By now, I ought to know better than to expect the expected at Mokopōpaki. Yet, reading that the title of the group show HĀTEPE could be translated as ‘algorithm’, my mind went straight to gloomy stereotypes of the internet, to the detection and exacerbation of insidious patterns of human behaviour. Such notions are not absent from the exhibition, but it is altogether brighter in tone, more immediately relating to a second translation: ‘to proceed in an orderly manner’. Orderly processes are everywhere, HĀTEPE seems to say – just as present in tāniko and the use of the starry sky to orient us in space and time as in the tangible-unknowable computer systems that support a world of Instagram and Twitter.

Nourishing networks thread the show. Spiral collective associates Marian Evans and Tiffany Thornley reconnect (as they did last year in This Joyous, Chaotic Place). A scroll of calligraphic visages by Julian Hooper, an elegant assemblage by Krystina Kaza, and witty paper-works by Cale Kaza and Finley Lazurek all stem from one nuclear family. My favourite pieces, a pair of felt and mohair dolls named Te Kōkako and Te Kererū Māui (both 2018), also embody whānau ties. The artist, Te Maari, is the Birmingham-based cousin of Jacob Tere, Keeper of the House at Mokopōpaki. Hovering before the wall, with embroidered moko and leaves (or perhaps feathers) sprouting on their faces, the figures are comforting and strange, within caressing distance and far removed from the problems of the exhaust-riddled street outside. They are, I fancy, like ‘worry dolls’, ready to hear our pains and to help us go on.

Francis McWhannell, The Unmissables: Three Exhibitions to See in July (The Pantograph Punch, 17 July, 2019)

Jacob Raniera is an associate director and front person of Mokopōpaki, an unusual small dealer gallery on Karangahape Road. Named after his Māori grandfather, Mokopōpaki is unusual in that the walls and ceiling in the more formal back gallery are brown and deliberately kept that way—while those in the front introductory space are grey and blue.

Raniera comes from a background in architecture and art, and work in dealer galleries. A confident talker, through kōrero he emphasises the first person-plural pronoun, a signal that rather than indicating a royal Eurocentric prerogative, he is a representative and spokesperson of many others and their communities with whom he has constant dialogue. At the time of writing, since March 2017 when it opened, Mokopōpaki has presented 14 shows. The venue itself is alcohol free. Tea and cake provide an alternative.

Raniera’s interest in promoting a Māori sensibility is expressed through the exhibition space rather than artist identity. He also flies the flag for conceptual art (literally: a gallery flag hangs in the street above the entrance when the venue is open), and curiously, folk art and found objects. Ongoing conversations he has with friends like established artists, Billy Apple and p.mule, and emerging artists such as Yllwbro, Ursula Christel, A.A.M. Bos, Carole Prentice, PĀNiA!, John Hodgson and Roman Mitch, feed into the gallery overview and art practice, while a distinct political agenda provides the narrow — but welcoming space with a culturally loaded colour code.

Raniera’s te reo presentations — of himself and other artists, often collectives, often with pseudonyms, often unknown, showing a range of ages, that include friends and whānau — fill the walls. Emotional bonds, loyalties and trust play a key role. His critique of the traditional white cube gallery at Mokopōpaki, in the specific context of Aotearoa, is refreshingly audacious.

John Hurrell, Mokopōpaki (Art Collector, No. 87, 2019), pp. 189–191