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The draw of Bās Bookshop, surfing with Kelis Kaleopa‘a, and why Glenn Lutz believes conversations are lifesavers.
52
Hawaiian ‘ohana who are rehabilitating agriculture, and why Honolulu’s urban fabric is prime for a breezeblock comeback.
118
O‘ahu’s darling skate parks, and Japanese staples with an artisanal approach.
54 |
He kūkā kama‘ilio ‘ana kēia a nā Hawai‘i mai ‘ō a ‘ō o ka pae‘āina no ko Hawai‘i ma kēia mua a‘e, ‘o ke ke‘ehina hana mua, ‘o ia ho‘i ka mālama ‘ana i ke kuleana he make‘e ‘āina. He mau nīnauele i hana ‘ia e N. Ha‘alilio Solomon.
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An omnipresent artifact of midcentury modernism, the humble breezeblock is an undeniable yet overlooked aspect of Honolulu’s urban fabric. Writer Timothy A. Schuler surveys the design landscape to determine if they’re poised for a comeback.
Riotous prints and sporty silhouettes imbue clothes with a rebellious warmth fit for Honolulu dwellers on the go in this fashion editorial photographed by Brandyn Liu.
Matt Mallams’ practice of street photography and eclectic journaling document easily missable compositions of the beautiful lulls found in island life and elsewhere.
We’ ve refreshed the website for Flux Hawaii with a more dynamic viewing experience. Watch all the original episodes from our themed seasons, find ways to support local small businesses, and sign up for our weekly newsletters curated with fascinating reads. You can also browse past issues of the print magazine for purchase.
Three images highlighting stories from inside
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Works by Picasso, Rembrandt, Renoir, Chagall, Toulouse-Lautrec, Peter Max, Michael Godard, Romero Britto, and others.
展示および販売中：世界中から集められた貴重な作品をワイキキで見ることができます ピカソ、レンブラント、ルノアール、シャガール、ロートレック、ピーター・マックス、 マイケル・ゴダード、ロメロ・ブリット、その他巨匠の作品。
He kanaka ʻōiwi ʻo Nāinoa Alefaio no ka moku ʻo
Hawaiʻi. ʻO ke kākau moʻolelo kāna hana.
Ke hoʻoikaika nei ʻo ia i kāna kākau moʻolelo
ʻana ma ke Kulanui o
Hawaiʻi ma Mānoa ma
ka Hālau ʻIke Hawaiʻi ʻo
Kamakakūokalani. E puka ana ʻo ia me ka palapala laepua i kēia makahiki me
ka manaʻo e holomua i ka
polokalamu laeoʻo ma ia
kula hoʻokahi nō. E hoʻomau ana ʻo ia i ke kākau moʻolelo ma ke kula laeoʻo no ka mea
ʻo ka moʻolelo he kahua ia e paʻa ai ke aloha ʻāina. Ua ho‘omaka kona aʻo ʻia i ke
kākau moʻolelo ma ka papa a Kumu Kahikina de Silva. Ma ia papa kākau moʻolelo nūpepa āna i aʻo mua ʻia ai ʻo Alefaio i ke ʻano o ke kākau moʻolelo ʻana ma ka ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi. Aia ma ka kauluhoi.org kā Alefaio mau moʻolelo mua loa. ʻO ka moʻolelo no Kelis Kaleopaʻa ka maka mua a Alefaio i kākau ai no Flux Hawaiʻi, a he moʻolelo i hoʻoponopono ʻia e N. Haʻalilio Solomon, ʻo ia ka luna hoʻoponopono ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi o ia kōlamu, ma ka ʻaoʻao 36. “Ua nani maoli nō ka ʻike ʻana i ka noho ʻia ʻana e ke aloha ʻāina o ka naʻau o loko o ka ʻōpio o Waikīkī,” wahi a Alefaio i ʻōlelo ai.
Greg Hatton is a filmmaker and documentary photographer whose love for image-making came directly from the family photo albums he found as a child. He was born and raised in Los Angeles, and travels between California and Kāneʻohe. Hatton works with Honolulu Street Collective, a grassroots group that promotes street photography in Hawaiʻi. His work has been exhibited throughout the U.S. and internationally, including a body of work showing in Essaouira, Morocco entitled Back to Life, documenting The Wall at Waikīkī. Hatton has created work for Mana Maoli, Hana Hou!, and Flux Hawaii. For this issue, he interviewed and photographed artist Glenn Lutz, on page 42. “One of the things I was eager to feel in my time with Glenn was how the island spoke to him,” Hatton says. “It seemed there was an intense gratitude for the space ‘to be,’ for the native culture and for nature. I love seeing how environment can open us up ‘to life.’ Evidence that begs us to do the work to keep ourselves and others in an environment that promotes ‘more life.’”
Born and raised on O‘ahu, Lila Lee is a photographer by day, and a hobby ceramist, skateboarder, and avid karaoke-ist by night. Whether porcelain or papier-mâché, Lee’s interest lies in the process of making and materiality. As a member of the Hawaiʻi art scene, she’s participated in solo and group shows, had a skateboarding zine in the 2019 Contact exhibition, and another zine published by Port Aransas Press that toured the US with friend and legendary filmmaker Bill Daniel. With a BFA in photography from Art Center College of Design, she possesses a fun yet empathetic tone in her practice. Lee photographed a story on Honolulu’s skate parks, on page 120, that features Chad Hiyakumoto, owner of APB Skateshop. “Chad’s the man. He designed the parks I most frequent, so I’m definitely biased. But, he didn’t just make a skate park,” Lee says. “He built a place where lifelong friendships are formed, a place where you learn what perseverance really means, and a place where even weirdos can feel welcomed. That’s pretty frickin’ special.”
Aja Toscano is a creative producer based in Honolulu. From casting to production, she has worked with Nike, Olukai, Numéro Berlin, Billabong, First Hawaiian Bank, Sig Zane and Saturdays NYC to help make their visions possible with effeciency and conscientiousness. Born and raised on Maui, Toscano moved to O‘ahu in 2013 to attend the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. She got her start as an editorial intern for Flux Hawaii before joining the team as a creative producer, a role she spent four years in. Passionate about fashion, art, and the community that breathes life into both worlds, collaborating with people and brands to turn a concept into a photo shoot, short film, or event is where she feels most at home.
Toscano was ecstatic to create the fashion editorial, on page 80, with a group of Hawaiʻi creatives. “Being able to work with such brilliant artists like Risa Hoshino, Reise Kochi, and Brandyn Liu, is why I love what I do,” she says.
“We were able to concept something that brought so much joy to all of us kids-atheart that grew up amongst the scenarios depicted.”
Nāinoa Alefaio
A scene from E Mālama Pono, Willy Boy by Kanaka filmmaker Scott W. Kekama Amona.
“Art, whether it is a sculpture or painting, is usually an exploration. I’m interested in something being channeled within me, and much more interested in trying to understand it later.”—Glenn
Lutz
In Chinatown, two purveyors of the local arts scene take a chance on a vanishing venture: a bookstore.
TEXT BY JACK TRUESDALE IMAGES BY JOHN HOOKIf the sparse volume of bookstores indicates these days, then there are countless other things people in Hawai‘i might prefer to spend their money on than books. O‘ahu has Barnes and Noble, Native Books, Da Shop, Bookends. “But other than that, there’s nowhere to get new books,” Travis Sasaki said on a recent winter morning inside of Bās Bookshop, the two-year-old store specializing in niche art and design titles that he started with Aly Ishikuni, who was beside him. “For a majority of the people, it’s like, ‘Do you want to go to a museum or do you want to go to the beach or go fishing?’ I think most people are going to do the latter,” he said.
A huge glass table spread out before them, covered with books on architecture, graphic design, fashion, food, lifestyle, typography, art, brands; for adults and for kids; from authors local and far-off. There are dozens of copies of Magazine B, a Korean publication that laser-focuses on a singular brand (say, Patagonia, or ice cream, in its offshoot Magazine F, for food), adjacent to the graphic novels of Maui-born artist R. Kikuo Johnson. Sasaki’s favorite is a book of architectural designs by Tomoyuki Sakakida; Ishikuni’s is a history of synth music.
The space’s vibe: hip, meticulous, each title face up in thin stacks, ready to be leafed through. A common subject of inquiry: Why not shelve them? “Each book is so special,” Ishikuni said. “It is an art form in itself so it should be appreciated in that way.” She went on, “A lot of our inspiration comes from Japan—”
“And we’re both Japanese,” Sasaki said.
Stochastic collages by local artist Caz Hardt are hung around the room. (“He’s heavily influenced by Dadaism,” Sasaki said. “He does a lot of the collaging
The shelves and tables brim with beautifully displayed art and design titles, which double as art objects in their own right.
in a blind manner.”) Clothing from local designers like CYC and Natasha Halesworth’s The Consistency Project adorned two corners. Recently, Bās has been hosting music nights and workshops on bookbinding, hand-lettering, and bonsai. “We thought maybe this is our way to regenerate and revitalize this corner, this neighborhood,” Ishikuni said of Nu‘uanu Avenue and Pauahi Street, the Chinatown cross streets where Bās is located. “To bring in new energy, bring hope, inspiration.”
In 2020, the couple decided to open the store in the dead of Covid. Sasaki had been walking to his architecture firm in Chinatown every day when, one morning, he noticed the skate shop his friends owned was closed. “We were, like, ‘What can we do here?’” Sasaki said. “Because this is our neighborhood,” he said. (He recently designed EP Bar next door.) “The funny thing is, it was the middle of the pandemic, nobody wanted to touch anything. We’re opening this bookstore where we’re telling people to basically finger through all the books,” he said.
“We didn’t know how people would perceive it or if they would even be interested in entering a bookstore,” Ishikuni said. “But we took that chance because we thought it was just so needed. This is where we work and live and play. All my memories were built here.” The spirit of Honolulu’s arts district, she felt, could use some love.
With some friends, they built out the store, painted the walls, cemented in the ceramic tile wall at the back. They wanted to give the community an excuse to come together over art and events. New books arrive twice a month. “To keep it fresh,” Ishikuni said. They
look for what in terests them and “what we think is healthy for Honolulu,” Sasaki added. They plucked the Louvette font from CJ Dunn, a type designer from Hawai‘i for their logo. “It just had this already naturally scholarly look which I thought fit with the bookshop,” Sasaki explained.
Sasaki grew up in Kona and turned into a competitive surfer, but the scene didn’t suit him. Against a high school teacher’s advice, he studied art in college, at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. He hopes that by making books on art and design accessible, he might inspire the next generation of groms who crave an alternate, artistic career path.
Ishikuni was born and raised on Kaua‘i. In high school, her alternative tastes in fashion and music tempted her to look beyond her small-town upbringing. She later spent nine years in Japan, singing J-pop and R&B, then studied marketing at UH Mānoa, with a minor in fashion merchandising. Eventually, she took a break to pursue music with her indie-rock band, Alt/Air.
She met Sasaki through Art and Flea, an urban market featuring local work she co-founded in 2010. Today, she runs the programming for the Hawai‘i State Art Museum and Mori, a curated brick-andmortar of local makers. “We never really
had the long term intention of starting a bookstore,” Ishikuni said. “We don’t like free time,” Sasaki said, laughing.
But they both agreed that Honolulu lacked something fundamental, a base, one might say. The name, then, Bās, rewards the dictionary-obsessed. Sasaki and Ishikuni used the phonetic stylization, “bās,” which officially sounds like “base, like foundation,” Sasaki explained. “We feel like books are really foundational to culture.”
“A lot of people have a hard time pronouncing it,” Ishikuni said. “They all say ‘boss’ or ‘bass.’”
“It’s okay, we don’t get mad,” Sasaki said.
In Scott W. Kekama Amona’s award-winning short film, the story of a Kanaka Maoli police officer torn between his profession and principles proved to be a people’s favorite.
TEXT BY VILSONI HERENIKO IMAGES BY JOHN HOOKThe 2022 Hawaiʻi International Film Festival nominated E Mālama Pono, Willy Boy directed by Scott W. Kekama Amona for a Best Short Award. I saw almost all the local short films that were selected for HIFF, and in my estimation, Amona’s work was the most memorable, arguably the most accomplished work, in a crowded line-up of impressive short films made in Hawaiʻi. Most impressive was the film’s high production values, especially its cinematography, directing, editing, acting, and writing (the short is co-written with Nani Rían Kenna Ross). Theatergoers agreed with their postscreening votes, awarding Amona with the HIFF42 Short Film Audience Award.
Although this is Amona’s debut film, its artistic merits propelled him to the forefront of emerging Hawaiian filmmakers as a talent who has something to say and is unafraid to say it. A late-comer to filmmaking, Amona, 60, has created a film with depth, nuance, and complexity. As such, it’s an ideal film to spark off thoughtful conversations on what it means to be homeless in Hawai‘i, especially for Native Hawaiians in their own homeland, and how Native Hawaiian police officers sent in by the State to confront such issues deal with their own emotions and behaviors when it is their own people they’re evicting.
