In a love letter to Hawai‘i Triennial 2025, an O‘ahu-born artist reflects on how the state’s largest thematic exhibition of contemporary art reclaims aloha as a transformative force.
Despite being born and raised on the island of Oʻahu, there was a time when the word “aloha” seemed to leave a strange aftertaste on my tongue—unfamiliar and disingenuous. I once believed this discomfort stemmed from not being of Native Hawaiian descent, thinking that the language simply wasn’t meant for me. But looking back, I realize that my unease wasn’t about the word itself; rather, a reflection of how I had distanced myself from the culture and language of the place I call home.
This struggle to understand “aloha” is not mine alone. The word is ubiquitous—defined with over 30 meanings in Mary Kawena Pukui’s Hawaiian Dictionary: Hawaiian-English, English-Hawaiian—yet it is often reduced to marketing slogans and misused by the tourism industry. As a result, the word “aloha” is frequently spoken but rarely understood.
The word serves as the foundation for the title and theme of this year’s Hawai‘i Triennial 2025 (HT25): ALOHA NŌ. Scattered across 14 locations on Oʻahu, Maui, and Hawaiʻi Island, the state’s largest exhibition of contemporary art is curated by Wassan Al-Khudhairi, Binna Choi, and Noelle M.K.Y. Kahanu—the Triennial’s first non-hierarchical, all-women-of-color curatorial team. Their vision offers us a chance to find kaona in the word again. As the exhibition statement reads:
“By collapsing two seemingly opposite notions—‘no’ in English with ‘nō,’ an intensifier in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language)—ALOHA NŌ reclaims aloha from a colonial-capitalist historicity and situates it as a transformative power that is collectively enacted through contemporary art.”
On view through May 4, 2025, and featuring the work of 49 artists and collectives from across the Pacific and beyond, the multi-site exhibition’s scope is both global and deeply rooted in place.
I’ll admit, I’ve felt frustration and disappointment with previous iterations of the Triennial (and previously the Honolulu Biennial)—not because they lacked merit, but because they seemed to reflect a growing and unquestioned desire within Hawai‘i’s arts scene to be “more like the continent.” Portions of past exhibitions seemed curated in efforts to attract international attention, rather than fostering deeper engagement with the local community or empowering residents through contemporary art. Inviting high-profile figures like Izumi Kato and Yayoi Kusama to showcase their work without regard for the context of the venue—while generating press—felt like a hollow attempt to “elevate” local artists, implying that visibility for Hawai‘i’s creative community could only be achieved through proximity to celebrity. I worried that the development of Hawai‘i’s arts and culture scene would follow the same trajectory as places like Waikīkī and Kaka‘ako, transforming into something increasingly detached from Hawai‘i itself.
Nevertheless, HT25’s curatorial vision signals a shift—one that feels more intentional in its goal of showcasing not what the art world can do for Hawai‘i, but what Hawai‘i can do for the art world.
This past February, while riding around the island on the press bus to preview the exhibitions with writers from around the world, I found myself slipping into the familiar role of tour guide—something many locals instinctively do. The curators met us at each site, but in the vans, I was one of the few press members born and raised in Hawai‘i. As we traveled, I shared the significance of the places we passed and the cultural protocols observed during art dedication ceremonies.
One such moment was the blessing of Kanaka ‘Ōiwi visual poet and activist Meleanna Aluli Meyer’s ʻUmeke Lā‘au (Culture Medicine) at Honolulu Hale, a monumental piece honoring our kūpuna. It reminded me of the ʻumeke my aunty received and proudly displayed in her home, a recognition of her many years of service as a lunch lady for the Hawai‘i Department of Education. The artwork serves as both a gathering space and an audio installation, chanting the names of 38,000 elders from the Kūʻē petitions. For many visiting reporters, it was their first time hearing oli or witnessing an art opening rooted in Hawaiian cultural practice—something that, when viewed solely through the lens of the mainstream art world, risks being misinterpreted or dismissed.
