In 1975, The MacNaughton Group was founded with a vision rooted in a deep appreciation for Hawai‘i—its natural beauty, its people, and its culture. Five decades later, that vision continues to guide us. Now, our family-owned company has expanded into new markets and ventures while remaining steadfast in our values and commitment to Hawai‘i.
In 2020, we embraced a new chapter as simply “MacNaughton,” and in 2025, we are proud to introduce Moment—a biannual publication that celebrates the people, places, and stories that inspire us. We chose the name Moment because it reflects the essence of what we strive to create through our work: opportunities for our guests, partners, and communities to experience and celebrate meaningful moments—big or small. Whether it’s the joy of a first visit, the comfort of a familiar gathering place, or the pride of local achievement, Moment is a tribute to the everyday experiences that connect us.
As we mark our 50th anniversary, we do so with immense gratitude— for our partners, investors, team members, and the communities we serve. Our journey has been guided by core values: innovation, integrity, collaboration, community, and balance. These principles, infused with a love for design and a respect for nature, have shaped every decision we make. We believe that listening first and building relationships leads to meaningful, lasting impact. Whether through environmental stewardship, thoughtful development, community philanthropy, or visionary partnerships, we continually ask ourselves: “How can we best help Hawai‘i?”
Chairman and Principal
Duncan MacNaughton
CEO and Principal
Ian MacNaughton
Our work has always been about more than buildings. From introducing beloved brands, like Starbucks, Jamba Juice, Costco, and Target, to Hawai‘i, to redefining urban living with residences such as Hokua, Capitol Place, ONE Ala Moana, and Park Lane Ala Moana, we have sought to elevate the everyday. We’ve pioneered luxury cinema, introduced lifestyle-enhancing retail, supported resident and visitor wellness through our Waikıkı hotel properties—Lotus Honolulu at Diamond Head, Hotel Renew, and Waikiki Malia—and elevated dining with award-winning concepts like Arden Waikiki.
With this inaugural issue of Moment, we invite you to explore the stories that move us and the people who inspire us. We hope it deepens your connection to this place and to the shared journey we are on.
To our partners, supporters, and extended ‘ohana—thank you. Your belief in our vision has made these 50 years possible. With a dedicated team of kama‘aina, we remain committed to shaping a future that honors the past and embraces the promise of tomorrow.
Here’s to the next 50 years of building, innovating, and celebrating together the moments that matter.
Built on Vision. Driven by Purpose.
For half a century, MacNaughton has helped build communities —thoughtfully, responsibly and with purpose. Congratulations on 50 years of vision and impact.
Emily Porter
Duncan MacNaughton
Ian MacNaughton
Moment is published exclusively for MacNaughton
“And in those fading moments of midnight bliss, I wish there were a few more people to share this moment.”
ceo
partner
editorial director Lauren McNally
vp
Gerard Elmore
client
accounts
operations
Jessica Lunasco on
managing designer Taylor Niimoto
executive editor Matthew Dekneef
managing editor
Eunica Escalante
senior photographer
John Hook
designers Eleazar Herradura
Coby Shimabukuro-Sanchez
Kristine Pontecha
studio
Kaitlyn Ledzian
global
Brigid Pittman
digital
Arriana Veloso
traffic
Sheri Salmon
operations
vp
Joe Bock vp
Claudia Silver
head
Alejandro Moxey
advertising
Simone Perez
account
Rachel Lee
Kylie Wong
Photo by: John Hook
Cliff Kapono, professional surfer
26 During an afternoon of forest bathing, a writer learns to anchor herself in the present moment through mindful engagement of the senses.
38 Meet local fashion designer Matt Bruening, whose bold designs evoke memories of a distinct moment in Hawai‘i’s plantation history.
48 In this snapshot of a moment in time, local photographers document the intimate corners of their daily lives in the islands.
62 The ephemeral ‘ilima flower blooms for a brief moment then fades, yet its beauty leaves a lasting impression.
72 An esteemed hula dancer and her kumu reflect on the victorious journey leading up to her defining moment of being crowned Miss Aloha Hula 2019.
80 In this visual medley of moments captured along Hawai‘i’s most famed coast, Waikīkī’s beachfront splendor is cast in a unique and brilliant light.
90 With more than 200 known terms for the islands’ abundant rainfall, the Hawaiian language honors all the intricacies of the moment when cloud meets land.
104 An elusive cottage in the Wai‘anae Mountains offers rare insight into a pivotal moment in Vladimir Ossipoff’s illustrious career.
118 Generations apart, a composer and sculptor find inspiration in Lāhainā Noon, a storied moment that occurs in the tropics just twice a year.
128 A surfer avoids the crowded lineup by paddling out after the sun goes down, delighting in the thrills of surfing at this unlikely moment of the day.
Wondering how to beat the crowds when surf conditions are perfect? Go at night. On the south shore of O‘ahu, pro surfer Cliff Kapono paddles out by the city lights of Waikī kī and delights in the thrills of having the waves all to himself.
WRITTEN IN STONE
Composer Leilehua Lanzilotti pays tribute to the prolific American sculptor Isamu Noguchi with a musical composition inspired by Sky Gate—his imposing public artwork in downtown Honolulu—and the solar phenomenon known in Hawai‘i as Lāhainā Noon.
NET ZERO
Join the crew of the Papahānaumokuākea Marine Debris Project on their journey to remove marine debris from the remote islets and atolls of the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands. Their focus? “Ghost nets,” or derelict fishing nets that entangle marine life and smother the region’s precious coral reefs.
MAN OF STEEL
Multimedia artist Tom Sewell sees art where others see decay. In one of his most ambitious installations, he repurposed massive metal plates discarded by Maui’s last sugar mill and assembled them into large-scale sculptures that are sprinkled across his 17-acre estate in Ha‘ikū.
IN PROSE AND PALMS
W.S. Merwin’s palm forest is a reflection of his lyrical canon and humanistic worldview. Sonnet Coggins, executive director of The Merwin Conservancy, reflects on the Pulitzer-winning poet’s legacy while taking in the wonders of his Maui home and vast collection of palm trees.
VOYAGE OF GRATITUDE
Join the Polynesian voyaging wa‘a (canoe) Hōkūle‘a as she departs from Juneau, Alaska, on her most ambitious journey yet: Moananuiākea, a four-year circumnavigation of the Pacific Ocean. While in Alaska, the crew meets with old friends and Alaska Native communities to reaffirm cultural connections across the Pacific and carry forward a message of caring for Earth and for one another.
A Meaningful
Over 50 years, MacNaughton has cultivated a legacy of prioritizing people and place over property, ensuring each project is anchored in purpose and designed to stand the test of time.
Today, MacNaughton is one of the most active real estate investors and developers in Hawai‘i, with a prolific portfolio of groundbreaking projects across the residential, retail, mixed-use, hospitality, office, government, and healthcare sectors. The family-run company’s evolution from commercial real estate into a full-spectrum of development, investment, management, and third-party services began with a visionary founder who recognized
Milestone
the power of development to transform local communities.
In 1967, 24-year-old Duncan MacNaughton was hired by Dillingham Corporation, the highprofile developer of Ala Moana Shopping Center. He jumped in on various facets of operation and found his calling in commercial and condominium work, fascinated by the intricate interplay of design, financing, and building. Creating structures for people to use and enjoy provided a sense of purpose and laid the groundwork for his entire career.