Amona’s film grapples with these dilemmas in a way that is riveting, assured, and compelling. His protagonist, William Kupihea, played by actor Ioane Goodhue, takes a stance that we know will change his life and that of his family forever. We admire him, even though we suspect that if we were ever in his situation, we may not have his courage or conviction, and could be found wanting.
VILSONI HERENIKO We first met at ACM, the Academy for Creative Media at the University of Hawai‘i, when you were in my class on Indigenous Aesthetics in 2016. You were in your fifties then, and the oldest. I remember thinking how brave you were to be in that class.
KEKAMA AMONA Yes, I was the oldest. I’d go to class, and there were these 18, 19, 22 year olds, and they knew more than me about the technical side of filmmaking, which was very humbling, but I knew I had to put my ego aside and do whatever it took because it was important for me to tell my stories.
VH What made you go back to school?
KA My life partner Nani convinced me to return to school after being a teacher at a Hawaiian charter school for 12 years, because I was using film to teach students writing and storytelling, and she knew I wanted to be a filmmaker. Despite having a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a Master of Education in Teaching in special education, I decided to return to ACM to earn a second bachelor’s in digital film. I loved the theory side of cinema and learning about all aspects of filmmaking. At one time I thought of becoming an editor, but I didn’t think I was talented enough to become a director.
VH So what got you to change course?
KA One of the influential classes was definitely your Indigenous Aesthetics course. Your class was on
telling our own Indigenous stories. Your course gave me the confidence to see value in telling our own stories. I knew then that I wanted to tell stories about Hawaiʻi from a Native Hawaiian and local perspective.
VH Which is what you did in your debut short film. Before HIFF, your film premiered at the ImagineNative Film and Media Arts Festival in Toronto, Canada. That’s the largest and most prestigious indigenous film festival in the world. Congrats on that, too. With so many short films being made today, it’s very competitive. One thing that makes your film stand out from the others is that it is in black and white. A bold choice. Why?
KA One of the first decisions I made was to ask my cinematographer Chapin Hall if we could shoot the film in black and white — originally asking if the film could be shot in color and changed to black and white in post. Chapin asked, “Why do you want to do that?” He said that it’s every cinematographer’s dream to shoot in black and white so he was on board once he heard my reasons, but we made the decision early on to boldly jump in and shoot in black and white from the start so there was no changing that decision. I told him I wanted to make the piece “timeless” because these Native Hawaiian land struggles have been happening for decades and keep happening and are cyclical and systemic issues. I wanted the film to feel as if it could have happened 50 years ago in Kalama Valley, at Sand Island in 1981, in Waimānalo in 1986, yesterday on the Mauna, or tomorrow, but with a twist. The black and white is one of many meiwi (Native Hawaiian aesthetic) choices that forces the viewer to focus on the story and characters on the screen rather than on the postcard images common in films or television about Hawaiʻi where Native Hawaiians are only background actors and the land is “sold” as paradise in color. This was a very Kānaka Maoli-minded choice. When Chapin heard my reasons, he said, “Okay, let’s do it!”
VH Tell me, what was your experience like making your first film after film school?
KA It was a learning experience and I couldn’t have made the film without the help of my producer Justyn Ah Chong and my cinematographer Chapin Hall, because we worked well as a trio.
VH How did your own experience inform your story? Are there any similarities?
KA There is a little bit of me in each character and co-writing with Nani helped that she understood my life experiences and growing up feeling disconnected and at other times connected to my culture. So for me, it was very important to show different perspectives of who we are as Native Hawaiians on screen.
VH In your film, the antagonist Officer Akina is also Hawaiian. Why Hawaiian?
Stills from E Mālama Pono, Willy Boy . At right, the short film stars Native Hawaiian actors (clockwise from top right) Kealiinoi Tengan as Keke, Kawika Kahiapo as Dennis, and Ioane Goodhue as Officer William Kupihea. Cinematography by Chapin Hall.
KA Oh, man, the actor [Shawn Kahoolemana Naone] was great. He played the cop we all love to hate. This character is actually someone many Hawaiians can identify with because his issue is self-loathing. He can’t speak his own language and he’s been looked down upon by other Hawaiians. I felt that way because I didn’t grow up speaking Hawaiian and it was like being an outsider within my own culture. Akina is very important because I’ve never seen that type of Hawaiian represented on screen in a narrative film.
VH What do you think is being masked by making this more of a personal issue between two Hawaiians? In all the other protest documentary and narrative films out there, the enemy is clearly the State, but in your film, the focus is more on a “bad Hawaiian” versus a “good Hawaiian.” Maybe your film is a little ahead of its time, because usually the colonized does not self-examine until the colonizer has been vanquished. Hawaiians are yet to have sovereignty in their own land, as you know.
KA I really like that question! I didn’t want to make it a racial issue, because that story’s been told already. And the focus is not on bad versus good, per se. Instead, I wanted the story
VH
to be about “values.” And I think it’s a much more powerful statement to make when all the characters are Kānaka Maoli and have to question their values in the story. Most of us have experienced doing something that came into conflict with our own values. That’s the reality of many Hawaiians daily — navigating conflicting values. It is self-reflective.
In your film, during the protest, a little girl sneaks off to an abandoned car where she lets her imagination run free from all the chaos going on in her real world. That’s one of the best and hopeful scenes in the film, a light touch in a very cruel world for a kid. Looking ahead to the future, where is Willy Boy going?
KA We’ve been accepted to Festival International du Film Océanien in Tahiti and applied to Maoriland Film Festival in Aotearoa and other Indigenous and non-Indigenous festivals. I know this film will have a long life and for that I am so grateful to everyone who made my dream come true, including my life and writing partner Nani, the Nichols Family Film Fund, and Pacific Islanders in Communications.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Amona’s directorial debut won the Short Film Audience Award at the 2022 Hawai‘i International Film Festival.
Follow the film’s journey on Instagram at @emalamaponowillyboy.
Opened as a small Liliha Street market by Wilfred and Charlotte Young, Young's Fish Market was originally what its name implies: a store that sold fish.
As time passed, they adapted the store to survive slow fishing seasons.
Today, Young's Fish Market specializes in local staples and is known for their Laulau, Kalua Pig and Beef Stew. Come
Mai uka a i kai i kuleana ‘ia ai ‘o Hawai‘i e Kelis Kaleopa‘a.
KĀKAU ‘ IA NA NĀINOA ALEFAIO
PA ‘ I KI ‘ I ‘ IA NA MATT HEIRAKUJI
HO ‘ OPONOPONO ‘ IA NA N. HA‘ALILIO SOLOMON
I ka malu o Lēʻahi ma Kapiʻolani Pāka māua ʻo Kelis Kaleopaʻa i launa ai. He kupa ʻo Kaleopaʻa no ka nalu haʻi mai ʻo Kalehuawehe, ma ka ʻāina hoʻi ʻo Waikīkī, kahi o Kelis i hānau a hānai ʻia ai e nā kūpuna o ia wahi. Mai kona wā kamaliʻi loa, he heʻenalu ʻo ia ma nā kua one o Waikīkī, kahi i aʻo mua ʻia ai ʻo Kaleopaʻa i ka heʻenalu. I ka makahiki nei i hala, ua lilo aʻela he moho no ka 2022 Vans US Open. Akā naʻe, ma mua aku o kona puka ʻana he ʻahi kananā poʻokela ma nā hoʻokūkū heʻenalu o ka honua, ua paʻa mua ihola nā pōhaku kihi o kona kahua ma Oʻahualua nei.
Ma Ke Kula Kaiapuni ʻO Ānuenue ʻo ia i hele kula ai mai ka papa mālaaʻo a i ka papa ʻehā. Ma kekahi ʻaoʻao aʻe, he ʻike ʻia ka nani o Pālolo mai ka pāka a māua i nanea ai, a ma kekahi ʻaoʻao iho hoʻi, ʻike ʻia nā kūlana nalu o Waikīkī e poʻi wale ana. Pēlā hoʻi ke alahele āna i hele ai i ko Kaleopaʻa wā kamaliʻi, mai Pālolo i ka ua kilikilihune a i kai o Waikīkī i ke ʻala līpoa e moani nei. Ma hope mai naʻe o ka papa ʻehā a hiki i kona wā i hemo kula ai, ua hoʻonaʻauao ʻia ʻo ia ma ka hale ponoʻī iho nō, no kona paʻahana loa i ka heʻenalu.
Ua hoʻomaka ʻo Kaleopaʻa i ke komo ʻana i nā hoʻokūkū heʻenalu ma kona wā kamaliʻi, a ʻo ka heʻenalu kāna hana i nā lā a pau. Pēlā i lilo ai ia hana, he ʻoihana nāna e lawelawe nei a hiki i kēia wā, i kona wā ʻōpio. Ma kekahi ʻano, ua makemake ʻo ia e hoʻomau i ke kula ʻia ʻana ma Ānuenue, he waiwai naʻe ko ka heʻenalu. I kēlā makahiki
nei, ua hemo kula ʻo ia, i ia makahiki aʻe hoʻi, ʻo ka puka aʻela nō ia ona me ka lei o ka lanakila ma ka US Open. I kēia mau lā, aia nō ʻo Kaleopaʻa ke hoʻoikaika aku nei i kona heʻenalu ʻana, aia hoʻi ʻo ia ma ke ala pololei kahi e kaʻa ai ma kona ʻaoʻao ke eo o ka lanakila ma kona ʻao i kona wā e komo ana i ka hoʻokūkū nui o ka honua holoʻokoʻa, a he waiwai nō paha ko laila.
ʻO kekahi mea haʻaheo, ʻo ka heʻenalu ʻana ma hope o ka hae Hawaiʻi. Pēlā ka hana a Kaleopaʻa a me kekahi hapa (nui paha) o nā mea heʻenalu no Hawaiʻi nei. He koko Hawaiʻi paha, he koko ʻole hoʻi, ke nui aʻe nei ka poʻe e heʻenalu ana ma hope o ia hae aloha. I kūkākūkā aku nei ka hana a māua, ua kuʻikahi ka manaʻo no ke koʻikoʻi o ka welo ʻana o ka hae Hawaiʻi ma ʻō a ma aneʻi o ka honua ma nā hoʻokūkū a hanana hoʻi e pili ana no ka heʻenalu. He hana liʻiliʻi a ʻano ʻole paha kēia i loko o ka manaʻo o kekahi, he hana ʻano nui naʻe ia e hōʻike haʻaheo ai i ke aloha i ka ʻāina i mua o nā lehulehu no ka mau ʻana aʻe o ka lāhui. A he nani maoli nō ka ʻike ʻana i kekahi ‘āwai o ka mea lanakila i pōʻai ʻia e nā kānaka Hawaiʻi. A pēlā nō i ʻike ʻia ma ka WSL US Open a Kelis i Lanakila. No Hawaiʻi mai he ʻekolu o nā ʻeha o nā mea lanakila o ia hoʻokūkū. Ua kaʻana ʻia ka ‘āwai me Kaniela Stewart lāua ʻo Honolua Blomfield, a heʻenalu lākou a pau me ka hae hō‘ike ha‘aheo pū aku i ka hae Hawaiʻi.
He mea nui ke aloha ʻāina iā Kaleopaʻa, a ʻo ka heʻenalu ʻana ma hope o ka hae Hawaiʻi kekahi ala āna e hōʻike aku ai i ko ka honua i ia mea he aloha ʻāina. Wahi a Kaleopaʻa he mea ʻike wale ʻia ke aloha ʻāina o nā lehulehu o Hawaiʻi mai ka wā mai o ka maʻi ahulau. Ua hoʻopau ʻia ka hoʻokipa malihini ʻana a hala kekahi mau mahina. “ʻO ia wā ka mua aʻu i ʻike ai iā Waikīkī me ka ʻole o nā poʻe kipa malihini.” ʻO ko Oʻahu wale nō ke naue aku ana i laila. Ma ia wā ʻo Kalepoaʻa i ʻike pono ai i ia mea he aloha ʻāina ma waena o nā poʻe kamaʻāina i hoʻi hou i nā one mehana o Waikīkī mā. He aloha aku, aloha mai ko kānaka, e like me ka loina kahiko e Hawaiʻi ai ka Hawaiʻi. A ʻo ia kūkaʻi aloha hoʻi ka mea nui loa a Kaleopaʻa e mālama pono ana ma ka huakaʻi hele o kona ola, me kāna lawelawe ʻana i ia hana hoʻonanea a ka Hawaiʻi, ʻo ka heʻenalu hoʻi.
E mahalo aku kākou i nā ʻohana Saxman a me Kaleopaʻa no ka hānai pono ʻana mai i
He papa helu o nā inoa Hawai‘i no Waikīkī mau po‘ina nalu kapakapa.
