Kirsten Garner Lyttle (KL): Archives are incredibly loaded, aren’t they? As Indigenous, First Nations people, even the word ‘archive’ makes me a bit uneasy. The word carries weight—because archives have been used against us: to measure, categorise, document, and quantify. It’s hard to escape that.

How do you define an archive? What for you, is an archive?

Jahkarli Romanis (JR): I’ve been thinking about colonial archives too—like the Tindale Genealogical Collection, which holds family documentation. I’ve also been reflecting on how photographs can become their own evolving archives, shaped by who engages with them and how. Each one tells a different version of a story. The body, too, is an archive—an archive of our memories.

KL: Can you unpack what you mean by the ‘body as an archive’?

JR: I've been reflecting a lot on intergenerational trauma, how it's passed down through the body. For me, it’s been through my matrilineal line. I’ve been looking into epigenetics and thinking about how archives hold information, whether tangible or intangible, and that our bodies do something similar. They both carry history.

Peta Clancy (PC): That's interesting. I was just having a conversation about the body as an archive, less in terms of trauma and more as an archive of cultural practice. It may not fit a traditional understanding of archives—what’s in museums or libraries—but trusts the body to be an archive of Indigenous knowledge. Our bodies remember practices and ways of being.

KL: Exactly. In my practice, I see archives as not just collections of subjects but also as a kind of body memory. The more I weave, the more my hands repeat the gestures of my ancestors. Even though I use photographs instead of harakeke (New Zealand flax), there’s something in the movement—my hands know what they’re doing. It’s rhythmic, familiar, like speaking or dancing. There’s this Māori phrase, ‘Ma oku ringaringa e whakaatu oku whakaro’—my hands will tell you what I think—and I feel that while weaving.¹ My hands carry the knowledge, the rhythm, the memory.

JR: That’s so powerful.

KL: I think it’s really accurate. There’s an aspect of physical memory in our weaving, much like how Europeans used to create samplers. They would learn stitches and make samplers of the alphabet or pictures. We did that through our weaving practices. In museums, you can see half-finished baskets that are like sampler patterns. That’s our memory—a physical memory of how the pattern starts and progresses. When we talk about patterns, we say they have whakapapa, genealogy. So, when you’re weaving, you’re weaving a genealogy. If you’re starting with ‘over, under, over, under,’ that’s a whakapapa. Weaving itself is an archive, and that’s how I use it in my photographic practice. I’m trying to Indigenise the photograph, to transform it from a European tool into something Indigenous. I’m literally objectifying the photograph by turning it into an Indigenous subject.

PC: But it's also a cultural practice 

KL: Yes, it’s definitely a cultural practice. I’ve experimented with various forms of photography, including portraits, but it often felt like I was just offering myself up to be looked at. It didn't feel as empowering as physically engaging with the surface of the photograph itself.

PC: That’s really interesting. We usually think of genealogy in terms of family relations, but you’re talking about genealogy in terms of memory and pattern.

KL: In the Māori world, everything has whakapapa—every entity has genealogy.² It’s how the world makes sense—through relationships—and it outlines how we should treat each other. For example, with the harakeke, the outer leaves are called the grandparents, the inner ones are the parents, and the centre is the rito or baby. You can never cut the baby or the parent leaves, or the plant will die; you only trim the grandparents because the parents protect the baby. Whakapapa is a way of understanding the world and its interconnectedness.

PC: It’s so fascinating, the way you’ve both been describing the body as an archive. There’s a connection between everything you’re saying, even though you each express it in your own way.

JR: I think that there's like a level of body involvement for all of us though in our practices.

KL: Definitely.

JR: There’s a significant level of bodily involvement in our practices. When you're making photographs on Country, your body is so fully engaged in that collaborative process. Do you want to talk a little about that, Peta?

KL: You’ve mentioned before that you see Country as a collaborator.

PC: Creating photographs using a performative process is an immersive and embodied experience where I engage with Country and its complex histories. I’ve been working on and with Wurundjeri and Dja Dja Wurrung Country and, more recently, Yorta Yorta Country—my grandmother and great-grandfather’s Country—researching for a new photographic project.

One of the starting points for my photographic installations is historic photographs that depict Country through a western landscape tradition. These nineteenth century Australian photographs come from collections like the Coburg Historical Society, The University of Melbourne, the State Library of Victoria, and the National Gallery of Victoria. The land in these photographs is depicted in terms of ownership and profit, taken during a time when the focus was on land clearing, homestead building, and sheep and cattle grazing. These are photographs of Country taken without respect for its cultural significance to Traditional Custodians.

