If you happen to encounter a piece of kapa (barkcloth), and you are wondering if it’s authentically Hawaiian, hold it up to the light. Examine it closely, at a slight angle, and behind its kaleidoscopic patterns and earthen colors a hidden texture should appear. This impression undulating across the fabric is a detailed watermark, and it is distinctive to Hawai‘i’s kapa tradition.
Iterations of kapa, also known as tapa elsewhere, can be found throughout the Pacific’s island societies. In Hawai‘i, this paper-thin textile, made by hand-pounding the inner bark of the mulberry tree, dressed chiefs and commoners for centuries. Around the oceanic region, kapa was donned for all sorts of occasions, utilized in ritual ceremonies, and provided comfort as pillows, blankets, and bedspreads. From checkerboard to zig-zags, the designs on kapa come in a dizzying range, drawing on motifs found in nature or possessing sacred meanings known only by the kapa-master who fashioned them.
Dalani Tanahy is one of these modern-day masters. There are a handful of kapamakers scattered across the islands, and of them, she’s the only one who produces kapa full-time as a business enterprise. In 2007, when she started Kapa Hawaii, a self-run, one-woman atelier based on a dusty plot of land fronting her Mākaha home, she had already spent more than 25 years studying and experimenting with the material. Before kapa practices were revitalized in the 1970s during the Hawaiian Renaissance, most notedly by late practitioner and kahuna Puanani Van Dorpe, kapa was considered a lost art. There were no direct lineal descendants of kapamakers left in Hawai‘i to draw on for direct knowledge, unlike those who maintained tapa legacies in Samoa, Tonga, and Fiji. But through recorded oral histories, archived materials, Bishop Museum collections, and trial and error, practitioners have revived the artform. Tanahy is a product of that renaissance. Today, kapa-makers continue to pass down, untangle, demystify, and reclaim this nearly forgotten practice.
“Kapamaking is so much more than people realize,” Tanahy says. “You have to be a botanist, a carver, a graphic designer.” The fabric begins as a tall, spindly tree with scruffy leaves larger than the palm of someone’s hand. The trunk is so thin, it’s incredible to think it could yield enough yards of fabric to eventually drape across a person’s body. But, that’s where the physical labor comes in, of a seated kapa practitioner hunched over a cut tree that’s steadied on a flat stone and hand-pounded for hours upon hours.
On her Mākaha acreage, Tanahy tends to a dense and towering grove of wauke she planted nearly a decade ago. Wauke, or the paper mulberry tree, was clearly treasured by the first waves of Hawai‘i’s settlers, who brought the plant with them in the hulls of their canoes. “To understand kapa, you have to understand wood,” Tanahy says.
The ways of wood must also be considered for kapa’s central implement, the i‘e kuku, which is a four-sided anvil carved of native wood that is robust enough to physically beat the bark into shape. Tanahy makes every i‘e kuku herself, shaping them and then etching each side of the beater with grooved patterns that will ultimately become the watermark of her kapa works.
Appreciating a finished piece can be a cerebral affair. The various patterns, which she often makes with ‘ohe kapala (bamboo stamps) and plant dyes, inspire questions about the significance and application of geometry and colors. Tanahy’s works have an unmatched vibrancy and range: On one end of her kapa portfolio are understated and elegant all-white cloth pieces, while on the other are energetic kapa canvases with twisting patterns that resemble rollercoaster tracks. Her kapa are on display in diverse contemporary spaces, from hotels throughout Hawai‘i to art galleries to private collections abroad. She also perpetuates the art, consulting for hula hālau who want to dance in kapa during the Merrie Monarch Festival and occasionally holding educational workshops at the Honolulu Musuem of Art School.
Recently, Tanahy finished two kapa pieces for display at the bases of kahili markers flanked over Queen Kapi‘olani’s bedframe. She has also made kapa for funereal rites (Native Hawaiians would customarily wrap their loved ones’ bones in the barkcloth), which she considers a priceless honor. At work in the shade of her wauke trees, Tanahy uses techniques rooted in the same disciplined and repetitive motions women have been fine-tuning since they first set foot in the islands. She uses an ‘opihi shell to strip the bark. She colors a bamboo stamp with inks. She presses it with purpose against the weathered cloth. She leaves her mark.
Kapa, known as tapa elsewhere in Polynesia, are hand-printed with designs and techniques unique to its island cultures.
From checkerboard to zig-zags, their amazing range of designs draw on motifs found in nature, while others possess unknown sacred meanings except to the kapa-master who fashioned them.