‘Aiwohi: Publics
Kalehuawehe: Castle's
Kahaloa: Populars
Kālia: Ala Moana
Kaluhole: Tongg's
Kapua: Old Man's and Kaimana Beach
Kapuni: Canoes and Queens
Kawehewehe: Threes
Ke‘aua‘u: Cliffs
Maihiwa: Cunha's
Papanui: Ho‘okahi mile makai ‘o Kūhio Beach
Ua ho‘omaka ‘o Kelis Kaleopa‘a i ke komo ‘ana i nā ho‘okūkū he‘enalu ma kona wā kamali‘i, a ‘o ka he‘enalu kāna hana i nā lā a pau.
ua Kaleopaʻa nei. He mahalo hoʻi ʻo ia i nā kūpuna a me nā ʻohana a pau o Waikīkī no ke aʻoaʻo ʻana i kekahi mau hanauna ʻōpiopio e ʻimi nei i ka heʻenalu. Ke hele huakaʻi aku nā mea heʻenalu o Hawaiʻi i ka ʻāina ʻē, he lawe pū aku lākou i ke aloha o ka ʻāina a me ka ʻoluʻolu o ka paeʻāina e kaʻana aku ai me ka hauʻoli me nā poʻe o ka honua. “Haʻi maila nā poʻe o Kaleponi a me nā po‘e o Mekiko hoʻi no ka ʻoluʻolu a me ka maikaʻi o nā Hawaiʻi heʻenalu e kipa ana i ko lākou ʻāina.”
ʻŌlelo ʻia hoʻi, kaulana Hawaiʻi i ka hoʻokipa malihini, a he mea maʻamau no ko Hawaiʻi ka pāheahea ʻana i ke kanaka e kipa mai, e luana mai, e nanea mai hoʻi i ke kono a ke aloha. No ka ʻohana Kaleopaʻa, he welo ia ʻano hana he hoʻokipa malihini ma Waikīkī, e like me ka hana a ia hui kaulana o ia pana, ʻo nā Beach Boys. ʻO nā Beach Boys hoʻi ka poʻe i mālama i ka ʻāina a me ke kai o Waikīkī, a ua kaulana lākou i ke aloha a lākou i hōʻike ai ma ia hana he hoʻokipa malihini. Na lākou hoʻi i hoʻonaʻauao aku i ka heʻenalu i ka poʻe mahilini. I kēia mau
lā naʻe, ua pau ia hui Beach Boys o Waikīkī, ʻaʻohe koe. ʻOiai ua pau ia hui kaulana o Waikīkī, ʻo nā Beach Boys, a pau pū hoʻi paha ia ʻano hoʻokipa malihini me ke aloha puʻuwai hāmama, he mea nui ua ili mai ia ʻoihana ma luna o nā poʻohiwi o Kaleopaʻa mā, o nā kānaka maoli, nā ʻiliʻula Hawaiʻi ponoʻī hoʻi, na lākou nō e hoʻomau a hoʻokoe nei ia hana kaulana a ka Hawaiʻi, ʻo ka hoʻokipa me ka leo pāheahea o ke aloha. ʻO ke aloha ʻāina ka mea nui a ka Hawaiʻi. He mau ʻano like ʻole e hōʻike aku ai i ke aloha ʻāina. No Kaleopaʻa, he mea nui ka heʻenalu a me ka mālama ʻana i nā ʻohana a me ka ʻāina ʻo Waikīkī. He mea koʻikoʻi ka hōʻike ʻana aku i ke ʻano o ka Hawaiʻi a me ka lunaʻikehala, he aloha ʻāina. ʻO ke aloha aku aloha mai, ma laila nō kākou e hōʻike ai i ka ʻoiaʻiʻo o ko Hawaiʻi ponoʻī a puni ka honua. Pēlā nō ʻo Kelis e noke nei i ka hana, a pēlā nō hoʻi kākou e hoʻopilipili like aku ai.
He mea nui ke aloha ‘āina iā Kaleopa‘a, a ‘o ka he‘enalu ‘ana ma hope o ka hae Hawai‘i kekahi ala āna e hō‘ike aku ai i ko ka honua i ia mea he aloha ‘āina.
This piece is part of Flux Hawaii’s Hawaiianlanguage reporting series featuring articles conceived, commissioned, and produced all in ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i, in partnership with Kīnā‘ole Foundation. Visit fluxhawaii.com/ section/olelo-hawaii to read this story in English.
For the visual artist, artmaking in all its forms is a metaphysical deep dive into spirituality, community building, and connection.
The artist Glenn Lutz has a gift for dialogue, particularly in fostering intentional conversations and communities through conversation. With his latest book, There’s Light: Artworks & Conversations Examining Black Masculinity, Identity & Mental Well-Being, Lutz gathers insights from interviews and artworks from Steve McQueen, Mark Bradford, Glenn Ligon, Brontez Purnell, and the late Virgil Abloh. In November 2022, the Kāne‘ohe-based photographer Greg Hatton spent the day with Lutz to talk about his California upbringing, the islands, and the sanctuary that is artmaking.
Being African American myself, your book, There’s Light, resonates with me a lot for many reasons. The book is described as being “for us,” Black or African American men. You make a clear point to share that it’s for this audience, but it’s intended for everybody to take in and process also. As I said in the book’s preface, there’s a universality we all share. Yes, I am Black and a male, these things are inherited. There are things that people see when they look at me, and that experience has lent itself — or that identity rather — has lent itself to specific experiences and microaggressions and situations that I’ve encountered. The stories within There’s Light are for young Black men who are experiencing very tumultuous times within the States and abroad after the murder of George Floyd. Very specific questions, fears, concerns, and just a demanding for change that are specific to not only Black men, but to Black women, too. Yet we’ve seen how collectively around the world we’ve understood that injustice. Even though the stories are very specific culturally, specifically to the Black male experience, we can relate. How traumas affect us, that is something that is universal. That was the intention. I wanted to give something to young Black men that I would’ve loved to have read about people who look like me and how they maneuvered through life, kind
of a bible of sorts. But that doesn’t mean that it excludes anybody else from gaining something from the book.
The book is really about communication and storytelling. The conversations feel a lot like you’re speaking to somebody directly. What is the importance of storytelling in our time, the past, and for the future?
Storytelling is one of the things that makes us human. We think of folklore, of telling stories around the campfire. We think of the rich history, theatrically, putting on plays, sharing wisdom from the ancestors through story. This has been done through millennia, even with artwork. Through hieroglyphics. I feel very small even talking about the importance of storytelling. Through fundamentally seeing the importance of story and placing it within a context and giving it the reverence it deserves. Obviously religions have been founded upon this and pass their stories down. When we lose that ability to listen or to share and to listen with empathy and compassion, to hear and to take it in, then we’re on a path to destruction. Because it then becomes very individualistic which is something we see in Western culture. It becomes a “me versus them” rather than an “us.”
There’s so much to say about the global climate crisis now, what this world is looking like compared to when we were kids. Coming from Southern California, what have you felt by coming to Hawai‘i?
I could say that it’s healing. I can say physically being in touch with nature, taking my shoes and socks off and being connected — physically skin to earth — is a very healing and grounding process. Being electromagnetic beings, connected to the earth and connected to the sun, it’s who we are, you know, as beings. We know a lot of people have lost touch with that all around the world.
Here, the culture, especially being within water, which is where we came from, it’s hard to put that into words... It’s being. I think of the words “existing” and “sharing.” I think of the gratitude to be alive at a specific moment. I think about the history of humanity. That we’ve all seen the sun. Whether you’re thinking about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. or King Kamehameha, whoever has lived and touched this earth, this is the same earth they’ve walked upon, you know? To partake of that is a major gift that I don’t think people take the time to really sit with or be in gratitude for. Because this is not promised. This life isn’t a promised thing. It’s not even something that all get to experience, just the freedom to be in nature. It’s big, it’s expansive, right? I feel very, very small next to that question.
Going back to art, it shapes the world that we live in. Art has a very specific purpose or place, or meaning to the individual artist. I know that there are pieces of my art that feed me for different reasons. There are pieces of my work that I haven’t understood yet. I want to know what your art does for you?
For me, contemporary art, whether it is a sculpture or painting that I’ve done in the past is usually an exploration. I’m interested in something being channeled within me, and much more interested in trying to understand it later. Same kind of thing goes for poetry. I think writing lyrics, it’s a form of poetry and my favorite poetry has just flown out of me. I have no idea what it even means. You just feel like a conduit. And then in the future you can decipher it and be like, “Whoa!” Like, “I didn’t even realize that’s what I was saying.” You’re in tune with the infinite, and you’re also allowing your subconscious to speak and to kind of get out of its own way. I remember hearing a poet say something along the lines of, “If I can’t remember it, then maybe it wasn’t that important.” If I didn’t have a piece of paper and I couldn’t remember it, then I let it go.
As for my sculptural work and performance art, I did a piece that I thought was about policing and then later on, I don’t think that’s what it was in the performance. I felt something very different. It was maybe about policing in a metaphorical sense, as I know nothing about being a police officer. But it was policing, maybe, my own thoughts or serving as sort of a gatekeeper of who I am, saying, “All right, let’s not do this,” or, “Let’s not explore that.”
There’s so many different purposes that art serves. It’s one of the things that makes us human and connects us to the infinite and whatever spiritual practice that you adhere to, if you have one. It’s this idea of creation and the beauty we see around us and, you know, the grand architect of the universe, or whatever phrasing you want to use. But the beauty we see, we’re partaking in that while being an artist. Without art, I would not be alive. I can say that definitively. If I did not have artwork, I would not be alive.
What is the importance of hearing the stories of those who were here before us, as well as those among us, our contemporaries and friends? Considering the idea of “talk story,” the sharing of knowledge. Your book is full of this. That’s what makes life worth living. Getting out of yourself, right? A life focused on yourself and your things is a small life. We don’t need to necessarily always learn from someone’s story. We don’t need to be given wisdom that affects our life from somebody else’s story. But what if you just listened? I think you’d be highly rewarded if that can meet your spirit. And your spirit and the idea of listening without needing something from it can marry itself within you. At that point, I think some magic will start to occur. A lessening of the ego, a lessening of the “my” and the “me” and getting more in tune with this expanse that you’re a part of, that we’re all one.
I sometimes think of this like a visual thing. If you were just looking at Earth from space, that’s one thing you see. As a matter of fact, the universe is one thing. There’s space in between, a planet here, a planet there, these balls of gas, right? But the universe is one thing. Earth is so tiny within that expanse, yet we find ourselves behaving in such an individualistic manner. And it’s a sickness that we see on the Earth and how it’s shaped borders, wars, how it’s spawned “us versus them” and colonialism.
I understand when you’re in survival mode and you’re worried about how to pay your bills or whether you’re gonna have a roof over your head, right? How that’s a real situation. I’m not negating that because I don’t come from wealth, you know? I understand that. But aspiring to that higher humanity and trying to find the magic in life and seeking it on a day to day basis, I believe, is gonna give you a much more fulfilling life. Connection and connectivity is the water to that seed. It’s what’s going to make that ground in your life. If your life is the ground and you wanna see growth in your life, that’s the water to put on that soil. A little bit less of “me,” a little more of “giving.” And you’ll see how the karma and how the magic will begin to open up in your life.
But I don’t have it all. This is, again, and I’m gonna say it like this: This is what I aspire to. This is the beauty of life, right? It’s a journey. You know, we’re not there. We never arrive. No one’s arrived. Someone that tells you they’ve got it and they did it … stay away, right?
That’s a lie. But this is what we can aspire to, and we can find beauty together, we can work together and share resources and do these different things.
That’s beautiful, man. Well, the book speaks for itself. The artwork is amazing. Your personhood is very, very evident. Last question: If you were able to travel back to you when you were 18, what would you say to yourself?
At that age, I was in survival mode. I was hurting, I was in a lot of pain. I had experienced a lot of trauma. I had
Above, Timothy Short, A Dark in the Light (You Are All You Need) , 2020. Opposite, Joseph Abbey Mensah, Black Boy Joy , 2020. Courtesy of the artists.
seen abuse. My response to that was “focus on you.” What do I need to do? How do I get out of this situation? What’s my next move? What job do I need? I was so hyper focused on me, me, me. It’s not to say that’s bad — it’s survival, right? — but I would not have been so individual. I wouldn’t have been afraid to ask for help with the intention that I would give it back to anyone if and when I could. I would expect those things. Expect that I would be taken care of in a certain way. I’m going to put that energy out. It’s like, if you’re dealing with a lot of issues, help somebody else. You’re going through a lot of problems, help somebody else.
There’s magic in life, right? And a lot of my brothers and sisters in different spiritual and religious traditions understand that and come to that place in different ways. A place of whether God’s gonna provide for you, or as a community we provide for each other. So not being so individual and so hyper focused on me and all of my problems,
that’s one thing. And my mom taught me that as a kid.
