After high school, I worked as a paralegal in 2017 and served as a Koori Family Violence Support Worker from 2019 to 2020, assisting Aboriginal women through the legal system. Witnessing their struggles inspired me to study Law at Deakin University in Melbourne in 2018, but after a year, I realised it wasn’t the right path. Still, my passion for supporting these women never wavered.
From a young age, I had a knack for drawing. Being homeschooled gave me time to explore my interests, and my curiosity led me to documentaries. One day, I watched one on Rembrandt and thought, “Wow, that’s magic. I wonder if I could try that.”
At 17, I sold a few belongings on eBay to buy professional oil paints and taught myself through YouTube tutorials, absorbing every step-by-step technique I could find.
Eventually, I enrolled in a Bachelor of Creative Arts at Deakin University, graduating in 2020. I sought more than technical skills; I wanted to understand the art world, how to market myself, and use my voice through art.
My studies introduced me to powerful contemporary Aboriginal artists like Gordon Bennett and Tony Albert, whose provocative works decolonised Indigenous identity. Their boldness inspired me to do the same, so I began to challenge stereotypes, particularly the notion that Blackfella art must be dot paintings, by painting Indigenous portraits, first of my family members, and I found power in capturing faces that carry stories, strength, and spirit.
Reclaiming Identity
This journey first led me to my father’s story, Peter, Wiradjuri by heritage, who was adopted at a young age and didn’t grow up on Country. That displacement shaped his life and subsequently mine.
I was raised in Victoria, far from our ancestral lands in New South Wales, so, we didn’t grow up with Acknowledgements of Country, or with traditional knowledge passed down from Elders.
Painting and drawing consequently became my way to navigate the loss of my Aboriginal heritage, ask questions, and explore my Aboriginality on my own terms. Without the permission or teachings for traditional work, carving my own path in artistic expression became even more essential.
One of my major works, ‘The Aunty Series’, was born during art school, where we were tasked with copying master techniques. I felt inspired to reinterpret these works through my own lens, placing Aboriginal women at the centre and reimagining iconic figures.
Growing up, I missed out on the large extended family network that many Blackfellas have – no aunties, no cousins – because we moved around a lot. This series further became a way for me to reclaim that loss. Painting Black women then became my way to reclaim what I felt separated from – honouring and reimagining Culture through my own lived experience.
Many of the women I paint are inspired by those I met as a family violence support worker. Their strength, stories, and quiet courage left a lasting impression on me, especially witnessing the trauma and enduring strength of Black women in courtrooms. But my deepest drive comes from my mum, Jeannie, a Tongan single mother who raised eight kids on her own. She taught me resilience, how to create my own opportunities, and to stand against injustice – a spirit that runs through everything I create.
The response to this series has been both interesting and polarising. Reimagining famous artworks with Aboriginal people sparked debate, with some critics viewing it as cultural appropriation. The strongest reactions have been to be changing the skin colour in iconic works like the Mona Lisa, which is viewed as ‘untouchable’. This made me reflect on why people have such strong opinions about altering these images.
I’ve faced a fair bit of trolling as I began to share my work on social media but the Aboriginal community has embraced it.
Art with purpose
One of the most meaningful portraits I’ve painted was of Cassius Turvey, a 15-year-old boy who died in a brutal act of violence. With his family’s permission, I created the painting not to sensationalise, but to honour him and protest what happened, ensuring it didn’t reduce him to a stereotype. I included personal details like his favourite colour (blue) and side business (lawnmowing). His mother told me the painting made her smile, which meant everything to me. It was displayed at rallies and his funeral, gaining media attention. That moment led me to a new path in my art – Blaktivism: painting for justice and remembrance.
Since then, I’ve also painted portraits of Cleveland Dodd, a teenager who died in a detention centre in Western Australia, and former Northern Territory youth detainee Dylan Voller.
Their stories need to be seen, felt, and remembered.
This kind of work, creating visual memorials that speak truth to power, is what I’m most passionate about now. It’s where my art practice continues to grow. The paintings I’ve done have connected me with so much mob.
Whether they’ve seen them online, in an exhibition, or on a T-shirt, it’s been amazing to receive such positive feedback and it’s given me the deep sense of community that I always longed for. I moved to Tasmania (Lutruwita) in 2019 and have stayed ever since. Over a year ago, I became a mum to a little girl, and I want her to have a better experience than I did growing up as an Aboriginal girl in Australia. That’s part of what keeps me going and why I work so hard. I want to be an example for her.
Right now, I’m at Monash University, completing a Master of Fine Art by research and distance education. My focus is on the representation of Aboriginal people – looking at how we’ve been depicted in the past and how this has shaped Australian society and attitudes towards us. I’m planning to pursue a PhD after I graduate, following my solo exhibition coming up for my master’s graduation at Monash University’s MADA Gallery, running from 23–29 September.
As Indigenous artists, I believe we can use our art as activism, to raise awareness and break through the shame. We should never be embarrassed about who we are. If you can merge art with activism, do it.
Māori Art as Activism: A Voice for Justice, Identity, and Sovereignty
“Art is a form of communication, and activism is part of this,” says Māori and Pacifica artist and curator Margaret Aull. “It speaks across social and political themes, often in ways that are confrontational, reflective, or meditative.”
Within Indigenous communities, art is not a passive reflection of culture, but an active, embodied form of resistance and expression, especially for Māori. “As Māori, we are expressive people. You’ll see activism in waiata (song), in marae (sacred communal meeting spaces) and in galleries,” says Aull. “Art helps provoke and confirm or disarm and dislodge uncomfortable conversations, especially when confronting the impacts of colonialism and ongoing inequity.”
Beyond protest, art affirms Indigenous identity, language, and sovereignty as a powerful mode of cultural preservation and assertion. “We hold understanding in story, ritual, and language,” Aull reflects. “We have ways to communicate with the natural world and the taiao (environment) through spoken word, dance, and visual forms. There’s an emotional intelligence and holistic approach to how we express ourselves.”
This Indigenous-led expression, she says, is essential not only for Māori but for all of Aotearoa. “It’s the voice of the land, and it needs to be present in all areas – business, policy, health, education. Māori artists must lead their spaces and the Māori wisdom (mātauranga) they hold. What is good for Māori is good for Aotearoa.”
Aull urges meaningful commitment from non-Māori artists, institutions, and audiences. “Ensure Māori are represented in your collections, strategies, and capital projects. Ringatoi (artists) must be at the leadership table. Support the arts economy by commissioning, purchasing, and promoting Māori art.”
Aull offers three powerful examples of Māori art driving real change.
Linda Munn: One of the three designers of the Māori Tino Rangatiratanga flag, who created a symbol now recognised worldwide in moments of resistance and celebration.
Buck Nin: Artist and educator who helped establish the largest Māori tertiary institution (Te Wānanga o Aotearoa) emphasising the importance of Māori knowledge, language, and traditions.
Robyn Kahukiwa: Her iconic paintings boldly confronted national narratives showing themes like mana motuhake (Māori sovereignty and self-governance), and mana wāhine (displacement and power, authority, and dignity of women) and of tupuna (ancestors).
“These artists didn’t just paint or write, they envisioned better futures for our people and helped build them.”
Photograph: Amber Leatua Photography.
