with exquisite timing. When I finally plucked up the courage to talk to her I felt somewhat ridiculous holding a digital camera that was light years more advanced in technology than the almost primitive Rolleiflex she used and had been using for decades. The Rolleiflex was top of the range in its day, but it was a stark reminder that it wasn’t the gear you had but your eye and sensibility that made images.
The impression I got of her was a quiet, mild-mannered lady who still had a heavy Dutch accent and a love for her subjects. She had found a richness in Māori communities that belied their material modesty. Although she was an immigrant, it wasn’t just a sense of the exotic but a deep appreciation of the hospitality and warmth she found among those her images captured.
One of her best-known projects, Wash-Day at the Pā, created an unwelcome controversy that must have been distressing for the introverted photographer who preferred not to draw attention to herself. The images drew the ire of the Māori Women’s Welfare League, who felt it portrayed Māori negatively by exposing their poverty.
In some respects it said more about the League than it did about Westra’s images, which were full of joy and family humour. But the League was acutely aware of Pākehā perceptions and was trying to uplift Māori families who were facing discrimination and poverty in their new urban environment. In their minds the images reinforced negative stereotypes they were trying to overcome. Regardless of the fuss at the time, the images give a candid insight into life in small Māori communities that are an invaluable historical record. They are now taonga.
Westra’s images capture both ends of the urbanisation journey, with images of whānau in places like Ruatoria to images of urban Māori in all their variety. While there are poignant images of elderly Māori, there is also the vitality of youth. She captured the start of a trajectory we are still on but are still coming to terms with.
Alongside Marti Friedlander, another immigrant, Westra gave an outsider’s perspective that noticed the extraordinary among the mundane. Both of them held up a mirror to the nation they had adopted as their home. Westra’s visual record of New Zealand in a crucial time of change is unsurpassed. It was an honour to have a fleeting encounter with the person who created such a legacy.