I wouldn’t have been as hard on myself. My internal dialogue was extremely toxic. When I was in really tough situations I wasn’t taking it out with other people. I was taking out on myself. I was self-destructing, doing drugs, a lot of alcohol. I was eating a lot, just trying to kind of destroy myself. I never spoke to anyone in my life the way I spoke to myself in my head. And I would never talk. I don’t have kids, but if I had kids, I would never say, I wouldn’t even dream of, saying the kind of stuff I would say to myself in my head, to them. That’s also a practice I’ve learned. Have you taken the time to be mindful of your internal dialogue? Being mindful is a big piece of being more community minded, collective minded. More “us,” more “we,” than “I.”
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
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“Beautiful grids inside of beautiful grids, each neatly obscuring what’s behind them.”—Alexandra Lange
He kūkā kama‘ilio ‘ana kēia a nā Hawai‘i mai ‘ō a ‘ō o ka pae‘āina no ko Hawai‘i ma kēia mua a‘e, ‘o ke ke‘ehina hana mua, ‘o ia ho‘i ka mālama ‘ana i ke kuleana he make‘e ‘āina.
Aloha kāua, e ka mea heluhelu. E maliu mai i kēia kōlamu, kahi e ha‘i ‘ia a‘e nei ka mo‘olelo hou no kēia kumuhana ‘ano nui i hekau maila ma luna o kākou i loko o nā makahiki i hala a‘e nei. I ka wā e kau mai ana ka ma‘i ahulau me kona hōlapu ‘ana a puni ka honua, ua pani ‘ia a pa‘a nā ‘īpuka, ‘a‘oe kanaka puka i waho o ka hale, ‘a‘oe mea naue i ke alanui.
No Hawai‘i, he wā nō ho‘i ia i pilikia ai ka ‘oihana ho‘okele waiwai, no ka mea, he ‘ewalu mahina ‘a‘oe malihini i kipa mai i ka ‘āina nei, pēlā i emi ai ke dālā o ka ‘oihana ho‘okipa malihini. A ‘oiai ho‘i, ma ke ‘ano nui a ‘ano iki paha, he kauka‘i ko Hawai‘i i ia ‘oihana, ‘o ka hapa nui paha o kākou ke ‘ike nei i nā hopena i hua maila ma muli o ia ho‘opau ‘ia ‘ana.
A no laila i kau ai ka mana‘o o kēia mea kākau i nā ‘ohana kama‘āina, nā keiki papa o ka paemoku ho‘i na lākou e ho‘ohuli nei ka lima i lalo no ka huli ‘ana i ka pono o ka nohona kanaka, no ka ho‘ohua ‘ana ho‘i i ko ka ‘āina a lawa nō e hānai ai i ka ‘ohana. Ua nīele ‘ia nā ‘ohana Hawai‘i he ‘eono nā ‘ohana mai Hawai‘i a Kaua‘i i lohe ‘ia ko lākou mau wahi e ho‘omanawanui nei i mea ho‘i e lako ai kauhale, e mā‘ona ai ka ‘ōpū, a e kani ai ho‘i ka nohona kama‘āina i loko o ia wā ‘īnea ‘āpiki o ka no‘ono‘o ‘iha‘iha e kū mai ana.—N. Ha‘alilio Solomon
He huliāmahi nō ho‘i kēia ma muli o ka ma‘i ahulau, he mea kēia e ho‘olale ana i ka po‘e e nele nei i ka ‘oihana pa‘a ‘ole. Ua loa‘a ‘eono kānaka, ua hai ‘ia no ka hana pū ‘ana me mākou ma Ulupō, ua pau ko lākou ‘oihana ma‘amau, a i ‘ole ua puka kula lākou. No laila ua pilikia lākou. ‘Elima kānaka o lākou he ‘eono, ‘a‘ole i mahi iki ma mua o kēia. No laila, he ‘oihana kēia no ka po‘e ‘akahiakahi. ‘Ekolu ho‘i o lākou, e hana pū ana no kekahi mau mahina hou aku, me he mea lā ua ho‘olō‘ihi hou ‘ia aku ka wā o lākou e hai ‘ia ai.
‘O Kawainui, he loko i‘a nui loa, ho‘okahi wale nō loko i‘a i ‘oi aku kona nui ma Hawai‘i nei. A no laila, he wahi waiwai loa kēia, pehea lā kākou e mālama pono ai i kēia wahi me ona mau waiwai?
Inā kanu ‘ia ka ‘ano‘ano o ka makemake, a ho‘oulu hou ‘ia ka hoihoi i loko o ka na‘au o ka po‘e kama‘āina e ho‘i hou i ka ‘āina, me ka huli hou ‘ana o ka lima i lalo, ma laila ka pono o ka ‘āina a me ke kanaka.—Maya Saffery, 42, lāua ‘o Kaleomanu‘iwa Wong, 41
Pa‘i Ki‘i ‘ia na Matt Heirakuji
Ma ka ‘āina a mākou e mahi nei, loa‘a ka ‘ai, hā‘awi manuahi ‘ia aku, ‘a‘ole kāki, ‘a‘ole uku. Nui a‘e nā kānaka e hele mai e kipa, kipa mai e hana pū me mākou a komo i loko o kēia papahana, nui a‘e ka ‘ai e hānai aku ai. ‘O ka pilikia, ‘a‘ole ‘o ka nele i ka ‘āina ‘ole, he nele i ka lawa ‘ole o ka po‘e i mākaukau i ke komo ‘ana i kēia papahana e hana pū mai ai me mākou.
‘O Kauluakalana, he ‘ahahui kū i ke kaiāulu, he ‘ahahui ‘auhau ‘ole hoi i ho‘okumu ‘ia e kekahi po‘e kama‘āina no Kailua, e ho‘oikaika nei i ka ho‘ōla hou i ka ‘āina me ka ho‘ona‘auao aku, pēlā pū me ka ho‘ōla mo‘omeheu, ka ho‘oulu kaiāulu, ka ho‘omōhala luna‘ikehala, a me ka ho‘okuleana hou ‘ana iā kākou iho.
Nui a‘e nā kānaka e hele mai
e kipa, kipa mai e hana pū me mākou a komo i loko o kēia papahana, nui a‘e ka ‘ai e hānai aku ai.
He pōhaku niho ka mahi‘ai, e like ho‘i me ka lawai‘a, ke kuku kapa, a pēlā aku nō, no ke kahua e pa‘a ai ke aupuni. He kuana‘ike ia mahi‘ai ‘ana e ‘ike ai ke kanaka i kona pono i ke ao ākea, i kona lāhui kanaka no lākou kona mo‘okū‘auhau e pili ai ‘o ia i ke ao, a me kona kaiāulu/ ‘ohana na lākou ka hānai ‘ana. He pōmaika‘i pilikino ka mahi‘ai ‘ana i ke kanaka e ‘ike kino ai ho‘i i ka nani me ka hiehie o ia mea he kuleana Hawai‘i. ‘O ka waiwai ho‘i o ka mahi‘ai a me kāna hana i ka nui, ‘o ia ho‘i ka pa‘a ‘ana iho o ke kahua e kū ai ke aupuni, ke aupuni o ka lāhui nona ke kuleana e mālama ai i ke ao ākea, ke ao ākea ho‘i nona ke ola o kēlā me kēia.
E like ho‘i me nā ‘oihana ‘ē a‘e o ka Hawai‘i, he mau kuleana ko‘iko‘i ko ka mahi‘ai. ‘O ka hānai ‘ana i ka lāhui kekahi kuleana ko‘iko‘i o ka mahi‘ai a ‘o kekahi o ia mau kuleana ko‘iko‘i ‘o ia ho‘i ka hānai ‘ana i ka lāhui. Mea ‘ole ka ma‘i ahulau, ke kai e‘e, ka makani pāhili a ia mea aku lā ho‘i nā hulihia e halehale lumaluma‘i mau mai ana. He pōmaika‘i hiehie ka hānai ‘ana i ke kanaka a no laila i pōmaika‘i mau ai ka mahi‘ai ‘auamo kuleana i nā lā a pau o kona ola honua ‘ana a ma ‘ō aku lā paha.
Inā paha he welo e welo ha‘aheo ana mai ka pō mai a iō kākou i ke au nei ho‘i e kūnewa kaheāwai a‘e ana ma o nā kupuna o‘u e pupue pū ukiuki a‘e ana i ka poli moe loa o Kāne, ‘o ia nō ho‘i paha kēia: E aloha i ka ‘āina; E kanu hāloa; E hānai i ka lāhui; E ola ai ‘o Hawai‘i.—Kamuela Yim, 44
Pa‘i Ki‘i ‘ia na Matt Heirakuji
E like ho‘i me nā ‘oihana
‘ē a‘e o ka Hawai‘i, he mau kuleana ko‘iko‘i ko ka
mahi‘ai. ‘O ka hānai ‘ana
i ka lāhui kekahi kuleana
ko‘iko‘i o ka mahi‘ai a ‘o kekahi o ia mau kuleana
ko‘iko‘i ‘o ia ho‘i ka hānai
‘ana i ka lāhui.
This piece is part of Flux Hawaii’s Hawaiian-language reporting series featuring articles conceived, commissioned, and produced all in ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i, in partnership with Google News Lab. Visit fluxhawaii.com/ section/olelo-hawaii to read this story in English.
Hoihoi au i ka lu‘u ‘ana me ka ‘ō i‘a no ka mea he le‘ale‘a ia, a makemake au e ki‘i i ka ‘ai na ka ‘ohana. Ua lilo kēia hana he mea hoihoi no‘u no ka mea ua ho‘omaka ‘o Pāpā e lawelawe i ia hana, ua makemake wau e hana, no ka mea he le‘ale‘a. Ua ho‘omaka ‘o Pāpā e a‘o iā māua, ua a‘o pū mai ‘o Māmā iā māua no ka mea ua hana ‘o ia ma loko o ke kai. He waiwai ka ‘ō i‘a ‘ana no ka mea hiki ke ‘au ma kahakai a hiki ho‘i ke hā‘awi i ka ‘ai na ka ‘ohana.
I ko‘u mana‘o he mea hoihoi ka lu‘u ‘ana me ka ‘ō i‘a ‘oiai hiki ke a‘o i nā ‘ano mea like ‘ole a ho‘okahi wale nō manawa o ka lu‘u ‘ana, e like me ke ‘ano i‘a, ke ‘ano pūpū. Nui nā mea e ‘ike ai ke lu‘u aku i lalo a ea hou a‘e i luna, a he ‘ike ko‘u, a he mau nīnau nō ho‘i ka‘u pili i nā mea a‘u i ‘ike ai. Ua a‘o ‘ia māua i ka ‘ō i‘a ‘ana ‘oiai ua ho‘omaka ‘o Pāpā i ka wā ma‘i ahulau no ka ho‘olakolako ‘ana i ka ‘ai, makemake māua (‘o ko‘u kaikaina) e ho‘ā‘o like, i mea e loa‘a mai ai ka ‘ai iā mākou.
I ko‘u mana‘o, ‘oiai ‘a‘ole māua he loea i ka ‘ō i‘a ‘ana, inā makemake māua i ka i‘a, e maika‘i a‘e ana ‘o Pāpā i ia hana, akā, hiki nō iā māua ke hana.—Lelehune, 12, lāua ‘o La‘ikū Reilly, 10
Pa‘i Ki‘i ‘ia na Erica Taniguchi
‘Elua mākua, ‘elua kaikamāhine, pēlā ka ‘ohana Reilly e ‘ike ‘ia nei ma ‘ane‘i ma ke kū ‘ana e ho‘omaha ma ka laupapa o Nōmilu, Kaua‘i.
N Ō MILU, KAUA‘INui nā mea e ‘ike ai ke lu‘u aku i lalo a ea hou a‘e i luna, a he ‘ike ko‘u, a he mau nīnau nō ho‘i ka‘u pili i nā mea a‘u i ‘ike ai.
ʻO ka mahiʻai kaʻu mea e hoʻopili ai i ka ʻāina. No kekahi kanaka ʻokoʻa, ʻo ka heʻenalu ia, ʻo ka hoʻokele waʻa ia, ʻo ka hula ia nō hoʻi paha. ʻO ia koʻu ʻīpuka hale e kū aku ai a ʻike i ka ʻāina. Ma ka mahiʻai au e ʻike ai i ka ʻōlelo, i ke ʻano o ka wai, ka ua, ka makani, ka pōhaku, ka lepo, nā kumu lāʻau, ka ulunahele a ia mea aku, ia mea aku o ka ʻāina. Noʻu, no koʻu ʻohana ma ke ʻano he mau kānaka Hawaiʻi a no koʻu kaiāulu e noho nei ma Hawaiʻi nei nō, he kuleana ko kākou e mālama pono i ko kākou wahi nona mai ka ʻai. He ala ka mahiʻai e ʻike maka ai ke kanaka i ke ʻano e hana pono ai a e hana hewa ai i ka ʻāina. Ma laila kekahi waiwai ona ma ke ʻano he ʻoihana mālama ʻāina. ʻOiai pēlā ma Hawaiʻi nei nō, a ʻoiai hoʻi he Hawaiʻi au, he kuleana koʻu a he makemake koʻu e mahi me ke kuanaʻike Hawaiʻi a me ka ʻike Hawaiʻi e like me ka lālani moʻokūʻauhau oʻu, o nā Hawaiʻi hoʻi. E lawe nui ʻia akula ka ʻike o lākou ala a e hoʻohana aku au i ʻoi mau ka hana. Ma laila kahi kahua e kanu ai, a laila e hoʻololiloli ma ʻō a ma ʻaneʻi i kūpono no kēia wā, no koʻu nohona, a no koʻu ʻohana a kaiāulu ma ka nui a pēlā pū hoʻi ke ō mau o ka ʻāina.