Returning to the locations shown in these historic photographs allows me to step into the shoes of the original photographers, gaining a deeper understanding of how the landscapes were historically perceived, and how they’ve changed since—both from colonisation and the impacts of climate change.

When photographing these locations, I explore the agency of Country. I use a large format camera and photographic film. When I release the shutter, the light from Country touches the film, exposing it. I appreciate this embodied and tactile process. The film is then chemically processed, scanned, and the photographic image is printed at a large scale.

I return to Country with these prints to share my perspective. I attach the photographic prints to a custom-built frame placed in the same location as the original photograph. Then, I cut into the print—almost like peeling something away—to remove part of the image, and I rephotograph the remaining part of the print on the frame. The final images reveal multiple layers of place, photographed over months or even years, and under various lighting conditions. These photographs are created in collaboration with Country, as the light and wind interact with the prints.

KL: That’s technically so difficult lining up the image in the same spot as the original. Do you do that visually?

PC: Yes, the photograph may feature the sky, the ground, trees, and the water. I cut the print along the horizon line, removing half of it. When I rephotograph to reconnect the two parts, I align the trees on the riverbank in the print with their actual reflections in the waterway. It’s not always perfectly accurate. The image doesn’t have to make complete sense—people often fill in the gaps in their minds.

KL: The uncanny.

JR: The unease.

PC: I’m interested in creating unsettling images that encourage viewers to question what they are seeing and examine their perceptions of the landscape. 

The photographs reveal different perspectives, timeframes, and histories of Country, which encompasses loss, resilience, and cultural memory. They explore Country as an archive, referring to the unseen narratives and historical changes it has undergone over time. For example, in the Undercurrent series—a collaboration with Rodney Carter (CEO of Dja Dja Wurrung Clans Aboriginal Corporation), Mick Bourke (Dja Dja Wurrung/Yorta Yorta), and Amos Atkinson (Dja Dja Wurrung/Bangerang/Yorta Yorta)—we explored an underwater massacre site on Dja Dja Wurrung Country. The river was widened by a weir, which covered the massacre site. Mick and Amos mentioned that the water protected the site from disturbance and cleansed the spirits of the ancestors. For Dja Dja Wurrung people, the area is a site of sorrow, while for others, it is a site of leisure.

Another series, here merri merri lies depicts the Merri Creek at Coburg Lake on Wurundjeri Country. The installation explored multiple layers of time and history. The Merri Creek was flooded to create Coburg Lake, and rocks from the creek were used to build a wall, causing the water to back up and cover thousands of years of Wurundjeri cultural history. Through the layering and cutting methods I use, I reflect on the importance of understanding Country beyond the surface, shedding light on the stories, memories, and cultural significance hidden from dominant historical narratives.

KL: And then you think about how water has carved landscapes, shaped continents, created valleys and mountains. But in just under 200 years, Europeans came along and redirected and changed this incredible force that had shaped the land.

PC:  Exactly. But why those specific spots? Like Coburg Lake—why did they decide to make a lake there? What were they trying to cover up?

KL: That’s a powerful question, and it touches on something deeper about what gets hidden or altered in landscapes. It reminds me of how photographs can work similarly, acting as archives that record traces of people, memories, and moments over time. (To Jahkarli) Your work comes to mind here—especially the large print and floor piece—where the photograph physically becomes an archive through interaction with the space and the people who move through it. I remember at your exhibition (Dis)connected to Country (2024); people were nervous about stepping on the print you installed on the floor.

I chose to go barefoot because I couldn’t bring myself to wear shoes on the photograph. The idea of scuff marks or a spill makes it seem as though the photograph becomes an evolving archive, not just of the exhibition, but of everyone who has passed through. Do you think of the people who interact with the work as part of that archival process?

JR: Yeah, I think so. I’ve thought about it, though not quite as a collaboration. It’s more like an engagement that happens between the viewer and the work.

The way viewers engage with the print transforms it into an archive of the people who have walked through. It’s like how we walk through Country—it remembers us, and we leave traces behind. There’s a twofold dynamic with the floor print. When I was looking at Dolly’s photographs in the archive, hidden away in a manila folder, it struck me how we often treat photographs as fragile objects that need protection from tactile engagement.³ That connects to your work, Peta, where you take the print back onto Country and interact with it physically. It brings back that bodily engagement. I think that’s what I’m aiming for with my prints as well. The material has its own memory and becomes its own archive. The floor print maps the space it has been in, recording scuff marks and traces left by the people who have interacted with it.