During early roles with Dillingham Corporation and McCormack Corporation, Duncan displayed a natural flair for uniting diverse personalities around bold new ventures. In 1975, he partnered with Richard W. Gushman II to form Gushman NacNaughton, a Honolulu real estate development and
investment enterprise that became well known for delivering exceptional value over its decade of successful projects across the Hawaiian Islands.
After restructuring the company into a solo venture, Duncan launched the next chapter of his business, focused on adding value and collaborating with the right partners to bring novel projects to life. He recruited two young leaders to help the company navigate forward: financial advisor Jeff Arce and leasing expert Eric Tema. The trio rebranded as The MacNaughton Group to form a streamlined operation rooted in design excellence, community impact, and environmental stewardship.
evolution by design
With keen insights into the ecosystem that makes Hawai‘i so distinctive, MacNaughton stood out for its extraordinary ability to identify needs in the community and step in with carefully tailored solutions. As Duncan and his team perfected their purposeled, people-oriented approach, each new project presented an opportunity to align positive, meaningful experiences with solid financial performance.
MacNaughton’s growing list of accomplishments reflected the team’s remarkable talent for amplifying value for all parties—from landowners and lenders to local businesses, organizations, and residents. Vertical integration of finance, acquisition, leasing, and property management allowed the firm to build strong brand cohesion, maintain greater quality control, and maximize long-term impact. By engaging experts across banking, real estate, marketing, and other sectors for valuable insights along the way, MacNaughton was able to keep a steady pulse on Hawai‘i’s evolving market and anticipate emerging needs.
reinventing local retail
By leveraging its deep well of local insight and working with collaborators who share a desire to preserve Hawai‘i’s unique sense of place, MacNaughton delivers experience-driven retail solutions that enhance the way residents and visitors shop, dine, and socialize.
In 1988, MacNaughton negotiated the installation of Hawai‘i’s first big-name global retailer, Costco—the 11th Costco worldwide. After purchasing the stalled project, the developer solved critical challenges and built a 120,000-square-foot facility at Salt Lake Shopping Center to house the wholesale giant. After Costco relocated to a bigger site, MacNaughton facilitated the entry of another prominent retailer in 2009: the state’s first Target. Since then, MacNaughton has continued to integrate beloved brands into the local community, from Starbucks, Jamba Juice, and
Whole Foods Market to Blockbuster Video, Borders, and P.F. Chang’s, seamlessly steering them through the complexities of doing business in the islands. When the right opportunities arise, the company greenlights transformative retail hubs that unite commerce, community, and culture. In 2006, MacNaughton completed one of its most ambitious retail projects—Moanalua Shopping Center near Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam in Honolulu—
in partnership with the United States Department of the Navy. As owners and managers, MacNaughton ensures the 110,000-square-foot center remains a convenient source of goods and services and a vital gathering space for military and civilian families. Together with Kapolei Commons, Stadium Marketplace, and Kona Commons on Hawai‘i Island, the firm’s four retail destinations enrich their surrounding neighborhoods by offering diverse and engaging options for shopping and dining.
spotlight on innovation
MacNaughton’s novel approach to Regal Kapolei Commons 12 Theater—the entertainment anchor of the open-air shopping center Kapolei Commons—illustrates how prioritizing progress over convention delivered a win for the community.
Instead of leasing the space out to a mainstream theater chain, the team conceived an elevated concept that would redefine the movie-going experience for island residents. In 2016, Regal Kapolei Commons 12 Theater became the first luxury theater in Hawai‘i, featuring reclining leather seats, a state-of-the-art projection and sound system, local-style concessions, and island-inspired interiors. Since the theater’s opening, MacNaughton has partnered with the University of Hawai‘i at West O‘ahu’s Academy for Creative Media to provide student filmmakers the opportunity to share their work on the big screen and earn scholarships.
partners in prime
Back in the days of working for Dillingham Corporation, Duncan MacNaughton had a vision: Looking out from Ala Moana Center at the scenic coastline, he imagined living in a low-rise residence adjacent to Ala Moana Beach Park, wondering how it might feel to take in that same beautiful view from an expansive terrace.
After securing support for the vision from General Growth Partners, owners of Ala Moana Center at the time, MacNaughton went on to develop Honolulu’s first ultra-luxury residential condominium—the 219-unit Park Lane.
Hospitality was created in 2019 to oversee operations of the company’s growing portfolio of hospitality assets, including
MacNaughton
Lotus Honolulu at Diamond Head and its restaurant, Arden Waikiki.
The project’s eight low-rise buildings combine the privacy of a single-family home with resortlike amenities, integrating lush landscaping, contemporary art by Hawai‘i artists, and seamless indoor-outdoor spaces. The cutting-edge property achieved record-breaking sales and a host of awards, including the 2018 Award of Merit from the American Institute of Architects Honolulu and a beautification award from The Outdoor Circle in 2017 for efforts that included the installation of a 650-tree vertical garden.
the joy of hosting
Recognizing the integral role hospitality plays in driving Hawai‘i’s economic engine, MacNaughton has forged a solid presence in the state’s tourism industry. An unusual move for a developer, the company owns and operates three boutique Waikıkı hotels—Lotus Honolulu at Diamond Head, Hotel Renew, and Waikiki Malia (co-owned with Lucky Holdings). Opened in 2019, 2021, and 2023, respectively, the artful trio of properties blends urban sophistication with the relaxed spirit of island life— each thoughtfully designed to make every guest feel like family. Committed to curating memorable stays defined by authenticity and intention, the company’s dedicated hospitality division—MacNaughton Hospitality—guides its 100-plus staff members to deliver guest experiences rooted in a sense of place. With a highly tailored service style and sanctuary-like feel, the elegant hotels—along
with the award-winning restaurant Arden Waikiki at Lotus Honolulu— have earned a reputation for quiet luxury and a loyal following of repeat guests.
beyond the blueprints
Since day one, MacNaughton has embraced philanthropy as a foundational part of communitybuilding in the islands. The core team continues the firm’s tradition of serving Hawai‘i through multiple avenues— fostering long-term change through corporate sponsorships, an employee donation-matching program, and active board participation in organizations such as The Nature Conservancy of Hawai‘i, the American Red Cross of Hawai‘i, and Child & Family Service.
As MacNaughton expands, the firm deepens its commitment to investing in movements that matter. Following its inaugural landmark gift of $1 million to U.S. VETS Hawai‘i in 2017, the MacNaughton Foundation has allocated significant time, energy, and funding to civicminded programs in education, affordable housing, social services, sustainability, arts and culture, and crisis relief.
the legacy continues
With a half-century of development under its belt, the multigenerational company continues to prioritize purpose and values over profit. As chairman of The MacNaughton Group, Duncan MacNaughton remains dedicated to upholding the group’s
“MacNaughton has
the savvy and finesse of a development company
you
might find anywhere in the world, yet we’re all local people raising our families here in Hawaiʻi. We are both innovative and grounded—a rare combination in this business—and it’s a special thing to say we’ve preserved our founding virtues over five decades.”
Emily Reber Porter, Chief Operating Officer
founding principles of integrity, value, and teamwork.