Pōmaikaʻi loa koʻu ʻohana ʻoiai he poʻopoʻo lepo ko mākou e mahi ai, ʻaʻole pēlā no ka poʻe he nui ma Oʻahu. Ua hoʻomaka ʻē naʻe au i ka mahiʻai ʻana no koʻu ʻohana ma mua loa o ka hiki ʻana mai o ka maʻi ahulau. ʻO kekahi mea, he puni leʻa ka mahiʻai ʻana a he ʻono ke ʻano o ka ʻai aʻu e hoʻoulu ana he kalo, he ʻuala, he maiʻa, a he mau mea hou aku nō kekahi.
ʻO ka ʻoiaiʻiʻo, ʻaʻole nō i ʻike ʻia ka wā wī o ka meaʻai e mākou, a ma Hawaiʻi ma ka nui. (ʻIke ʻia nō naʻe ka wā wī ma ka hana a me ke kālā.) Eia naʻe ma ia makemake o ka poʻe e kanu ʻai a e hoʻi hou i ka ʻāina ka mea e lana ai ke
kaumaha o ia wā hopohopoālulu. Ua ʻike ʻia ka makemake ma koʻu kaiāulu home ʻo Mililani e hoʻoulu i ke kalo. Ua māhelehele aku nō au i nā koena huli mai ka hale. Hauʻoli lākou, hauʻoli au i ka hoʻolaha ʻia o ia ʻai ma koʻu kaiāulu, ʻaʻole no ka ʻai wale iho nō akā maliʻa he kanu ʻiʻini ia i loko o lākou e ʻimi hou i ka mālama ʻāina a e ʻimi hou aku i ka Hawaiʻi. Pehea lā!—Kaua Neumann, 35
Pa‘i Ki‘i ‘ia na Matt Heirakuji
‘Eia ‘o Kaua Neumann, e puni ana i kāna ‘ohana ma ko lākou wahi po‘opo‘o lepo, ma Mililani, O‘ahu.
He ala ka mahiʻai e ʻike maka ai ke kanaka i ke ʻano e
hana pono ai a e hana hewa ai i ka ʻāina. Ma laila kekahi
waiwai ona ma ke ʻano he ʻoihana mālama ʻāina.
Ma ke kaiāulu o Moloka‘i, ua mau ka laha o ke kuana‘ike Hawai‘i ma nā ‘ohana. A ma ko‘u ‘ohana a me ka ‘ohana o ka‘u wahine, ua mau mai nō kēia kuana‘ike. No kekahi mau ‘ohana ma Moloka‘i, ‘āwili ‘ia ka ‘ao‘ao pili‘uhane i loko o ka loina mālama ‘āina me ka mahi‘ai pū kekahi. He hō‘ihi maoli ka hana i ka ‘āina me ka ‘e‘ehia no kona la‘a a me nā kapu e pili pū ana. Ua mau mai nō nā ‘uhane a me ka mana o kahiko i loko o ke ao kūlohelohe a i loko o nā kumuwaiwai ma ka ‘āina, a me ke kai. A no ia kumu, he kuleana ko ka mahi‘ai e mālama i ka ‘āina a me nā kapu i pili i ka ‘āina. Inā hana pono ka mahi‘ai, e māhuahua mai ana nō ka loa‘a a me nā pōmaika‘i. Inā pono hana wale aku, ‘o ka ‘ēko‘a ka hopena. Ua ho‘okumu mua ‘ia e ka‘u wahine he mau makahiki ma mua o ka ma‘i ahulau he hui ‘auhau ‘ole nona ka inoa ‘o Ka Ipu Makani. Ma lalo o ka malu o Ka Ipu Makani i kino mai ai he māhele e kāko‘o ai i ka wehe hou ‘ana a me ka mālama ‘ana i nā lo‘i ma ka ‘āina kuleana ‘ohana, a kapa ‘ia ihola ia māhele ‘o Kāwao Ka‘amola. Ma ia māhele i kumu mai ai he polokalamu hu‘ea‘o e komo ai ka po‘e ‘ōpio o ke kaiāulu o Moloka‘i ma ka mahi‘ai pū ‘ana me ke a‘o i ka ‘oihana mahi‘ai lo‘i kalo pūnāwai. Ma loko o nā makahiki o ka lele ‘ana o kēia ma‘i Covid-19, a ma nā hola o ke ahiahi o nā lā noa, a ma nā hopena pule nō ho‘i, ua wehe hou a ho‘omāhelehele ‘ia he 24 hou lo‘i a kanu ‘ia ma kahi o 50 ‘ano kalo hou i kanu mua ‘ole ‘ia ma ia kaupapalo‘i. Mai loko o ia mau lo‘i i wehe ‘ia a i kanu ‘ia, ua o‘o mai he mau haneli paona o ke kalo pa‘a. Hā‘awi manuahi ‘ia kēia kalo, ka lū‘au, a me nā huli i nā pilikana, i nā ‘ohana, i nā hu‘ea‘o, a i ke kaiāulu nō ho‘i. Ua a‘o kekahi o nā pū‘ulu hu‘ea‘o i ke kālai pōhaku a papa ku‘i ‘ai, i ho‘olawa pū ‘ia ai nā ‘ohana i nā lako e piha ai ka ‘umeke i ka poi. Pēlā mākou ka
‘ohana a me ke kaiāulu ma Moloka‘i i ho‘i ai i ka iwikuamo‘o e huliāmahi ai ma kēia wā pōpilikia o ka ma‘i ahulau. Mahalo mākou i ke Akua mana loa, a mahalo pū mākou i nā ‘ānela kia‘i (nā ‘aumākua nō ho‘i), a me nā kūpuna aloha no ke ola o ka ‘āina a me ke ola o kākou kānaka i kēia wā hulihia o ka nohona. E ola mau kākou ka Hawai‘i! Nāhulu Maioho, 33
Pa‘i Ki‘i ‘ia na Jamie Makasobe
Eia nō ka ‘ohana Maioho me ka ‘ohana Lima, ma ka ho‘ohuli ‘ana i ka lima i lalo ma kaupapalo‘i ma Ka‘amola, Moloka‘i. ‘O Ka Ipu Makani, ‘o kāna mākua ka ho‘oulu ‘ana i ka luna‘ikehala no nā kumuwaiwai mo‘omeheu a ko ka ‘āina ho‘i, me ka ho‘okoe ‘ana ho‘i i ka ho‘oilina ma Hawai‘i nei me ka hāpai hou ‘ana i nā loina o Moloka‘i.
A no ia kumu, he kuleana ko ka mahi‘ai e mālama i ka ‘āina a me nā kapu i pili i ka ‘āina.
Inā hana pono ka mahi‘ai, e māhuahua mai ana nō ka loa‘a a me nā pōmaika‘i.
KA‘AMOLA, MOLOKA‘I
Wahi a kahiko, “Na ke kanaka mahi‘ai ka imu ō nui” He ‘ōlelo no‘eau kūpono kēia no kākou ka Hawai‘i i kēia au e ne‘e nei. ‘A‘ole nāna iho, na ke kanaka mahi‘ai, ka nui o ka ‘ai o loko o ka imu ō nui. Na ke kaiāulu ia ‘ai. ‘O nā kuleana nui o ka ‘oihana mahi‘ai, ‘o ka mālama ‘ana i ka ‘āina a me ka hānai ‘ana i ke kanaka. No laila, pau ka ‘oihana mahi‘ai, pau pū kānaka.
‘O ka mahi‘ai kekahi o nā pōhaku kihi e pa‘a ai ke kahua o ka lāhui nāna e mālama ke ali‘i pono‘ī, ‘o ka ‘āina nō ia. Ho‘omana‘o ‘ia kekahi ‘ōlelo ko‘iko‘i i pili iā ‘Umi-aLīloa, he ali‘i mahi‘ai, he hānai kānaka. A hiki mai ka wā ‘ino, ua lako ka po‘e i ke ali‘i mahi‘ai. Pēlā nō ke ‘ano o ka lāhui aloha ‘āina. Ola ka ‘āina, ola nō kānaka.
I ka wā i hiki mai ai ka ma‘i ahulau i Hawai‘i nei, ua ho‘okumu ‘ia kahi hānai kānaka e huiMAU i Pa‘auilo.
‘O ka huki a‘ela nō ia i ke kalo o ko mākou māla ‘ai, a ho‘omākaukau ‘ia ka imu e kālua ai i ka pua‘a. A pau kā
mākou ‘ai i ka hā‘awi ‘ia akula i nā kānaka o Hāmākua Hikina nei, ua mau nō ka pololi o kānaka. No ia kumu, ua hā‘awi mai kekahi mau mahi‘ai o Hāmākua Hikina nei i kā lākou ‘ai e ho‘olako ai i ke kanaka nui a me ke kanaka iki.
Ua lilo ko mākou hale ma Pa‘auilo i wahi hānai kanaka a i hale kuke no ka lehulehu, e like me nā lumi kuke kupa o ka wā mahikō.
Ua kapa ‘ia kēia ‘āina a mākou e kanu nei i ka ‘ulu ‘o Ka Maha ‘Ulu o Koholālele. ‘O kekahi kumu e ulu ai ka mana‘o o mākou e huliāmahi i ka mahi‘ai ‘ana, ‘o ia nā mo‘olelo o ko mākou po‘e kūpuna o ka wā mahikō ma Hāmākua Hikina nei. Wahi a kūpuna, “Ua pa‘a ka ‘āina i ka ‘ai” i ko lākou wā e noho ana ma ka ‘āina kula. No laila mai ko mākou mana‘o, inā ua pa‘a ka ‘āina i ka ‘ai, ua pa‘a nō ke kanaka i ka ‘āina.
—No‘eau
Pa‘i Ki‘i ‘ia na Nani Welch Keli‘iho‘omalu
No‘eau Peralto lāua ‘o Haley Kailiehu, ma Ka Maha ‘Ulu o Koholālele, e ke kaiāulu no ka ho‘olilo ‘ana i nā ‘eka he 80 paha o nā ‘āina i ho‘ohana ‘ia he mahikō i ka wā i hala, kahi e ulu nei ka palepiwa i kēia wā, aia nō ma Koholālele, Hāmākua, Hawai‘i, a lilo ia ‘o ka ‘āina mahi‘ai nui loa a puni ‘o Hawai‘i kahi e ho‘oulu a ho‘oulu hou ‘ia ai ho‘i ka ‘ulu.
‘O ka mahi‘ai kekahi o nā pōhaku kihi e pa‘a ai ke kahua o ka lāhui nāna e mālama ke ali‘i pono‘ī, ‘o ka ‘āina nō ia. Pēlā nō ke ‘ano o ka lāhui aloha ‘āina. Ola ka ‘āina, ola nō kānaka.
An omnipresent artifact of midcentury modernism, the humble breezeblock is an undeniable yet overlooked aspect of Honolulu’s urban fabric. Is it poised for a comeback?
One of my more embarrassing moments as a design writer took place on Instagram in 2015. My wife and I had just moved to Honolulu from Chicago to be closer to her parents, renting a studio apartment off of the Ala Wai Canal. As I explored the neighborhoods within walking distance of our building — Mōʻiliʻili, Diamond Head, Waikīkī — I noticed the same architectural detail over and over: small, hollow concrete blocks, typically with some sort of shape or pattern in the middle, like those snowflakes children cut out of paper. Entire walls were made out of them, the repetition of dozens, even hundreds of blocks stacked on top of one another creating an even larger, more intricate pattern. The effect was an architecture that felt both solid and porous, sturdy and fragile. I was mesmerized.
I didn’t know what these blocks were called, or if they had a name at all, so I snapped a photo and posted it to my Instagram account. “I’ve been wondering for months if there’s a technical term for the concrete facade detailing that’s on everything here. Anyone know?” My friend and fellow writer Lindsey wondered whether they might be a modern type of mashrabiya, the ornate, wooden window screens common in Islamic architecture. A few others hazarded guesses as well. It was local curator and community developer Wei Fang — then of Interisland Terminal, now of Arts and Letters Nuʻuanu — who eventually supplied the answer. She wrote one word: #breezeblocks.
I learned soon after that practically everyone in Hawaiʻi knows what breezeblocks are and was retroactively mortified to have outed myself as yet another clueless mainlander. I shrunk at the imagined jeers. An architecture critic who doesn’t know what breezeblocks are? Sheesh.