Dalani Tanahy is one of only a handful of kapamakers in Hawai‘i.
At the Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum, its ethnology collection preserves ancient kapa piece.
The i‘e kuku is a four-sided anvil traditionally carved of native woods.
If you happen to encounter a piece of kapa (barkcloth), and you are wondering if it’s authentically Hawaiian, hold it up to the light. Examine it closely, at a slight angle, and behind its kaleidoscopic patterns and earthen colors a hidden texture should appear. This impression undulating across the fabric is a detailed watermark, and it is distinctive to Hawai‘i’s kapa tradition.
Iterations of kapa, also known as tapa elsewhere, can be found throughout the Pacific’s island societies. In Hawai‘i, this paper-thin textile, made by hand-pounding the inner bark of the mulberry tree, dressed chiefs and commoners for centuries. Around the oceanic region, kapa was donned for all sorts of occasions, utilized in ritual ceremonies, and provided comfort as pillows, blankets, and bedspreads. From checkerboard to zig-zags, the designs on kapa come in a dizzying range, drawing on motifs found in nature or possessing sacred meanings known only by the kapa-master who fashioned them.
Dalani Tanahy is one of these modern-day masters. There are a handful of kapamakers scattered across the islands, and of them, she’s the only one who produces kapa full-time as a business enterprise. In 2007, when she started Kapa Hawaii, a self-run, one-woman atelier based on a dusty plot of land fronting her Mākaha home, she had already spent more than 25 years studying and experimenting with the material. Before kapa practices were revitalized in the 1970s during the Hawaiian Renaissance, most notedly by late practitioner and kahuna Puanani Van Dorpe, kapa was considered a lost art. There were no direct lineal descendants of kapamakers left in Hawai‘i to draw on for direct knowledge, unlike those who maintained tapa legacies in Samoa, Tonga, and Fiji. But through recorded oral histories, archived materials, Bishop Museum collections, and trial and error, practitioners have revived the artform. Tanahy is a product of that renaissance. Today, kapa-makers continue to pass down, untangle, demystify, and reclaim this nearly forgotten practice.
“Kapamaking is so much more than people realize,” Tanahy says. “You have to be a botanist, a carver, a graphic designer.” The fabric begins as a tall, spindly tree with scruffy leaves larger than the palm of someone’s hand. The trunk is so thin, it’s incredible to think it could yield enough yards of fabric to eventually drape across a person’s body. But, that’s where the physical labor comes in, of a seated kapa practitioner hunched over a cut tree that’s steadied on a flat stone and hand-pounded for hours upon hours.
On her Mākaha acreage, Tanahy tends to a dense and towering grove of wauke she planted nearly a decade ago. Wauke, or the paper mulberry tree, was clearly treasured by the first waves of Hawai‘i’s settlers, who brought the plant with them in the hulls of their canoes. “To understand kapa, you have to understand wood,” Tanahy says.
The ways of wood must also be considered for kapa’s central implement, the i‘e kuku, which is a four-sided anvil carved of native wood that is robust enough to physically beat the bark into shape. Tanahy makes every i‘e kuku herself, shaping them and then etching each side of the beater with grooved patterns that will ultimately become the watermark of her kapa works.
Appreciating a finished piece can be a cerebral affair. The various patterns, which she often makes with ‘ohe kapala (bamboo stamps) and plant dyes, inspire questions about the significance and application of geometry and colors. Tanahy’s works have an unmatched vibrancy and range: On one end of her kapa portfolio are understated and elegant all-white cloth pieces, while on the other are energetic kapa canvases with twisting patterns that resemble rollercoaster tracks. Her kapa are on display in diverse contemporary spaces, from hotels throughout Hawai‘i to art galleries to private collections abroad. She also perpetuates the art, consulting for hula hālau who want to dance in kapa during the Merrie Monarch Festival and occasionally holding educational workshops at the Honolulu Musuem of Art School.
Recently, Tanahy finished two kapa pieces for display at the bases of kahili markers flanked over Queen Kapi‘olani’s bedframe. She has also made kapa for funereal rites (Native Hawaiians would customarily wrap their loved ones’ bones in the barkcloth), which she considers a priceless honor. At work in the shade of her wauke trees, Tanahy uses techniques rooted in the same disciplined and repetitive motions women have been fine-tuning since they first set foot in the islands. She uses an ‘opihi shell to strip the bark. She colors a bamboo stamp with inks. She presses it with purpose against the weathered cloth. She leaves her mark.
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