Helping fulfill their father’s mission of strengthening community ties while operating at a global caliber, Duncan’s three sons have also been highly active in the family business. Todd MacNaughton played an essential role in building out the Starbucks and Jamba Juice locations. Brett MacNaughton led the company’s design and development division for more than a decade, making extraordinary contributions at Park Lane, Regal Kapolei Commons 12 Theater, and King’s Village, before transitioning
into his current role as a design consultant. Ian MacNaughton now steers The MacNaughton Group as CEO, with guidance from his personally appointed board advisors Mark Vorsatz, Ken Rosen, and Peter Fox. Focused on measured growth, Ian is applying his extensive finance and hospitality expertise to further the company’s influence as a trendsetting real estate organization.
By investing exclusively in initiatives that improve quality of life, MacNaughton has become a catalyst for positive social, economic, and environmental impact in the islands, shaping
communities in ways that respect and protect local interests.
Guided by a shrewd cohort of board advisors, MacNaughton’s roadmap for the future entails revitalizing established Hawai‘i businesses, activating innovative expansion in the islands, and carrying its people-first, placebased value system to West Coast and Mountain West U.S. markets.
With enduring passion and a forward-thinking mindset, MacNaughton is charting a course for the next 50 years—continuing its bold legacy of uplifting Hawai‘i’s diverse communities for generations to come.
Ian MacNaughton, left, has served as CEO of MacNaughton since 2006, building on the legacy of his father, founder Duncan MacNaughton.
Narrative Arc
What moment, big or small, has defined this chapter in your life?
The Giving Trees
text by Lauren McNally
images by John Hook
Upon arriving at our meeting place of Lyon Arboretum in Mānoa Valley, forest bathing expert Phyllis Look invites me into her “office”: a tree-shrouded gazebo near the visitors center. She begins by explaining that, despite what the name might suggest, forest bathing has nothing to do with water. The term refers to the therapeutic practice of soaking in the forest atmosphere and allowing it to nourish mind, body, and soul.
Look is a certified forest therapy guide, and she’s not alone in her conviction that nature is a powerful source of healing. The recent retiree started her company, Forest Bathing Hawaii, after training with the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy Guides and Programs, an organization that has certified thousands of forest therapy guides worldwide since its founding in 2012. As we amble across a sunny, sloped lawn dotted with birds dipping their beaks in the grass, Look is careful to specify that she’s a guide, not a therapist or scientist. It isn’t her goal to convince anyone of the benefits of forest bathing, she says, though decades of research into the practice show compelling findings.
Forest bathing has been around since the 1980s, an answer to the culture of toxic productivity that emerged in Japan during the country’s rapid economic growth after World War II. To address the rise in chronic disease and a phenomenon known as karoshi, or death by overwork, the Japanese government launched a public health campaign to promote forest bathing, or shinrin-yoku, a term coined in 1982 by forestry minister Tomohide Akiyama. Rooted in the notion that humans are wired to thrive in natural environments, where we’ve spent the vast majority of evolutionary history, forest bathing and other forms of nature therapy are gaining traction around the world as a means to cope with the stresses and mental fatigue of modern, urban life.
“I think slowness is the key,” Look says, pausing in a quiet, shady area to present the first of several guided exercises in her forest walk. She refers to these exercises as “invitations.” In the one she calls “pleasures of presence,” I’m meant to anchor myself in the present moment through mindful engagement of the senses. “It’s as if you’re a connoisseur of
“You can completely let go, and that’s really restful for the brain.”
Phyllis Look, forest therapy guide
grass,” she says, sipping the air through pursed lips. “Taste the oils in the grass and swirl them around in your mouth. Bring your nose closer to the ground and inhale the secret aroma inside of that dried leaf or those pebbles of dirt. If any of these bring you pleasure, be with that pleasure. Give yourself over to it.”
The pleasure evoked by the smell of cut grass, the breeze on our skin, or the murmur of a distant stream isn’t just in our heads. Researchers have found that people who spend at least two hours per week in nature demonstrate a number of physiological changes, from reduced blood pressure and lower levels of the stress hormone cortisol to improvements in immune function and cognitive performance. In Japan, one of the most densely forested countries in the world, studies have centered on the effects of being around trees—namely, the disease-fighting properties of phytoncides. These airborne compounds, emitted by trees and other plants as defense against harmful microorganisms, are also shown to activate cancer-fighting cells in humans. One study discovered the anticancer benefits of phytoncides last up to 30 days after a three-day immersion in nature.
Given that Japan is also the birthplace of Shinto, an ancient faith that recognizes a spiritual power present in the natural world, it’s no surprise that forest bathing advocates often regard nature as both sentient and sacred, a sentiment also shared by forest therapy guides outside of Japan. “It’s always
the underside of the leaf that has the stories,” Look says, pointing at the veins of a nearby fern. “Imagine that the leaf wants to be seen— that it’s tickled by being observed.”
Wordlessly, we make our way along a gravel path. A bird lands nearby and warbles from its unseen perch in the trees. Look beckons me over to a dense patch of beehive ginger and, in a sudden movement, shakes the base of one of the vibrant red cones, showering my outstretched hand in the fragrant water released from its bracts. I’m struck by the playfulness of it all. “The benefit of a guide is like having a playmate,” Look says, grinning. “Someone who can say, ‘Try this,’ or ‘Let’s do that!’”
You don’t need a guide to go forest bathing, Look says, but there is value in forest bathing with someone dedicated to your rest and relaxation. A guide can watch the clock, for example, so you don’t have to. “Time is very flexible,” my guide muses amid preparations for a tea ceremony, the last portion of our forest bathing session. “You can completely let go, and that’s really restful for the brain.” It’s fitting, she reasons, that the Japanese kanji for “rest” appears to be a combination of two others: the symbol for “person” and the one for “tree.”
“Spontaneity plays a big role in my life and my designs,” says Mākaha fashion designer Matt Bruening. “If you continue your journey without knowing the destination, ironically, it stays fun. It’s boring when you know where you’re going already.”
As a teenager, Bruening always had an eye for clothing, especially those worn by the well-dressed hip-hop moguls he admired. Imagining his own clothing line, he began buying fabrics and teaching himself how to sew. In college, he took fashion design courses to further learn the craft, where he produced his first “true” garment, from sketch to pattern to construction to fit—a sheath dress in yellow poplin. An impromptu invite to exhibit his designs in a fashion show prompted him to create more pieces, and he realized that maybe he was on to something. “If you tell me ‘no,’ I goin’ tell you ‘try watch.’ I’m that kind of person,” Bruening says of the skepticism he encountered early on in his career.
Bruening would go on to found his eponymous label in 2012, adding his own stitch to the fabric of local fashion. Today, his designs offer fresh interpretations of island wear, something Bruening aims to expand beyond the traditional connotation. “I didn’t want to contribute to an already saturated market—there are already several designers who are innovating aloha attire and doing that well,” Bruening says. Leaning away from commoditized clichés of floral prints and tropical motifs, Bruening instead focuses on clean lines, novel shapes, and bold color palettes. His designs are intended to evoke memories of Hawai‘i’s plantation culture and history. “I think about what my parents and grandparents used to wear,” says Bruening, who has Hawaiian, Filipino, Puerto Rican, and German roots. “The palaka prints are reminiscent of my own family’s past.” Hawai‘i’s people—what they are doing and where they are going—serve as Bruening’s inspiration. “I want to dress that person who is on the go, so destination is an important design concept for me, even if the destination is the grocery store,” he says. Although he considers
his brand “resort wear,” Bruening is aware of the connotation the term carries, especially in the context of Hawai‘i’s relationship with the tourism industry, one that often depends on the luxury and privilege of resort culture. “I still don’t know the best term to summarize my clothes,” Bruening admits. Rather, he primarily designs for Hawai‘i’s climate, explaining that “resort wear” is actually a generic term used in the clothing industry for styles that do not fit into the seasonal lines.