In retrospect, I needn’t have felt so embarrassed. My experience is a common one for people who grow up in the chillier or more rural parts of North America. Jason Selley and Lance Walters, who now run the Instagram account @breezeblockboutique, both discovered breezeblocks only after moving to Honolulu. “Hawaiʻi definitely was the first time I tuned into breezeblock,” said Selley, who grew up in Nebraska. (A quick note: Architects tend to refer to breezeblock, singular, as in “Breezeblock came into fashion in the 1950s and ’60s.” It’s sort of like brick. A wall is made out of multiple bricks, but you say it’s made out of brick. Breezeblock is also sometimes referred to as screen block or textile block.)
Although breezeblock has recently been nudged back into popularity thanks to a broader appreciation for midcentury modernism, it still doesn’t get the love it deserves, Walters said. “Even though it is having a moment, I think it’s still kind of under-appreciated,” he said.
This under-appreciation is partly why, for the past decade, Walters has used breezeblock as a core part of his Architecture 102 class at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa.
It’s the perfect introduction to Hawaiʻi’s built environment, he explained. “It’s easy for the students to draw, and it’s something that they’ve all been around but not paid attention to. It draws their eye to a new aspect of architecture that’s just lurking in their backyard.”
Students in Walters’ class document examples of breezeblock in their neighborhoods, adding them to an online database that Walters has maintained since at least 2017. It currently has nearly 2,000 entries. Students then design their own block pattern, 3D-printing miniature models before casting a full-size block out of concrete using a wooden mold. Walters keeps an assortment of the 3D prints in his university office. “I probably have 10,000 of these little Lego-size blocks,” he told me.
Unlike some building technologies, breezeblock doesn’t have one single “inventor.” Rather, the idea of decorative
concrete blocks seems to have emerged in multiple corners of the world in the late 1910s and early 1920s, simultaneously appearing in buildings in Brazil, France, and California. As the architectural historian Don Hibbard writes in his forthcoming booklet on breezeblock, published by Docomomo Hawaii, “As early as 1917, [Frank Lloyd] Wright had begun to experiment with what he called ‘textile blocks,’ concrete blocks impressed with geometric or floral patterns to form decoratively patterned walls.” Wright reportedly hated concrete block and so set himself the challenge of finding ways to beautify what he called the “gutter rat” of architectural assemblies. He eventually used his proto-breezeblock to great effect in the richly textured, Art Deco-inspired Millard House in Pasadena, California, built in 1923 — the same year French architect Auguste Perret completed Notre-Dame du Raincy outside Paris, a modern take on the gothic cathedral that is wrapped in a patterned concrete screen.
The 1960s and ’70s saw a proliferation of decorative breezeblock screens, perhaps nowhere as noticeably as Honolulu, then in the middle of its postStatehood building boom.
If breezeblock is experiencing a kind of low-level renaissance in Hawaiʻi, a big part of why is that it is democratic, unfussy.
Breezeblock hit the mainstream in the late 1950s, following the opening of the U.S. Embassy in New Delhi, India, designed by New York architect Edward Durell Stone, the person arguably most associated with breezeblock façades. (Stone eventually patented one of his screen block patterns.) Stone’s use of breezeblock has been described as an architectural analog to pop art, though unlike Yayoi Kusama or Andy Warhol, whose art was a commentary on consumerism and mass production, Stone and his contemporaries seemed to deploy breezeblock uncritically, exploiting its means of production without comment. In a way, it was the epitome of modernists’ belief in the beauty of functionality. Breezeblock was ornamental, yes, but it wasn’t ornamental for ornament’s sake. (Still, some found it overly romantic.)
Why breezeblock became ubiquitous in Hawaiʻi comes back — like a lot of its architecture — to the islands’ climate. Enabled by advancements in concrete fabrication and rises in the costs of labor and traditional building materials like stone, breezeblock became a costeffective way to screen buildings from excessive sun while also allowing for natural ventilation, making it particularly popular in hot and humid climates, like those of Hong Kong, Miami, and Honolulu. A concrete breezeblock wall had the added advantage of high thermal mass, meaning it absorbed the sun’s heat during the day and released it at night, making it well-suited to desert locales like Palm Springs. In this way, my friend Lindsey wasn’t far off. Like Islamic mashrabiya, breezeblock is an example of geographically influenced, climate-responsive architecture, used to create what might be seen as chunkier, more modern versions of European brise-soleil or Indian jali.
Breezeblock was also cheap to produce. Thousands of blocks could be made with a single mold — “Play-
Doh Fun Factory-style,” Selley said. Concrete masonry companies began offering standard shapes and patterns, which architects could select from their catalogs. Even today, local companies like Tile Co. in Kapolei offer a selection of screen block options. #399, for example, is a square block with what looks like an elongated, fourpetaled plumeria flower in the center. For architects working in Hawaiʻi, breezeblock had (and still has) the double advantage of being produced locally, eliminating exorbitant shipping costs. Breezeblock was smack dab in the center of a collision of history, economics, technology, and style.
The 1960s and ’70s saw a proliferation of decorative breezeblock screens, perhaps nowhere as noticeably as Honolulu, then in the middle of its post-Statehood building boom. Today, the artifacts of that period are omnipresent. Breezeblock can be found in houses, hotels, banks, bowling alleys, university buildings, and Board of Water Supply pump stations. Among a subset of local architects, including Selley and Walters, this ubiquity makes breezeblock one of the more recognizable, and therefore more approachable, threads in Hawaiʻi’s urban fabric, made all the more significant by its transcendence of class boundaries.
Today, you’re as likely to find breezeblock on the sun-baked streets of Pālolo as you are on the shady sidewalks of Waikīkī’s Gold Coast. That’s because breezeblock offered architects near-infinite customizability at almost no extra cost, making it particularly appealing on projects with modest budgets. In Honolulu, “there’s a lot of cookie cutter, plantationtype homes,” Selley said. A home’s breezeblock pattern was the “one area where architects could flex some creativity within a standard module.”
Walters and Selley have become some of breezeblock’s biggest boosters in Hawaiʻi. Under the banner of @breezeblockboutique, they’ve fabricated breezeblock-inspired coasters, ice cube trays, and most recently, with the apparel designer Roberta Oaks, a line of aloha shirts featuring the block pattern of the Pali Lanes bowling alley in Kailua, as well as other prominent styles. For Mud Hen Water, the nowbeloved Ed Kenney outpost, Selley’s firm, Workshop-HI, repurposed standard, workaday breezeblock as an elegant interior element, cladding the base of the bar and window around the kitchen with Tile Co.’s #414, a rectangular block that when counterpoised forms an abstract pattern of circles and intersecting lines. “We thought it’d be a fun juxtaposition, having the old school breezeblock with a really beautiful, white marble top on it,” Selley said.
Selley and Walters are also working to design their own contemporary breezeblock, inspired by traditional Hawaiian kapa patterns, for an apartment project in Waikīkī. It would be a first-of-its-kind, not only architecturally but in terms of the block’s carbon footprint. Right now, concrete accounts for a huge percentage of global carbon emissions, largely due to the coal that’s burned to produce ash, a key ingredient in cement. This massive environmental cost is actually right there in the name breezeblock, Walters explained. Just as the “brut” in Brutalism comes not from the English word “brutal” but from the French phrase “béton brut,” meaning raw concrete, the “breeze” in breezeblock does not, as I had assumed, refer to its passive ventilation properties, or even to its architectural ancestor, the brise-soleil. Rather it refers to coal ash, technically known as coke breeze, which is added to most concrete mixes.
To reduce the carbon footprint of their breezeblock, Selley and Walters
envision using CarbonCure technology, a method of capturing waste carbon dioxide from natural gas plants and injecting it into concrete, where it mineralizes into carbon carbonate. This prevents the carbon dioxide from ever entering the atmosphere, even if the concrete structure is demolished. The ultimate goal, Selley told me, is a carbonsequestering breezeblock, which would store more carbon than is produced by making it.
If breezeblock is experiencing a kind of low-level renaissance in Hawaiʻi, a big part of why is that it is humble, democratic, unfussy. An echo of the past, it speaks to our desire for continuity in the midst of change, for signs and symbols that say to us, You belong here. Amid ever-moreinaccessible, all-glass towers and an increasingly virtual world, concrete blocks are tactile and refreshingly solid. At the same time, any newfound popularity may owe something to that virtual world, specifically to social media platforms like Instagram. In a 2014 essay on architecture and virality, Alexandra Lange wrote that the life-inside-a-thumbnail experience of Instagram rewards particular modes of presenting architecture: “Grids, shadows against a wall, baby Thomas Gurskys of the repetitive commercial landscape.” What architectural element is more perfectly suited to that format than breezeblock? Beautiful grids inside of beautiful grids, each neatly obscuring what’s behind them.”
I’ve also begun to wonder if architects’ embrace of this way of decorating buildings, and the public’s appreciation for it, may stem from the simple fact that it’s fun Breezeblock invited modern architects to play. A single block could be flipped around or turned upside down to create new patterns. It was a totally new way to decorate façades, and yet there was something old-fashioned about it, almost reminiscent of those early childhood rites of passage of making shapes and stacking blocks.
I’ve been playing with blocks a lot lately. Our son turned one in December, and his room is slowly becoming filled with blocks. Small, worn, wooden ones and big, multicolored ones, each side stamped to look like bricks. I watch him put the smaller ones in the back of a little wood truck, his spatial comprehension and dexterity seeming to evolve in real time. Admittedly, he’s still mostly in the demolition phase, but soon, I know, he’ll be building towers or entire miniature cities, assembling blocks in intricate and surprising ways. Sitting next to him, I sometimes build my own funky structures. I find immense pleasure in doing so. The tactility of the material feels almost sensuous after hours of typing on plastic keys or cradling my sleek, vapid phone. And the process of arranging the blocks is both stimulating and meditative, my hands working almost of their own volition, the possibilities contained within a
floor-full of red, yellow, and blue rectangles meaning that I’ll never exhaust the blocks’ potential.
I detect an only slightly more sophisticated appreciation in Selley’s voice when he tells me about another new breezeblock pattern, this one designed by an artist in Australia, that he’s using for a project in ‘Āina Haina. “It’s fairly simple,” he told me. “It’s just a triangle that you can flip to get different shadow lines, which is really the fun thing that adds more variety to the block, playing with the positive and negative, what you’re getting with shadows and light coming through.”
Breezeblock may be past its heyday, but hidden in its many forms is a recognition that the world is a vast and varied place, and that how we build can — and should — acknowledge that. At its best, architecture tells us where we are. It’s a record of how previous generations lived, what they valued, and why. For many of us, Honolulu’s breezeblocks are simply a backdrop, invisible in their omnipresence. But this humble detail encapsulates much more than crushed stone and coal breeze. It holds the stories and histories, preoccupations and aspirations, of those who came before us.
Riotous prints and sporty silhouettes imbue clothes with a rebellious warmth fit for Honolulu dwellers on the go.
IMAGES BY BRANDYN LIU STYLED BY REISE KOCHICREATIVE PRODUCER
AJA TOSCANO
HAIR AND MAKEUP ARTIST
RISA HOSHINO
HAIR AND MAKEUP ASSIST
MAILE BINGHAM
TAMIKO HOBIN
STYLE ASSIST
TAYLOR KONDO
PHOTOGRAPHER ASSIST
MATT RAMIREZ
OPPOSITE
Aiala, from Duet Agency, wears Alexander McQueen blazer, with detachable Keith Lafuente sleeves
OPPOSITE
ABOVE
Aiala
Ella, from Honolulu City Club, wears Barragán dress and stylist’s own balaclava wears Barragán dress and M33Ms earrings; Alec wears Barragán blazer and jeans, Marsèll slip-ons, M33Ms jewelry, and stylist’s own leather gloves
ABOVE Noa wears Toqa jacket and boardshort with Jimmini necklace; Ella wears Rumi Murakami shirt, Barragán bike shorts, Coucou Suzette socks from Island-Boy; Be wears Salvage Public shirt jacket, pant, socks, and M33Ms choker; Kaliko wears Versace corset top from Neiman Marcus and Jimmini necklace
OPPOSITE
ABOVE
Kaliko
wears Barragán shorts and bikini with stylist’s own pāpale; Hercules wears Barragán swim brief and scarf with Ala Wai Research LLC sunglasses; Be wears Tutuvi lavalava from Nā Mea Hawai‘i with Off-White sunglasses from Neiman Marcus
Noa wears Off-White goggles from Neiman Marcus, M33Ms chain, Toqa jacket, Barragán bike shorts and boots
OPPOSITE
ABOVE
Aiala wears Alexander McQueen blazer, with detachable Keith Lafuente sleeves; Alec wears Barragán blazer (inside-out) and tank top, M33Ms earrings, and Jimmini necklace
Kaliko wears Versace corset top from Neiman Marcus, Barragán denim and bike shorts, and Jimmini necklace
In Matt Mallams’ street photography and carefully eclectic journals, fleeting scenes of the islands and elsewhere are captured with stealth, spontaneity, and wonder.
