AANHPI Artist Spotlight: Lehuauakea

About the Interviewer

Growing up in the Midwest, a white-passing, Native Hawaiian who was also creative and māhū/queer, meant I often felt misunderstood and categorized as other. The spaces I “fit” into were often spaces I had to pioneer myself, spaces that didn’t readily exist around me. I’ve often felt not Hawaiian enough and not White enough. This is not an uncommon experience for Native Hawaiians—especially for those who weren’t born and raised on the Islands.

For many Native Hawaiians today, cultural identity feels lost in time. I’ll speak from my own experience—I can’t tell you how often I get stuck thinking "How am I to honor and feel empowered in my identity as a Hawaiian, if I cannot [enter an extreme comparison to ancestors here]?” It’s easy to fall into excluding yourself from your own culture because you feel you’re “not enough.” “I don’t look enough this,” or “I don’t speak enough that.” How Hawaiian I am has nothing to do with whether I was born on the islands or not, and everything to do with how I choose to keep my ancestors alive, how I honor where I’ve come from.

Our culture is not a set of rules to abide by. Our culture is not an artifact, something fossilized in time. Our culture is not an equation where this + that = Hawaiian. Our culture is alive and is still being defined in time. Of course we must always remember to honor our ancestors and the teachings they’ve left for us, but we must also feel empowered to be our own expression of those ancestors and teachings. We cannot exclude ourselves from defining what it means to be Hawaiian, today. Our culture is still being written. It is our kuleana (responsibility) to feel empowered enough to contribute our stories to its meaning.

As I continue to find and build community with other Native Hawaiians, it’s become a focus of mine to learn as much as I can about what their identity as a Native Hawaiian means to them—what connects them to their ancestors and to their culture. I’ve been inspired by (this is a complete understatement, I totally fangirl for them) Lehuauakea’s work for years now. In my eyes, they are a pillar of what it means to be a living expression of modern-day Native Hawaiian culture and tradition. They seemingly effortlessly weave ancestral knowledge and technique with modern expressions of a beloved Hawaiian craft: Kapa. I’m incredibly honored that Lehuauakea has taken the time, space and energy to share their perspectives with us.
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The Artist
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Lehuauakea (they/them) is a Native Hawaiian interdisciplinary artist and kapa maker from Pāpaʻikou, Hawaiʻi. With a particular focus on the labor-intensive making of kapa (barkcloth), ʻohe kāpala (carved bamboo printing tools), and use of natural pigments, Lehua breathes new life into patterns and traditions practiced for generations. Lehuauakea’s work has been shown in exhibitions nationally and internationally, and is held in many prominent collections around the globe, including Portland Art Museum, National Gallery of Victoria, Queensland Art Gallery of Modern Art, Forge Project, and Museum of International Folk Art, amongst others.

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The Artistic Journey

For those who don’t know, or have never heard of kapa, what is it?
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It is a non-woven textile made from the beaten bark of specific trees, seen in numerous Pacific Islander cultures, as well as groups throughout parts of Asia and Africa. The process, choice of tree, and organic materials used for decoration varies between cultures.
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What initially drew you to kapa, and how did you develop your practice?

I grew up learning about different parts of Native Hawaiian material culture, but didn’t view learning kapa-making as a possibility until I was a young adult in college. In school, I was making art that I didn’t feel invested in because it didn’t reflect my cultural background. So I decided to start bringing traditional Hawaiian kapa patterns into my work, and designing new patterns to reflect my own experiences. I realized soon after that I would need to learn how to make kapa, not just the tools for decorating them, and I began learning with my kumu (teacher) Wesley Sen after graduating college in 2018. I didn’t see it at the time, but this ultimately led me on a lifelong journey of learning kapa and becoming a full-time artist.

Can you walk us through your creative process, from conceptualizing, to harvesting materials, to completing a piece?

Because I work with organic materials, they often decide what they want to become. My creative vision is only part of the equation to making a piece. The work begins with the cultivation of wauke (paper mulberry) and harvesting the trees when they reach maturity at about 18 months. From here, the bark is stripped from the tree, peeled into layers so you’re left with only the fibrous inner bast, then soaked in water for anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks, depending on what end result you are aiming for. This softens the bark and helps you clean it before beating. Then, the bark goes through a series of beatings, often ending in a final beating stage that watermarks the material after it has been beaten into an expanded sheet. The end product is a cross between cloth and paper, soft and supple with a natural white color. The material can then be used as-is or decorated with natural dyes and/or pigments that I gather and process myself.

Your work blends traditional techniques with contemporary perspectives. How do you approach that balance?

Lehua: It is important to me that this practice continues to evolve yet stay rooted in a foundation of traditional ancestral knowledge. For the first few years of my journey, I made it a point to learn how to do the process from start to finish, make the traditional tools, and continue refining my craft. I am now at a point where I feel comfortable in my skillset to grow by pushing the boundaries of myself as an artist and the limits of this material. I am constantly learning that kapa is as varied as you want it to be, and I’ve begun exploring ways of expression with kapa that you wouldn’t typically find in traditional samples, including suspended installation, hand-stitched garments, and mixed-media works.
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Identity & Cultural Connection

What does it mean to you to be AANHPI? You’ve been open about being a mixed Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian). What else are you mixed with? Do these cultures also influence your work?‍

I’ve also been open about having Japanese ancestry as well, though I didn’t grow up immersed in it nearly as much as I was with my Native Hawaiian heritage. In recent work, however, it’s been something I’ve been thinking more about, like with the large-scale installation piece I made for the recent Hawaiʻi Triennial 2025. I’m very proud of my roots and don’t feel like I’d be the artist or person I am today without this mixed background.