All of Bruening’s garment construction is done locally in-house and by hand, a source of pride for the designer. “We had out-ofstate production operations before, but as of right now, we do everything ourselves, from the patterns to the sewing to the final touches,” Bruening says. Keeping production at this grassroots level is one way that Bruening confronts issues of consumerism, environmental justice, and building local capacity. Although weary of the idea of Hawai‘i moving forward as a people disassociated from a global consciousness, Bruening’s focus is decidedly local. “Hawai‘i has its own crises, like
‘Ola i ka Wai, Water is Life,’” he says, referencing the local campaign bringing worldwide attention to the O‘ahu aquifer contaminated by leaking U.S. military fuel tanks at Red Hill. “We have to focus on our local communities, because what affects my community affects me.” For Bruening, if art—including fashion—can reflect the issues of the people and place it represents, it can heighten awareness of those issues.
Bruening has another reason to think local. He traces his inspiration back to the vibe and people of his hometown community of Mākaha, which made him feel comfortable expressing himself. Today, he hopes his clothes give people the same confidence and permission to be themselves. “They can say, ‘I am not dressing for you,’” Bruening says. “‘I am dressing for me.’”
Dressing for oneself is important, the fashion designer explains, and is part of the legacy an individual leaves. Despite not knowing what lies ahead for himself, Bruening is fueled by his calling: to make clothes that empower others to take on whatever comes their way.
Over the span of a single day, local photographers documented the intimate corners of their lives in the islands. In the mundane and majestic, they form a time capsule of everyday life in Hawaiʻi.
ʻIlima flowers are ephemeral. As thin as tissue and slightly tacky to the touch, the golden blossoms open with the arrival of the sun on their delicate skin. As night descends, they close upon themselves. The spent flowers dry on the branch or fall from the calyx, little balls of sunshine that come to rest upon the ground. Depending on who is gathering pua (flowers) for lei, they may be harvested in the evening as buds or in the morning as soon as they unfurl. Once picked, you have a day, two at most, to string and give a lei.
To find the plant in mesic forests or rocky soil along the coast, it is easiest to look for pops of gold and yellow. In the mountains, it appears as wiry bushes with small deep-green leaves and golden-orange blooms; by the sea, it crawls along the ground, silvery green and butter yellow. How it expresses itself varies between elevation and islands. ʻIlima seeds may be little khaki wedges or dark black slivers with tiny points like horns. While the leaves, stems, amount of flowers, and canopy can be quite different, the most consistent trait is the pua. Despite its diversity, scientists at University of Hawaiʻi have confirmed that ʻilima, or Sida fallax, is indeed a single species.
Among the landscape is the wao ʻilima, also known as ʻāpaʻa, which is dry, arid land on the mountainside below wao kanaka, the inland area where humans live and grow food. From a distance, the flowers of invasive lantana, Chinese wedelia, or Golden crownbeard, can have the same golden effect as ʻilima. The native plant has also been outcompeted by invasive grasses. But when the Waikōloa Dry Forest Initiative on Hawaiʻi Island started to remove such grasses, ʻilima seeds began to sprout. Over time, ʻilima filled in the areas between the trees and shrubs the organization planted. Each year it collects millions of ʻilima seeds, which have been used in post-fire restoration efforts.
To this day, ʻilima grows in places like the Waiʻanae Mountains and Waialeʻe on O‘ahu’s North Shore. Just as the plant can be spotted if you look enough, finding an ʻilima lei maker seems to be a matter of knowing whom to ask, hoping for someone to come along, or
After they’re picked, you have a day— two at most—to string ‘ilima flowers and give them as a lei.
Facing Page
A single-string ‘ilima lei typically requires between 500 and nearly 1,000 flowers to create.
摘んだ花は遅くとも2日以内に糸を通し、レ イにして贈る。
典型的な一本どりのイリマのレイは、500 〜1000片の花を使う。
taking up the task yourself. Discussing the mele “Lei ʻIlima” by Charles E. King, musician Manu Boyd and his kumu hula (hula teacher) Robert Cazimero both recall how fortunate they’ve been to be graced by ʻilima lei “thanks to Auntie Honey,” says Boyd, referring to the late generational lei ‘ilima maker Emelia Lam Ho Ka‘īlio, “and before that Auntie Verna,” Cazimero says.
ʻIlima has long graced the Hawaiian Islands, but gone are the days when ʻilima was more prominent than orchid, plumeria, pua kenikeni lei—when it was one of the most abundant lei flowers of all. The flower has been used in lāʻau lapaʻau (traditional Hawaiian medicine) in the third trimester to lubricate the birth canal and for digestion for infants. The branches were used precontact for hale (house) frames, floor coverings, loʻi (irrigated terrace) fencing, hula hālau (hula school) altars, and basket making. It may be the only flower Hawaiians cultivated for lei making pre-contact.
Vicky Holt Takamine, kumu hula of Pua Aliʻi ʻIlima and founder and executive director of PAʻI Foundation, has a large ʻilima bush in her backyard in ʻAiea. One recent morning, her
auntie, who has long made lei ʻilima, collected seeds from it to take home. Takamine’s late mother would string a lei if the flowers were set before her even into her 90s. Not long ago, Takamine moved aside some failed plant starters only to find a keiki ʻilima flourishing on the ground. She confesses she’s not the best ʻilima lei maker, so she’s found her own approach—to twist clusters of ʻilima buds into lei, which then open throughout the day.
Takamine has had a long relationship with ʻilima, at least since her kumu hula Maiki Aiu Lake named her hālau class for ʻilima in 1975. For ʻūniki (graduation), the students were to use ʻilima, which meant they had to figure out how to forage and grow it. Takamine started Pua Aliʻi ʻIlima in 1977, the hālau’s name chosen by Aunty Maiki at Takamine’s request—pua ʻilima for her graduating class, aliʻi (chiefs) for her royal lineage.
In 1997, Takamine also stood in strong opposition to a bill introduced by the Hawai‘i State Legislature to restrict gathering rights on developed and undeveloped lands and requiring native Hawaiians to apply for permits to gather materials. “We have to go where it’s growing and growing profusely to get kinolau to represent,” she says. “Natural resources are vital, and we need access to the beach where [ʻilima] grow, ferns in the mountains, to teach hālau how to do these things,” Takamine says. It is also important, she adds, for anyone in the islands who wants to gather enough flowers to make a lei.
When I asked Takamine what she wishes for ʻilima, she said it is to see it growing freely in abundant bunches rather than just as single bushes in someone’s yard. Following Takamine’s memories, I set out to find ʻilima at Makapuʻu with my 3-year-old. We foundered on the coastal path and tucked back into the car, but then I thought to take a quick swing by Awāwāmalu. On the less-trafficked end of the parking lot, I found a couple ‘ilima flowers greeting the sun between naupaka leaves. Looking further, I saw a few more plants crawling along the sand. I squeezed a few blossoms from their calyxes and handed them to my daughter, who popped them in her mouth and said they tasted like foam. Then we headed back to our potted ‘ilima flowering at home.