A homestead in Ka‘ū, Hawai‘i. Image by Nani Welch Keli‘iho‘omalu.
“Stadiums are meant to bring people together.”—Kevin
Faller
At an off-grid residence on Hawai‘i Island, a textile artist cultivates space for people to be connected with the natural world and discover their own autonomy.
TEXT BY JACKIE OSHIRO IMAGES BY NANI WELCH KELI‘IHO‘OMALUEntering through the front gates of Waiʻala Ahn’s homestead in Kaʻū feels like stepping into a fairytale. A small bee box and a row of garden beds overflowing with root vegetables and brassicas are set off to the left; a small cottage sits patiently up the path to the right. The ground is covered in a blanket of clover and wildflowers, and a cadre of stately oldgrowth ʻōhiʻa trees look down from above. In the distance, Ahn’s two Australian Shepherds greet your arrival.
The verdant space is well suited for Ahn’s work as a natural dye artist. Here, she’s able to grow many of her art materials and host dye workshops on her covered lānai. But to Ahn, who is Native Hawaiian, her homestead is far more than an avenue for her work — it represents her steadfast commitment to her values and radical optimism for the future of Hawaiʻi.
Ahn, her husband and indigo artist Justin Cook Tripp, and their two-year-old son Kupuʻohi live more than two hours away from both Hilo and Kona and 4,500 feet up the slopes of Mauna Loa. Their street runs through a kīpuka of old growth forest, putting them solidly in Lava Flow Zone 2, which encompasses the areas adjacent to and downslope from volcanic rift zones, extending from South Kona to Ocean View and up towards Saddle Road. Their one-bedroom house is fully off-grid and requires a constant
awareness of the limitations of their solar panels and water catchment systems. Despite its inconveniences, this lifestyle was very carefully cultivated.
Before moving to Kaʻū at the end of 2018, Ahn and Tripp were living in Waikoloa, in a house that could be anywhere in Hawaiʻi, or in other words, newly constructed lots surrounded by gravel and concrete, with air conditioners and big screen televisions with every room occupied by residents working multiple jobs just to get by.
“Maybe it’s because I grew up in Puna, in a very off-grid community, but it got to the point where I was like, I’d rather live in a tent in the bushes than a place where I was completely disconnected from the world,” says Ahn.
“I wanted us to have time to not have to work five days a week, two jobs a day.” And so, when Ahn found a small parcel in Ocean View with two solar panels, a water tank, and an enclosed structure that had two working light bulbs at an affordable price, she thought it was just perfect.
The transition to the homestead was not without its challenges. At one point, rain started coming through the walls of the house, but to Ahn, it was all an exercise in reprioritizing and redefining what was most important for her family. Although they were farther from the conveniences of a larger town, they were also free from the
financial burdens of rent and utilities. And that was the whole point. “Here in Hawaiʻi, our lives have been defined by these very constructed ideas of what housing and land use is, but we can all take a few small, necessary steps to get back to a way that works for us,” Ahn says. While off-grid living is a pretty drastic step, she acknowledges, things like growing your own food, reducing your electricity and water bills, and mending your old clothes are fairly attainable ways for anyone to build autonomy and reduce dependency on capitalism and corporations. “To me, the whole idea of off-grid living was a return to sovereignty in a way that was tangible to us as a family,” she says, “until it’s tangible to us as a nation.”
Ahn’s commitment to Hawaiian sovereignty is also reflected in the way she runs her business. Instead of selling her art, she holds workshops and offers dye services to other artists. In doing so, Ahn focuses on building community, perpetuating knowledge, and helping others see what is possible beyond the template provided to us by modern society.
“I’m trying to cultivate an opportunity for all people to be connected with the natural world,” she explains. So when they look at the food in their kitchen, for example, they’ll be able to see the color-producing potential and be inspired to make something to gift or sell. And if that goes well,
maybe they’ll even decide to grow a small garden and cultivate plants of their own to eat and create with.
Ahn’s workshops are informal, intimate affairs that feel like a gathering of old friends. About 10 participants peruse Ahn’s
garden to pick their own flowers to dye with before settling down around a low table on the lānai, reaching across each other for jars of dyeing materials like dried butterfly pea flower and ʻiliahi powder. Throughout an afternoon, Ahn will
For Ahn, her way of life is an expression of her steadfast commitment to her values and radical optimism about the future of Hawai‘i.
speak on everything from natural dyeing and the plants being used to homestead life, personal philosophies, and Kupuʻohi’s next birthday party. The evening concludes with a seasonal meal prepared on site by a local chef, and everyone departs with stomachs full and heads buzzing with inspiration. “My hope is that when someone comes in, they can see that on less than a quarter of an acre, they’re able to catch their own water, have solar panels, grow food, and have space for people to gather,” Ahn says, “and that it will help them to reimagine their own communities.”
“Co-creating with nature can happen anywhere,” says Wai‘ala Ahn. Coffee grounds, tea leaves, avocado seeds, berries, turmeric, and onion skins are all fantastic sources of color, and you can dye anything made from natural fibers (for example, cotton, silk, and linen). Ahn recommends starting with old, stained kitchen towels.
The simplest method is called immersion dyeing. Using a single dye ingredient, heat it with water on the stove, add your fabric, and simmer for up to two hours, being careful not to let it boil. Then, turn off the heat and let the fabric sit in the liquid overnight.
Ahn’s favorite method, bundle dyeing, allows for more creativity. Lay your fabric on a flat surface, place your dye ingredients on top, and roll it up tightly. “Like a spring roll, then like a cinnamon roll.” Rubber band it together and steam for 20-30 minutes.
While Ahn pretreats her fabrics to better hold the color, it isn’t necessary, especially if you’re using ingredients with tannins like tea, coffee, and avocado. Just remember not to throw it in your washing machine. “Whatever is going to make a grass stain come out, you don't want to do with your natural dyed fiber.”
The verdant space is well suited for Ahn’s work as a natural dye artist, where she’s able to grow many of her art materials and host dye workshops.
Our food is designed to fuel every local lifestyle Our classic favorites are inspired by home cooked meals, backyard BBQs & beachside picnics, because we know how Hawaii loves to eat.
At Old Queen Street Stadium, a blinkand-you’ll-miss-it vintage clothing store, the magic and magnetism of Hawai‘i’s local sports scene lives on.
TEXT BY ERIC STINTON
IMAGES BY JOHN HOOK
Stepping through the doorway of Old Queen Street Stadium in Kaka‘ako is a bit like stepping through the wardrobe to Narnia, only if instead that closet led to an even bigger closet. The difference, though, is nonetheless transformative: It feels like every square inch of the shop’s dorm-sized space is used to showcase items dating back decades, ranging from high schools to the pros. Therein, all manner of memorabilia narrate different episodes in the story of island sports from the midcentury to now.
Most prevalently stocked are shirts, jerseys, hats and jackets with the funkified greens, oranges and rainbow logos representing teams from the University of Hawai‘i. The crown jewel is a gamer from legendary baseball coach Les Murakami, namesake of UH baseball’s home field, though the UH-themed WWE-style championship belt — one of only seven in the wild — is a scene-stealer. A little extra digging into Old Queen Street Stadium’s wares will also reveal pieces from the other four university athletic programs: the classic blues and whites of Hawai‘i Pacific University and Chaminade University, the bold blacks and reds of UH Hilo, and some splashes of crimson and gold from the now-sportsless BYU Hawai‘i.
The idea for the shop started out as a labor of love during the early days of the pandemic in 2020. A trio of Kalihi boys, Kevin Faller and brothers Chester and Kevin Sebastian, organized monthly pop-up events at a restaurant on Queen Street for vintage collectors and enthusiasts to meet up and ostensibly buy, sell, and trade
Stick-and-ball sports comprise the bulk of the collection on display at the shop, but there are also gems for fans of local boxing, kickboxing, and mixed martial arts.
with one another. But the real reason people kept turning up was to swap memories, sharing old stories and hearing new ones for the first time.
Many of the reminiscences at the pop-ups revolved around Honolulu Stadium, the bygone baseball-football field formerly located in Mō‘ili‘ili. Iconic in the minds and hearts of local sports fans, the multipurpose stadium was notorious for its 25,000 wooden-seat bleachers, which earned the nickname the Termite Palace for its frequent infestations. Before it was demolished in 1976, it hosted an incredible range of live events: national champion collegiate teams, local barefoot leagues, boxing matches, hula festivals, evangelical sermons and Elvis concerts. Renowned broadcaster and “The Voice” of UH Athletics
Jim Leahey considered the stadium “part of the family,” calling it “the greatest babysitter in the world,” where parents could watch games while their kids played together in the field. Honolulu Stadium wasn’t just the epicenter of sports in Hawai‘i, it was the hub of city life and culture.
The name Old Queen Street Stadium is homage to both the restaurant that initially launched the founders’ vision and the type of collective they aspire to be. “We are the next stadium that brings communities together,” Faller says. All three of the founders have full-time obligations outside of the shop. Kevin works at a T-Mobile store, Chester works at a law office, and Faller recently left a position as a program manager at the nonprofit KVIBE to take care of ailing family members. At KVIBE, Faller used bike meetups and cultural education to provide community and mentorship to kids in Kalihi. That ethos informs the mission of Old Queen Street Stadium. The jerseys and shirts are a means to get young kids through the door, Chester adds, explaining, “What you see on the walls is not just vintage clothing. What’s really on these things is stories.” Some of the most unique pieces at Old Queen Street Stadium come from the state’s various short-lived forays into professional sports, like Team Hawaii (soccer), The Hawaiians (football), and even some rare finds from the Kona Navigators and Lahaina Whalers, baseball franchises that never became more than unfulfilled pipe dreams and premature merchandise.
The most expansive selection of professional gear belongs to Hawaii Winter Baseball, a professional league that ran for a total of eight seasons, composed of seven teams with names like the West Oahu Cane Fires and Waikiki Beach Boys. Hawaii Winter Baseball was home for top prospects from America and Asia during major league offseasons, with talented local players filling whatever spots were left on the limited rosters. Local fans got to see future greats like Jason Giambi, Buster Posey and Ichiro Suzuki before they were major league stars, but perhaps more meaningfully, they also got to see their uncles, cousins, and friends realize their dreams of becoming professional athletes.
The idea for the shop started out as a labor of love during the early days of the pandemic in 2020. Opposite, Kevin Faller, Chester Sebastian, and Kevin Sebastian are the owners of Old Queen Street Stadium.
Stick-and-ball sports comprise the bulk of the collection on display at the shop, but there are also gems for fans of local boxing, kickboxing, and mixed martial arts. Faller and the Sebastians make a point to stock more than athletic miscellany, too. The store is lined with alohawear uniforms, many of which are from now-defunct institutions like Aloha Airlines, Love’s Bakery, the Honolulu Star-Bulletin and, of course, the Termite Palace itself. By threading this category of apparel through their inventory, Old Queen Street Stadium transcends their sports-facing niche into a menagerie of working-class, everyday local life.
It’s why Faller and the Sebastians don’t see Old Queen Street Stadium as merely a store, even if most of the items are technically for sale. “We’re an interactive museum,” Kevin says. “You can actually touch the clothes and know what it was like back then. You can feel the stories.”
In the Hawaiian Islands, stories matter. The words for “story” and “genealogy” in ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i share the same root (mo‘olelo and moʻokūʻauhau, respectively); our stories are
our lineage. “We’re trying to bring back intergenerational connections between kūpuna and keiki,” Faller says, likening their hybrid retail-archive space to what Honolulu Stadium did for past generations. “Stadiums are meant to bring people together.”
When people come together, special things happen, big and small. Ideas like aloha ‘āina and sustainable living — natural fits for people down to rock old, repurposed clothes — can take root and gain momentum. Kids see their parents and grandparents feel the electric buzz of nostalgia, and briefly glimpse who they were before adulthood.
This is especially true for the unsung “OGs” of Hawai‘i sports, people who didn’t appear on magazine covers or ESPN highlights. Athletes like wide receiver Leonard Lau, quarterback Michael Carter, and shortstop Mike DeKneef, local contenders who brought pride and excitement to fans for years but whose legacies have been overlooked and underappreciated. “We do this for the people who aren’t well-known, because they should be known,” Faller says. “They may have played in the minor leagues, but it was major to them.”
A skate park in the heart of ‘A‘ala. Image by Lila Lee.
“This is a place, the only place I can find, for me and people like me, where I feel accepted and understood.”—Makiki teenager
The useless wooden toy that is the skateboard comes packaged in a culture of fun that permeates and dominates every aspect and every hour of its user’s life. Unlike the weekend tennis player or casual smoker, skateboarding, for those deep in it, is the most important thing in their life. From clothing to music to humor to media, skateboarding is less of a hobby and more of a cult, and like all good cults, they require adequate facilities.