PC: That’s such a beautiful and unique concept. It's amazing. It got me thinking—you also have Dolly's portrait. Do you feel that, by placing your work on the floor and thinking of it as an archive with people walking on it, there’s a connection to how you’ve been informed by her photograph? Especially when you compare the photograph of Dolly behind glass to the way her image looks over the space. How do you see that relationship? How would you articulate the connection between Dolly in her framed portrait and her presence in the gallery?

JR: Yeah, it’s interesting to think about. The original photographs of her are really small—they can fit in the palm of your hand. So, when I framed her and put her on the wall, it was partly to give her a sense of power. She’s positioned at the back, commanding the space, and her image is layered with Country. That layering happens physically, with the floor print beneath her, but also in the methodology I used—blending images of Country with portraits of her.

KL: I imagine there were a lot of decisions involved in how large to make Dolly’s image. She’s gone from being this tiny, hand-sized photograph to something much larger.

What considerations went into deciding the scale of Dolly’s face in your prints?

JR: I wanted her to be close to life-size. For the Hillvale show, it was interesting because Tindale took all her physical measurements. In one of my poems, there’s a line where I say, ‘You hang on walls at the height I imagine you would be, just so I can pretend to perceive you.’ That made me think about how to hang her in the gallery—wondering how tall she might have been. Since I had her measurements from Tindale’s records, I realised she was the exact same height as me. So, then I had to consider: do I hang her at her actual height, or do I place her in a more powerful, elevated position? I ended up hanging her a bit higher so that people would look up to her.

PC: That’s such an interesting decision. It really speaks to the power of representation and how we choose to position our subjects within a space. It makes me think about how the physicality of an artwork can shape the viewer's perception and connection to the subject, especially in the context of archival work. Kirsten, can you share how your current work relates to the archive?

KL: I’m currently working on a series titled Te raranga i te moana (weaving the ocean)/ Te raranga i te awa (weaving the river). I am using the methodology I developed through my PhD called whakaahua, a method of transforming photographs into Indigenous subjects. This approach turns the photographic surface into a site for creating Māori art, such as kete (baskets). For me, this non-extractive way of working honours photography as a taonga (treasured cultural belonging) and celebrates cultural resilience and identity. Instead of merely documenting customary art, I use the surface of the photograph as a site for making Māori art.

I’ve been photographing bodies of water that connect to my ancestors, like the Waikato River, as well as other waterways of personal and ancestral significance.  After photographing and printing these images, I cut them up and weave them into kete using Māori customary techniques of whiri and raranga (or braiding and plaiting). I’m particularly interested in carrying baskets, such as kete whiri, or kete kupenga, a fishing net basket. These kete are more utilitarian, they serve as work horses used to collect food and are designed so that sand and dirt to sift out while walking home.

I also love the idea that a photograph can physically hold something; it’s essential for me that they function as a kete.

For me, these photographs serve as archives of ancestral knowledge.

PC: Yes, absolutely—especially the weaving process.

KL: The kete I weave records my movements and fingerprints. There’s a similarity to your work, Jahkarli, in that it captures the process of being woven and rewoven. This raises the question of how ancestral belongings are often treated as ‘objects’ rather than ancestors.

PC: Exactly, they are subjects.

KL: I’m displaying these works in glass cabinets and experimenting with the installation. Sometimes they look too big for the boxes, which I find interesting because they fill the space entirely.

PC: They can’t be contained. That really speaks to the nature of the work and how it transcends physical boundaries.

JR: I often think of Dolly’s photographs as more than images. She had to be physically there, with light reflecting off her being into the camera. I like to consider it the way Barthes describes an ‘umbilical cord of light’ that links her body to my gaze, a shared skin across time.⁴

PC: Yes, exactly! It’s like a web of interconnected threads. Each thread connects us to histories and experiences, all woven together, reinforcing that deep connection across time and space.

KL: I’ve been thinking about bodily memory—the memories that our bodies hold and pass down. What’s interesting is that all three of us are people who no longer live where our ancestors did. We’ve all had the experience of returning to Country to make work, and we all share that dislocation from place. As practitioners, it’s something we have in common. But it’s also true that when we’re on ancestral lands, there’s a sense that Country knows us, that it recognises we’re there.

We are archives of our ancestors as well.