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“What about the dyes?” I ask. “What do you use?”
“There is a demand for modern dyes from some customers, and we occasionally oblige. But to be one hundred percent authentic, we prefer the traditional. And for those, the final process involves implanting the fragrance into the fabric. Woods chips or blossoms.”
“We would only be interested in those pieces.”
“And I would only be interested in selling those to you. They will come documented with a seven page report and photographs.”
“Great. That can be displayed as well.”
“Come with me inside our museum. I’ll show you the tools.”
Following him off the field, Alek takes my hand. We share a look of being in a kind of holy place. That’s how it feels to me. Hawaiians trying to hold on to what makes us special, unique.
“I’m happy we came here,” he says softly.
The “museum” is pretty timeworn looking. One window covered with shutters, a narrow door, a roof that needs to be replaced. But when we walk inside, it is another scene entirely. There has been care taken with how things are displayed and laid out.
Gorgeous fabric hangs on the walls, and I try to pick my favorite.
“First I want to show you the tools. None of these anvils are commercially made. We use stone, or wooden ones. And they must be fashioned by hand to beat the fabric. It gives it the distinctive watermark design on the surface of the cloth. Designs are carved into the mallets.
“This is extraordinary. And the pieces on the wall. Every one of them is a work of art.”
“We display them here, as you must to preserve the integrity of the piece.”
“In shadow boxes?”
“That is the start. They must be hung vertically, in a shadow box frame with a UV absorbing front. It will protect the piece from dust, insects, and light. They must be hung away from direct light altogether. Sun, harsh spotlights. And bumpers must be used in the back to keep it away from the wall, so air circulates.”
“We can do all that. And we will.”
“Well, if that didn’t kill your interest, nothing will. Accept maybe the cost. You haven’t asked me about that at all.”
“Lani gave us a ballpark figure, which is acceptable for what we are getting.”
The first smile I have seen on Pono’s face appears.
“Good. We have a deal.”
With a deposit paid for three pieces, we drive away from the museum. When I turn back, Pono is waving.
“That was one of the most interesting, I don’t know, lessons in devotion, I’ve ever had,” Alek says.
“Wasn’t it spiritual? Did you feel that too?”
“Yeah. For sure. They should give tours to school children. Let them see how hard their ancestors worked to create beautiful things.”
“What’s next?”
“The muralist. We passed the sign coming in. Oscar is supposed to meet us there. It’s his cousin. I’m hoping we can get a discount of some kind.”
“Good luck with that. Have you ever known a Hawaiian to give a discount? Especially an artist. Most are living on the edge.”
“I have a few projects in mind though. Maybe he’ll give up ten percent or so because I’m buying in bulk.”
We retrace our ride in, but turn at the double sign reading Ka’ Uhi Tattoo, and Black Cat Murals.
“That’s the traditional tattoo method. Handmade tools, and ink. I’d like to see that,” I say.