One reporter shared that they didn’t understand why the ceremony was taking place, even calling it “cheesy.” Ironically, as I explained the significance of these rituals, I found myself using language often employed to defend contemporary art: Is it strange, or is it different? Is it confusing, or is it something you don’t yet know how to translate?
HT25’s curatorial vision signals a shift—one that feels more intentional in its goal of showcasing not what the art world can do for Hawai‘i, but what Hawai‘i can do for the art world.
Drawing from the Hawaiian history I absorbed growing up, I saw this as a chance to reframe the conversation. I encouraged reporters to approach the Triennial with a different mindset—one that recognized Hawai‘i’s close-knit arts scene as distinct from the broader art world. I explained how dispersing venues across the islands wasn’t just logistical but intentional, hoping to convey that in Hawai‘i, stories aren’t confined to galleries or museums because these islands are storied everywhere.
For example, Wahi Pana: Storied Places, a temporary public art project, brings installations directly into the daily lives of locals. The project will debut 11 multimedia installations over three years. One of the pieces features a series of viewing points for Lē‘ahi at Kapi‘olani Community College, Fort Rutger Park, Le‘ahi Beach Park, and Mākālei Beach Park. This installation incorporates the concrete poetry of Hawai‘i State Poet Laureate Brandy Nālani McDougall, prompting viewers to reconsider the familiar sight and oft-overlooked history of what’s commonly known as Diamond Head.
Meanwhile, at Fort Street in Honolulu, just outside the popular nightclub Scarlet, Carl F.K. Pao’s abstract tile mural Ke Kānāwai Māmalahoe references The Law of the Splintered Paddle, a foundational yet often underappreciated chapter in Hawaiian legal history. In 1797, Kamehameha decreed a person’s right to rest on the side of the road without fear of persecution. Set against the backdrop of Chinatown, home to a large houseless community, the mural raises urgent questions about how we have neglected our own legal and moral responsibilities to leave people undisturbed. By dispersing art across different islands and sites, the Triennial makes a clear statement: the land itself holds knowledge, and each site is deserving of critical cultural discourse.
Many of the works presented in ALOHA NŌ confront themes of subjugation, cultural erasure, and land exploitation — subjects neither light nor comforting. But as the exhibition argues, “aloha” is not an unrealistically positive phrase, but a philosophical force that emerges strongest in times of pain and despair. At its core, aloha is a radical act of compassion and love.
Unlike institutions such as Indiana University or the Saarland Museum, who’ve censored discussions of ongoing colonial violence, HT25 confronts them unapologetically. At a time when exhibitions are being canceled and museum staff dismissed for expressing solidarity with Palestinians, this Triennial began its dedication of the exhibition at Capitol Modern (formerly the Hawai‘i State Art Museum) with a public reading of essays by Palestinian prisoners, led by Palestinian visual artist Jumana Manna.
Manna’s series Your Time Passes and Mine Has No End is the first set of works viewers encounter on the museum’s second floor: five banners meticulously stitched and lined with photographs that embody not only the ongoing struggles of Palestinians but their unwavering ability to celebrate even in moments of immense pain. Hanging from the corridor that connects both wings of the museum, the work invites viewers to move through the exhibition and witness the shared patterns of oppression reflected in the works of artists across the world.
Alaska Native artist Sonya Kelliher-Combs’ White Idiot Strings pays tribute to the devastating rates of suicide among Indigenous Alaskans, while South Korean-Danish artist Jane Jin Kaisen’s video Guardians invites reflection on land, ancestral trauma, and history through the playing of children in Jeju. The exhibition also includes a poignant dedication to the late Kanaka ‘Ōiwi artist Rocky KaʻiouliokahihikoloʻEhu Jensen, a master carver who tragically took his own life in 2023. During the curators’ walkthrough, they shared that his family hoped his work would illuminate both his aspirations for Hawai‘i’s art scene and the significance of contemporary Kanaka ‘Ōiwi art, especially within the State’s collection, where, at the time he created much of his work, only about 3.9% of the collection was by Native Hawaiian artists.
Jane Jin Kaisen, Guardians (2024). Still courtesy of the artist.