As she dances along the shoreline of Diamond Head Beach, her pleated skirt dipping in the water and her hair catching the light like spun gold, hula dancer Taizha Keakealani Hughes-Kaluhiokalani radiates strength and grace. She moves under the watchful eyes of one of her kumu hula (hula teachers), Ke‘ano Ka‘upu, who stands nearby in the strong setting sun. He and his partner, Lono Padilla, lead Hālau Hi‘iakaināmakalehua, the hula troupe Hughes-Kaluhiokalani has been a member of since 2016.
“I’m surprised he’s lasted this long,” Hughes-Kaluhiokalani says about Ka‘upu, giggling conspiratorially. “He hates being in the sun.” It is clear the three have a familial bond, the result of years dancing together and intense hours spent preparing HughesKaluhiokalani for her debut solo act at the 2019 Merrie Monarch Festival, a week-long competition that celebrates Hawaiian art, music, culture, and dance. Held annually in Hilo since 1971, the competition is considered paramount in the hula world. Only the most elite hālau (hula schools) from Hawai‘i and beyond are invited to compete. Each hālau
spends months preparing to perform the requisite kahiko, a solemn, traditional dance performed to a chant and percussive beat, and ‘auana, a charming, modern dance performed to a song accompanied by contemporary instruments like steel guitar and ‘ukulele. It was here, too, that Hughes-Kaluhiokalani was crowned Miss Aloha Hula.
“I like to say that hula is a part of me, because that’s where I found my identity,” says Hughes-Kaluhiokalani, who grew up in Wai‘anae. When Hughes-Kaluhiokalani was three, her mother enrolled her in Tahitian dance lessons as a means to focus the toddler’s energy while she cared for Hughes-Kaluhiokalani’s younger brother, who was born with special needs. By 8 years old, Hughes-Kaluhiokalani had turned her focus to hula.
Although winning the title of Miss Aloha Hula is a great honor, it was never HughesKaluhiokalani’s primary intention. Instead, it was about learning as much as she could from her kumu hula, who both come from strong hula traditions. Ka‘upu danced from a young age on Hawai‘i Island, and Padilla grew up in a family of kumu hula on Maui. In 2008, the pair completed their ‘ūniki (graduation) ceremonies to become kumu hula under Padilla’s mother, Hōkūlani Holt. That same year, the duo started Hālau Hi‘iakaināmakalehua, which means “Hi‘iaka in the eyes of the lehua,” with just four girls. Today, the hālau has around 250 members in Hawai‘i and 125 members in Japan. In readying the hālau for Merrie Monarch, both Ka‘upu and Padilla believe that an alignment of purpose and values is paramount. The kumu hula help the haumana (student) with music, choreography, and costume design. All decisions are made by the kumu, as each dancer “is the vehicle to carry forth the vision of the kumu,” Ka‘upu says. They also aren’t driven by a need to win: “We don’t train for competition, we train to be good hula dancers,” Padilla says. Adds Ka‘upu, “We look at training as 24-7, yearround, from the time you start your hula journey to the time you end.”
Months earlier, while choreographing the dances that would serve as HughesKaluhiokalani’s solo performances, Ka‘upu and Padilla had asked about her native lineage. They were impressed by her family’s ample documentation and the importance of the people mentioned. Though her family knew
about their royal ancestry, they were protective of the information and hadn’t taught HughesKaluhiokalani about it while she was growing up. For Hughes-Kaluhiokalani, the opportunity to learn about her heritage through her kumu was a blessing. “I’ve learned a lot about those people in my documents. They are in my chant, in my mele, and being able to dance about them and present about them on that stage was a magical thing to do,” she says. “For the first time it felt like I know who I am not just as a Hawaiian but as a descendent of them.”
On the night of the soloists’ competition, Hughes-Kaluhiokalani carried the weight of her ancestors’ stories with her. She introduced her kahiko performance with an oli (chant) about the royal lineage of Līloa, an ancestor of hers from Waipi‘o Valley on Hawai‘i Island. Her ‘auana was danced to a mele (song) about the love story between Līloa and ‘Akahikuleana, a woman of a much lower status, and the son, ‘Umialīloa, who was a product of their love. Hughes-Kaluhiokalani’s presence during those performances filled the stage and reached 5,000 people in that stadium—a talent, explains her kumu, that takes “a special kind of dancer.”
To know she had a purpose beyond winning is music to her teachers’ ears, because, as Ka‘upu points out, winning Miss Aloha Hula is a lot about luck, as all contestants at that level are exemplary. But he is quick to define the most noteworthy characteristic of HughesKaluhiokalani’s dancing. “The thing that grabs me is that she’s expressive,” he says. “Hula is nothing if there is no emotion.”
Hughes-Kaluhiokalani listens attentively when her kumu speak. When she speaks, she’s measured and eloquent. Contrary to what her emotional stage presence may imply, in person, she’s a “shy violet,” as her kumu say. As Miss Aloha Hula, she served as an ambassador for Merrie Monarch for the year, a challenge for such a private person. “I realized that everyone was watching and I am constantly under a microscope,” she says. “I hope to inspire not just with my dancing but in life as a person. I think there is so much more to being Miss Aloha Hula than being a dancer. It starts with who you are as a person and what your outlook is on life and what your purpose is.”
Like the countless many who now frequent its sunlit shoreline, Waikīkī was historically a favored retreat for Hawaiian royalty. Queen Lili‘uokalani—a prolific songwriter and Hawai‘i’s last reigning monarch—was among those who kept a residence and sought rest and relaxation there. Casting Waikīkī’s splendor in a unique and brilliant light, this photo essay combines excerpts of Lili‘uokalani’s songs and poems with snapshots of golden hour along Hawai‘i’s most famed coast.
Excerpt from “Puna Paia ‘A‘ala” (Puna’s Sweet Walls)
Composed by Queen Lili‘uokalani in Hawai‘i Island’s Puna district, renowned for its “walls” of fragrant hala trees
‘O ka ‘ike kēia, ‘O wau nō kou hoa like, Pelā iho ho‘i kāua, Ke ano la‘i mai nei ka ‘ōpua.
Now that I know That you and I are alike, Let us wait a while As the cloud bank reposes in serenity.
‘Auhea ‘oe e ka huna kai lā, Lelehune mai i ka ‘ale lā.
‘O ke kō a ke au i luna lā, Kahi a loko i li‘a ai lā.
Where are you, fine sea spray
Wind-blown there on the wave’s crest. The pull of the current of the mind’s thoughts. Is what one’s heart desires so.
Composed by Queen Lili‘uokalani while on a sojourn to London, yearning for home
Excerpt from “Ka Huna Kai” (The Sea Spray)
Excerpt from “Ahe Lau Makani” (There is a Breath)
There is a breath so gently breathing, So soft, so sweet by sighing breezes, That as it touches my whole being, It brings a warmth unto my soul.
