Judith Darragh: My Story as told to Elisabeth Easther

Artist Judith Darragh in her Auckland studio. Photo / Brett Phibbs

Judith Darragh is an artist who uses found objects to create sculptural assemblages. She also works in paint and film, with her pieces found in collections all over New Zealand. Darragh enjoyed a colourful career as an art teacher, and today she is a passionate advocate for the arts and a founding member of Arts Makers, an arts advocacy collective.

I’m Ōtautahi born-and-bred, raised in a suburb called Bishopdale, which people used to call Nappy Valley. There was a big orchard out the back of our place, and you could see the Southern Alps from our back window, but it’s all been heavily developed since then.

We were working class. Dad was a freezing worker and mum worked in a lingerie factory, but they were both really creative. Dad was always in the garage making stuff, and mum was always sewing. We rarely bought anything, expect shoes and appliances, which makes me really challenged by how much we waste today.

Mum also made all our clothes, including our underwear, and we ate everything out of our garden. There was a lot of meat, to the point it felt like we had meat three times a day, with Mum sneaking livers, hearts and organs into most meals. She even made jellied tongue. My sister and I both became vegetarians when we left home. We felt we’d had our entire life’s quota of meat by then.

My parents were heavily unionised, which meant we were part of some really interesting conversations around the dinner table about workers’ rights. We didn’t have any artists in the family though, or much sense of art in the home, but with Mum and Dad so into making, I observed that culture of creating and fixing and recycling. Those were the days when you had a bag of rubber bands, and a jar of buttons, because you never ever threw a rubber band or a button away.

I was born in 1957, so I was a teenager in the 1970s, back when most girls did home economics, and went into nursing or typing. In Form Two, I actually won the home ec. prize but, lucky for me, I went to Cottesmore College, a little Sacred Heart school in Burnside. The photographer Rhondda Bosworth taught art there, and that’s where I found my people. Like many artists, we spent all our lunchtimes in the art room where Rhondda was an amazing inspiration, a really quirky dresser, and I wanted to be like her.

Of course, our parents were anxious about their kids being artists. They worried about how we would live. So I appeased them by going to teachers’ college in Auckland, which made my parents happy. Teaching was also really good for my practice because I was always learning. Back then there was that old adage, that those who “can” do, and those who “can’t” teach. I always thought that was a bit harsh, and I much preferred the philosophy that the best teachers and students learn together, alongside each other. I also loved turning kids onto art and seeing their eyes light up.

Teaching meant I didn’t have to rely on selling work to make a living, which gave me more creative freedom, although I did make things that sold at Cook St Market. A guy there had a stall and he took my plastic bowls and trays. But I didn’t see those objects as art per se, so I never called myself an artist. If people asked what I did, I always said art teacher or I’d mumble something about making things. One day a friend suggested I start calling myself an artist and when I started to do that - including writing artist for my occupation on immigration forms - I felt more like an artist.

Judith Darragh is an artist who uses found objects to create sculptural assemblages. Photo / Brett Phibbs

I arrived in Auckland in the 1980s at the end of the punk rock era when it felt like we owned the city. We all lived in warehouses in the middle of town. There was lots of live music, we hung out with the Elam mob, and life was one big gallery opening. Testrip, the independent artist-run space, grew out of that collectivising.

I was 40 when my son Buster was born, and that changed everything. I’d sort of put it off because I was worried how parenthood would impede my work. I’d heard how artists can disappear when they have children. Particularly women. The history of New Zealand art is littered with the disappeared. When I was pregnant I heard a dealer tell someone I’d never make art again, but I took that as a challenge. Being a parent did make me time-poor, but it also made me time-precious and every time I had a spare hour, I’d go to my studio and do some quickfire piece of work. Buster actually enriched my practice, although looking back, I must’ve wasted a lot of time before I had him. What was I doing before then? Just lolling around in my studio?

Trekking in Nepal is highly addictive. It’s existential, like a meditation, to trek for days at high altitude, and every time we go, we get a bit more adventurous. I really wanted to share that world with Buster, so when he turned 15, I took him on this amazingly dreamy trek to the Dolpho region in northwest Nepal. After we’d finished, and we were about to fly out the next day, we were sightseeing down at the river where they burn the bodies. Then this extraordinary thing happened. All the birds lifted up, flying together as one. A split second later, people ran out of the temple. Another split second, and the earth was physically rolling, then hammering like a jackhammer. Rolling and hammering. People were falling over and screaming. It was surreal and shocking and after it was done, there was this extraordinary calm, then chaos.

We were so lucky our hotel was still standing. That night we drank an entire bottle of whiskey but we didn’t get drunk as we were so full of adrenaline. The next morning we ran for our lives to the airport. All the staff had understandably left the city to get to their families in the hills, which meant there was just one guy at the airport door. There were crowds of scared people trying to escape while planes circled to let all the big military aircraft in with their aid supplies. When we finally boarded our plane everyone clapped with relief.

I’ve been to the Oscars three times for Lord of the Rings, once for King Kong and most recently, in March, for Power of the Dog. I go because Grant [Major], my partner is an art director and he has been nominated several times.

The Oscars are a total fantasy world, because film is all about fantasy. They’re also highly managed so you enter this extraordinarily strange world of Hollywood where everything is controlled and constructed. When Slap-Gate happened, when Will Smith slapped Chris Rock, that was the most real part of the evening, because we were all slapped out of this contrived thing and into real-ness.

For my first Oscars, I went all out in this 50s froufrou tulle frock. I looked like the Sugar Plum Fairy. I was so uncomfortable all night while all these really cool women were wearing tuxedos. Each year, I’ve kept toning it down till last time I was just wearing black trousers and a jacket, and I was so comfortable. Some outfits are extraordinary art pieces and the women can barely sit, but it is amazing to see that world, and to hang out with all those stars.

Our local arts community is really feeling the post-pandemic vibes. This is partly because there have been so many funding cuts, because arts are a low-hanging fruit when people want to save a bit of money. But that is false economy, because the arts are vital. When people are out there making stuff, and audiences are engaging with theatre or music or fashion or a piece of design, our lives vibrate with art. We all rely on creative people to make the world more pleasurable.

I’ve been part of numerous conversations across the arts lately, with various creatives including theatre people, visual artists and musicians all collectivising around the idea of what it means to be valued as an artist. We’ve been talking about how the parameters might change so people can survive as artists. There are conversations about basic income, or tax breaks, small gestures that signify the value society places on artists.

We used to have amazing arts coverage in the media. People talked about art more, and now we’re noticing that’s missing and it’s starting to hurt. We have an election coming up, which means it’s time to ask politicians about their arts policies. Some parties might not even have an arts policy, so let’s kick that conversation higher. Inflation is going up, rents are rising, so how do artists even find studio or rehearsal space? But I’m quietly optimistic things will improve because without the arts, there is no joy or rest from the everyday.

www.artsmakersaotearoa.nz