In Honolulu, two sites quickly come to mind: ‘A‘ala Skate Park, located in the festering heart of Chinatown, and Makiki Skate Park, tucked beneath the Keʻeamoku Street overpass. Both of these skate parks are fairly new to the local skateboarding community (ʻAʻala has existed in some form since the 1970s, Makiki since 2001), and their existence is due in part to Chad Hiyakumoto. Hiyakumoto, who is the owner of APB Skate Shop, grew up on Maui, spent his youth skateboarding, amassing a small fortune as an adolescent selling popsicles out of his front door and investing those thousands of dollars earned. While attending the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa in the late-1990s, Hiyakumoto noticed Honolulu’s dearth of skating facilities. While Hiyakumoto was attending college on O‘ahu, Maui had built several fairly good wooden skate parks, and when Hiyakumoto would visit home, he often wondered why that island had been bestowed these facilities despite Oʻahu having several times the population of skaters. After earning a degree in civil engineering, Hiyakumoto got a job
More than just ramps and flat rails, good skate parks are also a hub for local communities.
Without the involvement of island skaters, Honolulu’ s darling skate parks might never have materialized.
as a construction engineer in Honolulu. His co-workers built him a skate box — a long, rectangular wooden box with angle-ironed coping for grinding and sliding on a skateboard — which he would bring to ʻAʻala for he and his friends to skate. They found loading and unloading the box every day to be extremely cumbersome, so Hiyakumoto made a request to the Mayor’s office. “I wrote something like, ‘I bring this box in and out every day and it sucks. Can I leave it there?’” Hiyakumoto remembers. The City answered no, but suggested he get involved with the Department of Parks and Recreation, with whom Hiyakumoto and his friends began to advocate planning for the construction of designated skate parks.
“We would have meetings with City officials where my friends and I would explain exactly what a skate park is,” Hiyakumoto says. “They weren’t sure what it was or how it worked.” The City’s main concern was that “people were going to die,” so Hiyakumoto would spend a lot of time diffusing their anxieties and imaginations. “It was a lot of explaining, and maybe some sugarcoating,” he admits.
The City had allotted the area under the overpass for a skatepark, but there was a major issue: the architects hired to design the park didn’t skate. It isn’t enough to simply have a park, it must also be good. “A good skatepark to me is simple obstacles, good flow, and a place to skate flat and hang,” says Jordan Cheng, a Makiki Skate Park staple. “Make sure that the flow is good, and that you don’t have one pathway crossing another,” adds Hiyakumoto, specifying that obstacles must be at specific heights, angles, made of specific materials, and placed in such a way that promotes flow.
Flow, though, is hard to explain. Essentially, flow is the skateboarding synthesis of momentum, time, and space. When a skater evaluates the architecture of a building, for instance, they see how items can be combined in a sequence most naturally. An anticipated chain reaction formulates in their minds: How can they get the speed necessary to grind this box, and if they grind this box, will they have enough speed to slide on the next? And after they do, which obstacle will that momentum take them toward, and how much space and time do they have to prepare for it? A good skate park legitimizes this logic. The layout will consider direction, speed, momentum, and empty space as carefully as occupied space in order to create paths of flow, where a skater will be able to be hit obstacle after obstacle without ever being brought to a stop.
Upon viewing the plans for Makiki, it was frighteningly clear that the architects did not understand these principles. ‘‘I saw what they were building and was like,
‘Wait, what is this? Why are you doing this?’” Hiyakumoto recalls. In addition to being bad for skaters, the plans were also wasteful for the city. For example, the original plans had every edge of the pyramid lined with angle iron which does nothing to make the obstacle safer, more structurally sound, or plain fun for the skater. In fact, if anything, that additional metal might get in a skater’s way. “I pointed out all the things they didn’t need, so they let me do anything to the plan that was a no-cost change,” Hiyakumoto says. “With that money saved, I asked to throw a rail in. That was my foot in the door with the City.”
With the renovation of ʻAʻala in 2002, Hiyakumoto took on a similar consulting role, having spent countless hours skating the park in its then state. He advised architects on the heights, placement, and angles of various elements. “I imagined what obstacles would be fun, walk over to where I thought it should go in the park, and prop a piece of wood up to try and figure out the angles.”
A good skate park is not only a place where skateboarding happens, but also where it lives, shelters, and fosters a community. “A park can have deeper value as a hub for community,” says Travis Hancock, a skateboarder and founder of HI Sk8 Films Festival. “Ideally somewhere close to a lot of real-world skate spots but also a bit removed from state and corporate surveillance.”
Makiki Skate Park’s parking lot is as important, if not more so than the park’s obstacles. Just outside the park’s entrance, on any given afternoon, you will see up to 50 community members of varying demographics, skating, speaking, encouraging, laughing, and bonding together. Particularly for at-risk youth, finding community through skateboarding and a proper skate park can be life saving. “This is a place, the only place I can find, for me and people like me, where I feel accepted and understood,” one teenage Makiki regular testifies. “I get to have fun, laugh, move, make friends. It’s a rat cage under a bridge, but it’s mine. Where else would I go?”
Chad Hiyakumoto and friends began to advocate planning for the construction of designated skate parks in the late-’90s.
Info about O‘ahu’s skate parks can be found at honolulu.gov/parks.
Voyager 47 Club Lounge at Outrigger Reef Waikiki Beach Resort
Honua Kai Resort & Spa, Ka‘anapali Beach in Maui
Outrigger Waikiki Beachcomber Hotel
Outrigger Waikiki Beach Resort
Outrigger Kona Resort & Spa
Milled-to-order sushi rice, handmade mochi, and Hawai‘i’s only shochu brewery exemplify the Japanese ethic and craftsmanship around perennial staples.
TEXT BY SARAH BURCHARDJapanese artisans have crafted their foods in Hawaiʻi for over a hundred years. After arriving in 1885 to work on sugarcane and pineapple plantations their population quickly grew, many eventually opened businesses sharing the traditions, aesthetics, and expertise of their homeland.
High-quality is synonymous with Japan, but like anywhere else, advances in technology can sometimes reduce quality. Foods that are artisan made, generally meaning are handmade by the makers and purchased directly from them, may increase costs or be more challenging to source, but they are worth it. Here are three Japanese businesses on Oʻahu that produce small-batch, naturallymade products in the traditional way.
Asataro Hirao arrived to Oʻahu from Hiroshima, Japan in 1919. He and the men he traveled with worked on a sugarcane plantation for two years until Hirao, his mentor Mr. Tanaka, and his friend Mr. Baba left the fields to open Nisshodo Candy Store and make wagashi (Japanese confections). After a couple of years, the partners went their separate ways, but Hirao stayed put, hiring his family to make mochi together, per their Japanese tradition. Over one hundred years later, Hirao’s grandson Mike Hirao runs the show. When Nisshodo first opened in 1921, neri ame, a sticky Japanese candy, was
the most popular item. Today it is mochi and chi chi dango that customers come for. Mike and his crew pump out 1,000 pounds of their top-selling chi chi dango a week. Using mochiko flour from Koda Farms in California, they create pink dango (dumplings) wrapped individually in cushiony, bite-sized pieces.
Nisshodo mochi has the same texture and mild sweetness as chi chi dango, but is flavored and stuffed with a variety of ingredients such as green tea, peanut butter, anko (sweetened azuki beans), liliko‘i and lime.
Mike prefers making mochi with mochiko flour, sugar, and water in a standard mixer — a recipe he says comes out very smooth and silky and has a longer shelf life — to his former method that uses whole rice and a rice pounder, which he describes as more dangerous and labor intensive. When the dough is ready Mike spreads it out to cool slightly, and he and a few of his team members line the perimeter of a large table grabbing golf ball-sized portions of dough to roll and shape into plump, round pillows. Knowing when the mochi is ready to form takes skill. “If it’s too hot,” Mike says, “the outside will sag all over your hand and it will look pretty bad. There is a feel to it.”
Over the years, word has spread about the Hirao’s family recipes. Hirao says that many tourists now line up right alongside regulars at his hidden, industrial shop on Dillingham Boulevard. Since the mochi has no preservatives, he recommends freezing it in a Ziploc bag up to one week, taking it out as needed or keeping it no longer than two or three days, and storing it wrapped at room temperature.
Tomohiro Deguchi, owner of The Rice Factory, has an unwavering passion for tradition and quality. Living in Hong Kong he craved the taste of the rice grown from his upbringing in Japan. As a way to source this rice for himself and others he opened a store called Tawaraya in 2009. The concept proved so successful Deguchi continued opening stores under a new name, The Rice Factory. Throughout the 2010s, his establishments found homes in Singapore, Taiwan, Honolulu, and New York.
There are over 900 varieties of rice in Japan. Deguchi visited farms throughout the country to see their farming practices and source top varieties. As he earned the trust of the farmers, who were not yet set up for export, his line of rice varieties grew. The Kamiakiri variety, which was discovered by a Japanese farmer who found a rogue sprout in his field one day with a rice germ three times the size of the others, particularly intrigued him due to its high
nutritional value and umami flavor. After begging the farmer for seeds Deguchi started his own rice farm in the Nagano Prefecture in 2017. Using natural farming methods sans fertilizers and pesticides he is one of only five farms in Japan to grow this variety, along with three other varieties: Hakucho Mochi, Sasashigure and Shirake Mochi. These are four of the eleven varieties available at Rice Factory Honolulu, all traceable to their source.
Crops are harvested in the fall and arrive fresh to the Kakaʻako store in early winter. Customers have the option of purchasing whole grain (brown) rice or having their rice milled to order at the shop. There are four milling options to choose from: 25, 50, 75 or 100 percent. Each percentage denotes how much of the husk, germ and bran will be removed. If a customer wants white rice, for example, they would specify 100 percent, meaning that only the starchy, white endosperm is left behind. This leaves the rice brimming with aromatic essential oils. It is so fresh it must be refrigerated to prevent
spoilage. It is surprising to taste the real flavor of rice, a stark contrast to the usual filler at the bottom of your bowl. Store manager Shiori Iida also stocks the store with other Japanese staples that Deguchi cherishes. This includes Yamaroku Shoyu aged in 100-year-old wooden barrels, Marukawa Miso that has been aged for 10 months, and rice vinegar made with eight times the amount of rice as commercial brands. Their inventory also includes housemade amazake, puffed rice, and mirin made with The Rice Factory’s Kamiakiri rice. “Japanese products have a lot of additives and it’s really tasty, but at the same time it’s easy to make a product that way,” Iida says. “We want to help protect the traditional way.”
Hawai‘i Shochu Co.
Before moving to Oʻahu in 2013 to open Hawaiʻi Shochu Company, Ken Hirata apprenticed with a master of Imo-jochu
(sweet potato shochu) in Kagoshima, Japan for four years. There, he learned every step of the process including the painstaking task of growing koji onto rice.
Not to be confused with Korean soju, which is more vodka-like, Japanese shochu is a distilled spirit made with koji, a type of Japanese mold, highly revered for its health benefits and used to make miso, shoyu, and sake. In order to use koji, a shochu maker must first grow it onto a starchy medium such as barley or buckwheat. Hirata grows it on an heirloom variety of rice from Koda Farms in California called Kokuho Rose.
Afterward he ferments the koji rice in a 150-year-old clay pot, one of several his master from Japan gifted him. “Unfortunately, not so many people use these anymore,” Hirata says, “because they’ve been impressed by the nice big stainless steel tanks for mass production. But I think they do something magical compared to the other ones.”
Next, he adds local sweet potatoes that he steams in a homemade wooden box and
continues to ferment the mash another week or so until it turns vibrant magenta and bubbles like boiling porridge.
Hirata uses a traditional Japanese wooden pot still for distillation, another piece of equipment no longer as popular in Japan. Every batch is different depending on which varieties of sweet potatoes and koji seeds that Hirata uses. Because sweet potatoes produce a different type of aroma compared to rice or barley, the aroma of Imo-jochu is very distinct. Hirata believes this is what people enjoy about it most.
In early 2023, he will release his twentieth batch of Nami Hana shochu, so exclusive that only a handful of O‘ahu restaurants serve it (customers who want to purchase a bottle can email Hawai‘i Shochu Co. and pick it up at his home).
The thoughtfulness put into the shochu’s making is also reflected in its naming process: Nami Hana is named after the Japanese characters for “wave” and “flower,” which are, Hirata explains, “the two characters of the north shore.”
Shochu is typically distilled from rice, barley, sweet potatoes, or buckwheat. Image by Laura La Monaca.
I follow her aspiration
To waltz to the winds
And laugh at the wiggling butts of bees
She follows my eyes
Eyes so telling
I want to do with her what light does with L ē ‘ahi
So like chamomile in this cold
I hold her close
Or least I try
And we dance
At times with blind passion, mistake, and finesse
All to a band I’ve never heard before
All to a song I’ll never hear again
But perhaps I’ll return
To play the music and wiggle my butt
Just as I hope you are the wind – still here
Taylor Niimoto’s background in design, typography, sculpture, and photography is bound by an acute attention to detail and love for visual storytelling. He lives in Honolulu.