Composed by Queen Lili‘uokalani at her Hamohamo estate in Waikī kī
He ‘ala nei e māpu mai nei, Na ka makani lau aheahe I lawe mai a ku‘u nui kino. Ho‘opumehana i ko aloha.
Excerpt from “He Inoa Nō Ka‘iulani” (A Name Song for Ka‘iulani)
Composed by Queen Lili‘uokalani for her niece, Princess Victoria Kawēkiu Lunalilo Kalaninuiahilapalapa Ka‘iulani
Lamalama i luna ka ‘ōnohi la, Kāhiko ua kōkō‘ula la, Ka hō‘ailona kapu o ke kama lā, He ēwe mai nā kūpuna.
Rainbow patch flashing high, Rain adornment on earth-clinging rainbow. Sacred symbol of the child, Lineage from the ancestors.
Hawaii
a i n
text by Matthew Dekneef images by John Hook
In a testament to their deep bond with nature’s various moods, Native Hawaiians capture the transience of island rains through more than 200 words and phrases.
Rain, or “ua” in Hawaiian, is a near-daily occurrence in the islands. For residents, these passing showers are business as usual, if not a welcome respite. For malihini (visitors), an unexpected downpour may be perceived as an unfair occurrence, a damper on one’s pre-planned itinerary. But taking a closer look at how these rains are honored in Hawaiian culture can help those in the islands see the beauty and familial nature of their aqueous arrivals.
Hawaiians value rain, and all its intricacies—the intensity with which it falls, the angles it forms when swooping around a cliff, its many iridescent colors, the places where different types manifest and to which they are linked. This is evident in the Hawaiian language, which has more than 200 known terms for the rains found across the archipelago. This specific extension of the culture’s vocabulary was collected most recently in Hānau Ka Ua: Hawaiian Rain Names, an encyclopedic record of descriptors sourced from mele (songs), oli (chants), mo‘olelo (legends), ‘ōlelo no‘eau (proverbs), and the broader oral tradition. By recognizing them, author Collette Leimomi Akana and her co-researcher, Kiele Gonzalez, affirm the incredibly nuanced kinship the native culture has with this enduring element.
So the next time you’re enjoying the vista from your hotel lānai and notice a cluster of rainclouds looming in a nearby valley, or you’re walking the streets of Waikīkī and find yourself greeted by a gentle drizzle, contemplate the names of the regular Honolulu rains you may encounter in the island’s kona (leeward) district. Because when you know a rain’s name—or how to greet a Hawaiian rain as it greets you—you’re all the more likely to welcome it with open arms.
This rain is often associated with the area of Mānoa, but even if you don’t find yourself there during your stay, keep your ears perked for the term while listening to Hawaiian music—this rain is name-checked in many songs about the region. While the lyrics and melodies may sound beautiful, the ancient legend behind its name is quite sad. Kuahine was a chiefess with a daughter so beautiful she was the source of gossip; men often boasted they had slept with her. When the daughter’s lover heard these rumors, he killed her. Overcome with sorrow, Kuahine transformed into this rain.
Across Hawai‘i, even when the weather appears pristine, a rain can surprisingly manifest. Hawaiians named this type of rain, a sudden shower, “nāulu.” It also shares its name with a wind and storm cloud, which work in concert to produce such rain out of the blue.
Poeticisms aside, Hawaiians did admittedly consider some rains to be nuisances. In this case, the po‘onui is a troublesome or top-heavy rain. Literally meaning “big head,” this generally descriptive term refers to an uncomfortable rain so cold it numbs the head and sends shivers down one’s spine.
When a rain carries with it a rainbow, or is so heavy it turns streams red-brown with muddy runoff, it is referred to as the koko rain. The color red, or ‘ula in Hawaiian, is a culturally powerful hue. When it expresses itself in nature, it is given amplified attention, which is why this rain is also called “kōkō ‘ula” (literally, “network of red color,” as the spreading of a rainbow) or ua koko (a “blood-red rain”). The koko rain is symbolic of royalty or the divine. Priests saw koko rains as omens, and they interpreted their fleeting rainbows in dual fashions, as the foreshadowing of either a chief’s birth or death.
Literally the “lehua blossom chill” or “tiny drops on the lehua blossom,” one usually meets this rain in Pālolo, a quiet community inland of Kaimukī. Līlīlehua, a delicate and chilly sheet of rain that clings to the valley, is described in a song as a “rain that soothes the mind, stirring up feelings in [the] heart.” According to myth, this rain takes its name from a beautiful woman who lived in Pālolo. A mo‘o, or legendary lizard, loved Līlīlehua, but she had fallen in love with another man. Jealous, the mo‘o turned her into this rain that never ventures past Wai‘alae Avenue.
True to its name, this rain is found at Wa‘ahila, a ridge between Mānoa and Pālolo valleys. However, it can extend into nearby districts, reaching as far as Judd and Wyllie Streets in Honolulu. The character of this rain is soft and sweeping. Fittingly, there’s a song set in Waikīkī to ruminate on the next time such a lovely rain falls nearby. In a Hawaiian epic told by Ho‘oulumāhiehie, Wa‘ahila is referred to as a “blanketing fall,” and an “outpouring of love, rising to brightness.”
Found in the ahupua‘a, or land division, of Nu‘uanu, this rain falls in successive showers. Its description was taken from the word “hā‘ao” itself, which refers to the courtly entourage that proceeds after a chief—the showers of this rain follow one another in a noticeable pattern of heavy and light precipitation. Its repetitive pattern, called the uahā‘ao or naouahā‘ao, has also been interpreted as a design for kapa, a barkcloth fabric.
Reflect on a moment in which you celebrated the mundane, like the soft drumming of rain on your rooftop.
Romantic Minutiae
text by Timothy A. Schuler
文 ティモシー·A·シューラー 写真 ジョン·フック
A Mountain
山あいの秘宝
For a decade, local architect Graham Hart has been captivated by Pālehua, the little-known personal retreat of Hawaiian Modernism master Vladimir Ossipoff. Today, it is a serene place for visitors to pause and be fully present.
t first, the mystery home had no name— only a brief cameo in a few seconds of the documentary film True to Form about the Hawai‘i architect Vladimir Ossipoff. The man is undeniably Hawai‘i’s most celebrated architect, the north star of Hawaiian Modernism. True to Form chronicles his journey from Vladivostok, Russia, to Tokyo to Hawai‘i, where he became known for designing buildings that were attuned to their environments. In the film, a snippet of grainy footage shows Ossipoff—tall, sturdily built, mustache on an angular face— standing on a simple lanai amid towering pines, gazing at the horizon. True to Form was released in 2007, amid a renewed appreciation for midcentury architecture. Graham Hart saw the film a year or two later while an architecture student at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. As someone enchanted with midcentury modernism, and with Ossipoff in particular, the mystery home stood out. And yet the film made no mention of the project’s location. So, Hart began to dig. In the book Hawaiian Modern: The Architecture of Vladimir Ossipoff,
Pālehua was Vladimir Ossipoff’s littleknown personal retreat.
The Ossipoff cabins sit close to 2,500 feet above sea level.
When we finally reached Ossipoff’s former retreat, heavy clouds had enveloped the ridge, giving everything the feeling of a dream.
he found a reference to a cottage designed as a personal retreat in the Wai‘anae Mountains. In conversations with Ossipoff’s former friends and colleagues, he heard mention of a place called Pālehua and a simple, Japanesestyle cabin there. In 2018, New York-based photographer Chris Mottalini posted on Instagram a present-day photo of a roughhewn lānai jutting into space, O‘ahu’s green mountains far in the background, and tagged it with the names Ossipoff and Pālehua.
