Marti Friedlander 1928-2016

(A gallery of Marti Friendlander's photos is on her website here - Editor)

I first met Marti Friedlander some 40 years ago when invited to her home for dinner.

We neither discussed my career as a cartoonist, nor her growing reputation as a photographer. We spent most of the evening grumbling about what was wrong with New Zealand, bemoaning local attitudes to the arts and the preoccupation with sport, particularly rugby.

In fact, we were just a couple of whingeing Poms, who appeared to have forgotten the awful bleak environment we’d mutually left behind in post-war Britain, as we nostalgically recalled lists of English foodie treats, like Lyons blackcurrant pies and Hovis bread.

I do clearly remember Marti’s superbly prepared dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by a dessert dripping with golden syrup and custard. She would have been amused that it is her culinary skills that I instantly recall when reviewing her creative achievements.

I finally caught up with Marti again some decades later when we both lived in Parnell. Her career as an eminent photographer was well established,while mine was firmly entrenched in drawing cartoons and writing for the media. We frequently met for morning coffee, along with her devoted husband, Gerrard.

When it was decided to have our two young children christened in the Anglican Cathedral in Parnell, I thought it would be a symbol of our close friendship to ask Marti to be a godmother to one of our two boys. When a family member anxiously asked whether I realised that Marti was Jewish, I responded by saying that I thought every boy needed a Jewish mother somewhere in their lives. Marti, who was a strong, assertive sort of person at the best of times, was the perfect choice.

Oddly, we seldom discussed photography, although I acknowledged that this formidably talented lady undoubtedly had what I refer to as ‘the eye’. For Marti, ‘the eye’ was everything.

Her stunning portraits from the 1970 Moko series will endure as probably among the finest photographs ever captured of Maori women.

I recall viewing this series in a Wellington exhibition and feeling strongly moved by the sheer starkness of her black-and-white portraits.

Marti always carried a camera on special occasions. For our last Christmas dinner, held in my former home, we all had to put up with endless interruptions while Marti took endless photographs of the festive gathering.

Perhaps she instinctively sensed the tragedy about to overwhelm my family with a marriage split but more probably Marti herself realised she would not be around much longer to celebrate such occasions.

Mentally, she remained a very strong, outwardly positive and cheerful person, even though her last few months were physically painful and difficult.

I always joked with her that once she ended up in a box, if I tapped the lid and asked, "How are you today, Marti?" she would still cheerfully respond: "Couldn’t be better!"

Sadly, that day arrived this week, and New Zealand has now lost ‘an intangible national treasure,’ as the Japanese more aptly describe the loss of a true creative genius.