Kapa-making is deeply rooted in Native Hawaiian history. How do you see your work contributing to cultural preservation and revitalization? If you had one goal you hoped your work would achieve, what would it be?

Kapa-making was in severe decline after the arrival of foreigners, and especially after cultural assimilation started to take deeper roots in the early 1800s. As a result, there were very few people who knew anything about kapa, much less how to make it, until the 1970s Hawaiian Renaissance. During this time, a dedicated group of practitioners took it upon themselves to reclaim this practice from dormancy by consulting historical archives, learning from our other Pasifika cousins, and processes of trial and error. It is because of these early practitioners that I am able to do the work I do today. It is important that we keep this work going by encouraging younger generations to learn about their culture and take interest in the deeper processes of land stewardship and cultural revival that kapa-making embodies. I hope I can inspire even just a few younger folks to take these steps and pursue cultural expression and practices throughout their entire lives.

Identity & Expression
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Māhū in Hawaiian culture refers to individuals who embody both masculine and feminine energies, often occupying a sacred and respected role as caretakers, healers, teachers, and keepers of cultural knowledge. Historically, Māhū were revered for their spiritual and social contributions, reflecting the fluidity of gender in traditional Hawaiian society.

‍Being Māhū and also a creative myself, I feel my most important work cannot help but be rooted in my perspectives as a Māhū. As a Māhū artist, does your identity intersect with your creative practice? If so, how might you articulate that intersectionality?
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It is important for me to express that I would not be in my creative and cultural journey without the recognition of my identity as māhū/queer. I feel that these things go hand in hand. As a kapa-maker, there are practices and spaces that were often reserved for only the women to occupy. This included much of the kapa-making process, including beating the bark and decoration. There were, however, certain techniques and parts of the process that were strictly reserved for the men. But māhū, being in the spirit of both masculine and feminine energies, could be allowed in certain cases to move fluidly between these roles and spaces. I think about this in my approach to my work since I practice parts of kapa-making that were traditionally reserved for both men and women, as I see my identity somewhere ‘in-between.’

Visibility & Representation

Do you feel that there are unique challenges or opportunities for Māhū in the AANHPI and Indigenous art world?
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There have always been the stigmas against māhū after colonization and foreign religion took hold in Hawaiʻi; those are well-known. But something that I think isn’t talked about enough is the challenges that NH/PI face within the greater umbrella of AANHPI representation. For example, there are often so many initiativesand moves for visibility that occur during AANHPI Heritage Month that solely place the focus on Asian-American representation only. This leaves out all Pacific Islander representation, even if something is still billed as “AANHPI representation.” As an example, I think about streaming platforms like Amazon Prime during AANHPI Heritage Month, when they have a dedicated tab to films and shows made by/featuring filmmakers and actors in this category – yet the result is only a handful of NH/PI titles (if that) coupled with hundreds of Asian-centric titles. While I absolutely love supporting Asian and Asian-American experiences and creatives, being part-Japanese myself, the AANHPI acronym often does a disservice to everyone under the umbrella because of the immense diversity of cultural and ethnic backgrounds that it encompasses. Often, NH/PI aren’t equally represented in this umbrella, and it’s something that organizations and institutions need to actively address to work towards more equity.

‍How has community played a role in your artistic journey?
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‍I’ve only been able to pursue my journey as a kapa-maker and an artist because of the support, mentorship, and trust placed in me by my community. It is important to me that I reciprocate this back by representing our culture in a positive light while advancing the practice and doing what I can do empower younger generations to seek paths to cultural and creative expression.

Looking Ahead

What advice would you give to young AANHPI and Indigenous artists who want to reconnect with their heritage through their craft?
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It’s so important that young people see the value not just in being who they truly are, but also the value in maintaining (or finding) your cultural roots through traditional arts and/or creative expression. We all know that access to cultural connection and outlets for creative expression directly correlate to better mental health and healthier communities overall. I will always encourage kids to pursue these things because I know firsthand how beneficial it can be on so many levels. There will always be teachers and mentors to guide you if you wish.

‍If there’s one thing you hope people take away from your work, what would it be?

I hope to convey that Native Hawaiians and Indigenous people as a whole are not a monolith, and we are constantly evolving in step with our cultural traditions. So often, our cultural customs are viewed as purely historical, or something that lives behind museum glass, rather than traditions that have contemporary expressions with modern-day communities. I try to balance both the  traditional and contemporary in my work, because it is important to make pieces that I feel represent my personal experiences and my community today, all while making sure I keep rooted in my ancestral foundations and do so in a ‘pono’ way.

Mahalo nui loa, Lehua!

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