“Here was a photo that I’d never seen, of a project I’d never seen in person, from a photographer I had never heard of,” Hart later recalled. The lānai wasn’t exactly the same as the one he had seen in the film, but the setting looked right. Pālehua refers to a remote part of O‘ahu near the Nānākuli Forest Preserve, north of Makakilo. Hart used Google Earth to scour the area for clues. Much of it is ranch land. Hart zoomed in on every structure visible in the satellite imagery but couldn’t discern whether any of them was the mystery house. At night, the cabin appeared in Hart’s dreams.
By 2019, Hart was a lecturer at the UH School of Architecture and preparing, with Brandon Large, to open his own architectural firm, Kokomo Studio. One day, he screened True to Form for an undergraduate design class. Afterward, he shared about the mysterious cabin, which further research had revealed was actually two cabins—a main cabin built in the 1950s as a personal retreat and a one-room guest house added several years later—and showed the students where he suspected it was. A student enrolled through the university’s kupuna (elder) program approached him after class. She said she knew who owned the Pālehua property: a family by the name of Gill.
A few months later, after a series of email exchanges with a man named Gary Gill, Hart found himself heading west on H-1, Honolulu dissolving into suburban housing tracts and
industrial parks. With him were myself; my wife, Allison; and Hart’s partner, Danalli, who, unbeknownst to her, had grown up not too far from Ossipoff’s cabins in Makakilo. We had been invited to Pālehua for a community workday organized by Liza and Tommy Gill, Gary’s niece and nephew, who live on the mountain. In addition to an afternoon of trail-building and brush-clearing, we had been assured that we would be able to see the cabins. As we climbed, we left behind rows of bland, Mediterraneanstyle houses and entered a rugged landscape cratered by a hundred years of cattle grazing. We met Liza and a few others at a lodge owned by Camp Pālehua, an overnight camp where groups learn about Hawaiian culture and land conservation. From there, it was another 30 minutes of steep driving to the Ossipoff property, which sits close to 2,500 feet above sea level.
Liza explained that the Gill family had acquired the Ossipoff cabins as part of a much larger land purchase. In 2009, in a joint venture with the Trust for Public Land and the Edmund C. Olson Trust, the family helped purchase 7,000 acres of the former Campbell Estate as part of a large-scale forest restoration effort. Four thousand acres, previously owned by The Nature Conservancy, were returned to the public, while the remaining acreage was split between the two private entities. The 1,600-acre parcel owned by the Gills stretches from the shoreline to the
top of the Wai‘anae ridge and includes Camp Pālehua, which the family now runs as part of a broader mission to restore the area to native forest. Aware of their architectural significance, the Gills plan to preserve the cabins and make them available to rent through the camp, with all money raised going back into the camp and its mission.
When we finally reached Ossipoff’s former retreat, heavy clouds had enveloped the ridge, giving everything the feeling of a dream. The cabins were the color of the mountain. Their redwood siding grayed by the sun and colonized by the same lichens and wisps of epiphytic moss that clung to the nearby trees, as if being erased from the landscape, or rather disaggregated, returned to nature. The protruding lanai, which had been added after Ossipoff’s time, had been demolished, but the cabins were relatively intact. A gnarled ‘ōhi‘a post supported the center of the main cabin’s low-pitched roof, and the simple yet elegant interior—built-in wood furniture, a brick fireplace—opened out onto a traditional Japanese engawa via sliding shoji doors. Beyond that was nothing but a narrow stone path and thin air. The second cabin, the oneroom guest house, stood nearby, nestled into the mountainside.
Both structures seemed to emphasize their surroundings, their posture one of humility, subservience, pragmatism. Ossipoff was legendary for his camping trips. It was said that he would go up into the mountains with little more than a bucket of nails and fashion everything he needed—a shelter, a makeshift kitchen—from whatever materials he could scavenge. His cabins at Pālehua are only slightly more engineered. The rough timber posts that support the roofs were felled within feet of where they now stood; the same is true for the boulders that support the foundation’s piers.
As we explored the cabins, I could see Hart absorbing the architecture, placing himself where Ossipoff had stood, reading the space like an archival document. The experience, he said, felt similar to flipping through an artist’s sketchbook. Ossipoff’s
Ossipoff published very little in his lifetime. There are few instances of his design philosophy put into words.
better-known works, such as the Liljestrand House, built several years after the cabins, are like “perfected oil paintings,” Hart said. Pālehua is “his thought process.” One recognizes in the cabins the elements Ossipoff returned to repeatedly: Japanese details, handcrafted furniture, an appreciation for warm, natural materials. Ossipoff once said that Japanese architecture makes more sense in Hawai‘i than it does in Japan. There may not be a clearer expression of this sentiment than the cabins at Pālehua.
Ossipoff published very little in his lifetime. There are few instances of his design philosophy put into words. In some ways, Pālehua—minimalist, Japanese inflected, built from what could be gathered on site—is as close to a manifesto as exists. It is Vladimir Ossipoff, in his own words.
Today, the cabins have been carefully rehabilitated. Not everything could be reproduced; the kinds of materials and craftsmanship once common in the ’50s are increasingly hard to find. But the spirit of the place is being retained, thanks in part to recollections shared with the Gills by Ossipoff’s daughters. Pālehua is no longer the mystery it once was for Hart. Ultimately, however, it is fitting that this once-obscure and hard-to-reach entry in Ossipoff’s oeuvre is being revived and made more accessible. For the architect, Pālehua was an escape, a place to leave behind the hubbub of Honolulu and spend time in nature with family and friends. Now, that pleasure is being shared once again.
In the cabins, there are design elements Ossipoff would return to throughout his career: Japanese details, handcrafted furniture, and appreciation for natural materials.
Rebecca Solnit wrote, “Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark.” Name a moment when you ran toward, not away from, the unfamiliar.
text by Eric Stinton images by Nancy Crampton, Chris Rohrer, Don Stahl, and courtesy of The Noguchi Museum Archives
刻まれた思い
Written in Stone
In a collaboration that transcends time and space, composer Leilehua Lanzilotti creates enigmatic works in conversation with the late artist Isamu Noguchi.
“We all look to the past and to the future to find ourselves,” wrote the late artist Isamu Noguchi. “Here, we find a hint that awakens us; there, a path that someone like us once walked.” It’s a quote returned to often by musician and composer Leilehua Lanzilotti, who grew up frequenting the same path Noguchi tread to construct his sculpture Sky Gate near Honolulu Hale, where Lanzilotti’s father worked for then-Honolulu Mayor Frank Fasi.
This was long before she was formally introduced to the work of the prolific American sculptor, and just one of her formative experiences encountering art in outdoor spaces. Lanzilotti’s mother, who worked at the former Contemporary Museum of Honolulu, encouraged her to explore the museum’s fields and gardens, which were adorned with kinetic sculptures. “I loved being outdoors in the middle of all that art,” she recalls. “It was really influential to my way of thinking about art and music-making in a playful way.”