Rocky Ka‘iouliokahihikoloʻEhu Jensen, ki‘i. Installation view at Capitol Modern. Courtesy of the Jensen ‘Ohana and Hawai‘i Contemporary. Image by Duarte Studios.
This reckoning with grief, loss, and remembrance extends to the Triennial hub at Davies Pacific Center, where Honolulu-based, Nigerian American artist Nanci Amaka’s three-channel video installation, Cleanse, embodies the love and care that emerge from profound loss. Amaka enacts a contemporary interpretation of the Igbo tradition of cleansing a body before burial, confronting personal grief—having lost her mother to violence at a young age and unable to perform the ceremony for her. Instead, she channels this ritual toward another loss: the beloved Ward Warehouse, slated for demolition in 2017, the same year she learned she was pregnant.
Watching the piece, I couldn’t help but think of all the times I pressed my face to the glass, watching puppies through the pet store window, or the aunties practicing hula and square dancing while we waited for our reservations at the Old Spaghetti Factory. Through intense, deliberate gestures, Amaka cleanses the walls of a space rich with memories for many locals—not just as an act of farewell, but as an assertion of agency.
Much like Cleanse, which highlights our connection to place through both personal and collective histories, the Triennial amplifies the agency of aloha ‘āina—our duty not only to honor our relationship with the land but also to fight for its liberation. At the Honolulu Museum of Art, Hayv Kahraman’s newly commissioned works extend this sentiment to the animals of the islands. Drawing inspiration from the kāhuli and pūpūkanioe, species of endangered Hawaiian land snails, her pieces intertwine an Arabic fable with Native Hawaiian ecological teachings, creating both visual and metaphorical connections.
At Bishop Museum, J.D. Nalamakuikapo Ahsing presents ʻĀinamoana, a powerful meditation on Moananuiākea, crafted from his self-made hau paper. As an ocean cartographer, Ahsing illustrates the complex, interwoven relationships among the 40,000 islands of the Pacific, visualizing a map of connection and continuity.
At the Foster Botanical Gardens, Melissa Chimera’s stunning fountain installation, Hulihonua, Transformed Landscapes, addresses the enduring impact of invasive species introduced to Hawai‘i since 1778. Primarily a painter, Chimera took on the ambitious challenge of sculpture for the Triennial, creating a piece that embodies the ongoing transformation of Hawai‘i’s ecosystems. Inscribed on the installation is the proverb: “He ali‘i ka ‘āina, he kauā ke kanaka” (The land is chief, the person is its servant)—a reminder that our aloha must extend beyond human relationships to encompass a deep devotion to the environments that sustain us.
Trying to encapsulate all that HT25 brought to mind for me in just a few paragraphs feels like an impossible task. Instead, I encourage you to explore as many of the exhibitions as you can and find yourself falling in love with the islands and its people again.
HT25 does not seek to introduce something entirely new; rather, it challenges us to rethink what we believe we know. I believe these exhibitions cannot be fully understood through the gaze of an outsider art world, but perhaps best viewed through the lived experiences of the islands and the artist themselves. Like noticing the vibrancy of colors under the pacific sun, one must engage with the work by truly being here—feeling the quiet majesty of the ‘āina at the beach, tasting the hybrid histories woven into a plate lunch, taking pride in a cousin’s hula recital, and immersing in the rhythms of island life. In this sense, I came to see the Triennial as a love letter—one that calls us to look toward the future not with blind optimism, but with critical hope, so that Hawai‘i can continue to reclaim and define aloha on its own terms.
For this local boy, who once thought they had to leave the islands to find opportunity and took aloha for granted, HT25 is a reminder: you don’t have to leave Hawai‘i to have enough. The love of Hawai‘i is enough.
With aloha,
Dane Nakama
Mahalo nui to Matthew Dekneef, Mitchell Kuga, and Amy Nakamura for their help and guidance with this article.
Dane Hiʻipoi Nakama (b. 1999, Honolulu, Hawai‘i) is a 3.5/5th generation Japanese-Uchinanchu ceramicist, painter, and educator from the Mānana ahupua‘a on the island of Oʻahu.