But the kind of mastery that Lanzilotti is known for also required structure. As a child she began studying under Hiroko Primrose, a “strict, old-school, and incredible” violin teacher, while also dancing in Hālau Hula O Maʻiki, an experience that provided her with an in-depth cultural education in Hawaiian language and music.
After graduating from Punahou School in 2002, she spent the next 19 years learning, playing, and teaching music across the United States and Europe. While living in New York, she began collaborating with The Noguchi Museum in Long Island, an institution dedicated to the work of Isamu Noguchi. Inspired by the museum’s collection, she proposed putting on a performance in the space.
Right Leilehua Lanzilotti, Ashley Jackson, and Alice Teyssier perform an ode to Noguchi’s famed light sculptures at The Noguchi Museum in 2018. Image: Don Stahl.
Previous Spread, Right Leilehua Lanzilotti debuts a composition inspired by Noguchi’s unrealized Bell Tower for Hiroshima at The Noguchi Museum in 2019. Image: Don Stahl.
“It’s like Noguchi was making this sculpture for now, almost 50 years later, for a version of the park he’d never see.”
Leilehua Lanzilotti, composer
The museum liked the idea and invited her to play something for an upcoming exhibit featuring two Noguchi sculptures that had never been displayed together before: Birth, a travertine figure of a woman with her head thrown back, and Death, a metal figure being lynched. The museum offered her two obsidian sound sculptures that Noguchi made to be played as instruments, suggesting that she ring them at the start of her string and vocal performance. Instead, Lanzilotti created an entirely new work that incorporated the sound sculptures throughout the composition. The project kicked off an ongoing collaboration that continued even after Lanzilotti moved back to Hawai‘i in 2021. Her composition for Sky Gate , co-commissioned by the Mayor’s Office of Culture and the Arts and Chamber Music Hawai‘i, was a fitting project for her return home. When she was at The Noguchi Museum, she saw a miniature model of Sky Gate , and while it looked familiar, it wasn’t until later that she recognized it as the same sculpture she and her father would eat lunch under when she was younger. Mysterious and imposing, the sculpture’s painted steel frame holds an undulating ring 24 feet in the air above a circular concrete platform. The public artwork was part of Fasi’s efforts to beautify the Capitol District, though it wasn’t well received at first. “There are a lot of funny articles from the time that are like, ‘What is this thing?’ Lots of people hated it,” Lanzilotti explains, adding that perceptions have
changed given how the sculpture interacts with the park today. “The way the trees have grown in, the way the branches reach out and mirror the tetrahedron shape. It’s like Noguchi was making this sculpture for now, almost 50 years later, for a version of the park he’d never see.”
Lanzilotti’s composition, written for 10 musicians, was a fulfillment of Noguchi’s original vision to activate the park as a community space. “He wanted concerts here,” Lanzilotti stated prior to the composition’s public premiere on the grounds of the
Frank F. Fasi Civic Center in May 2022. “Depending on which musician you’re close to, you’ll hear different things. That’s different from being in a concert hall, where you don’t move. This project is about the relationship between people and art and parks. It’s about being in the world.”
In many ways, Lanzilotti was collaborating with Noguchi himself, even though he worked in a completely different artistic medium and died in 1988, when Lanzilotti was five years old. But the art he left behind has resonated with her, specifically Noguchi’s approach to his creative practice.
A lot of contemporary art is about practicing “perspective-taking,” or the act of perceiving a situation from alternative points of view, Lanzilotti says. “It’s interesting to see how Noguchi approached the parameters of a park or a material, engaging with his work and walking around it, looking at it from different perspectives, and trying to understand why he would do that, or what his approach was,” she adds. “Creativity is problem solving.”
Explained further, perspective-taking is an act of empathy, one of the most potent problem-solving tools we have. “It’s hard for people to hear each other and see each other’s perspectives,” Lanzilotti says. “But contemporary art can help bring communities together. It can be a way to understand each other.”
I’ve been waiting for these conditions for quite some time. A perfect tide, just the right swell direction, and offshore winds that will light up the coast with long-overdue surf. Sitting in front of my computer screen, my excitement slowly fades as I realize that I am not the only one who has been clued in to such a favorable event. Hundreds, if not thousands, of like-minded surfers have also been digitally notified of the rapidly approaching swell through surf-report subscriptions, mobile devices, and push alerts.
I take a moment to digest the reality of the entire island finding out that the swell of the season will be arriving early Friday morning and will last through the weekend. I frantically look at my calendar. Just as I feared, Friday is a holiday. Sinking into my chair, my excitement completely faded, I accept one of the most difficult realities of surfing on O‘ahu’s south shore: the crowds.
Putting my hands behind my head, I lean back in my chair. I begin strategizing how I might find a wave to myself. Maybe I’ll go at first light, I think. Perhaps lunchtime will be my window. If I wait for the end of the day, maybe everyone else will be too tired to paddle out. Multiple scenarios play out in my head, but each inevitably reveals that it will be packed all day.
I call a close friend to seek counsel only to have my fears confirmed with doomsday advice. “From sunup to sundown, you ain’t gonna find an empty zone this swell,” he replies.
Suddenly, it dawns on me. It is going to be packed from sunup to sundown, but what about sundown to sunup? I know what I have to do. I need to begin my session at dusk.
I open my internet browser to search the moon phase. It’s a full moon tonight. I check the tides. Perfect. I calculate the precise time necessary to enjoy the conditions. I set my alarm for 2 a.m. and try my best to get a few hours of sleep, but my excitement keeps me awake. Opting out of a quick nap, I begin packing my truck.
Driving to the beach, I watch the moon rise over Wa‘ahila Ridge. I’m curious as to just how much will be visible out in the lineup. I contemplate taking my headlamp with me. After a few seconds, I laugh at such a stupid idea. At the parking lot, I am welcomed by a plethora of open stalls. I waste no time in taking the one closest to the shower. Giggling with excitement, I pull out my board and run across the empty lot.
I am alone, just as I had hoped.
Without waxing my board, I run to the water’s edge. I can faintly see white water on the horizon. The swell must have come early, I think. Within seconds, I dive into the darkness. It is surprisingly warm, much warmer than I expected. As I paddle out to the breakers, the current pulls me to the lineup. With each stroke, I watch as tiny fluorescent creatures get sucked into whirlpools left in my wake. The moon is now directly overhead, and there is not a cloud in sight.
It isn’t long before I reach the lineup and see a set approaching. Instinctually, I look around to see who may want the wave. There isn’t a soul in sight, but it doesn’t stop me from shouting with laughter, “I got it!” I push off the rails of my board, stand up, and begin a ride directed more by feeling than by sight. Unlike surfing during the day, when I’m typically focused only on the wave, I become hyper-fixated on everything around me. I see myself sliding across reflections of the city. I feel the gentle sting of the cool wind on my face. I take notice of the sound of the tumbling whitewater. It is as if my senses have been amplified by the night.
I make my way back to the lineup and take a moment between sets to think about all the people who would appreciate this experience as much as me. Strangely, I begin to feel alone. And in those fading moments of midnight bliss, I wish there were a few more people to share this moment.
I catch my last wave all the way to shore and slowly walk up the sand. Startled, a young couple asks if I was out in the sea. I pause a moment to think and then respond. “Night surfing is pretty amazing,” I tell them. “If you go, make sure to take a friend.”
