Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to remember a curated space of delicious literature—a space that touched the hearts, minds and consciousnesses of friends in Ōtepoti and beyond.
Evening Books was more than a bookstore; it was a hub of public literary intellectual access, a local gallery, and an events space when required. We gather to remember the monumental effort of piercingly intelligent and immensely stylish Frances Pavletich.
Fran organised Small Press Fest from the bookshop, as well as numerous other literary events. This is a mihi, a eulogy, and haere rā to Evening Books, necessary because community arts organising is chronically underfunded and seems to work only if friends show up for each other. Fran taught me that.
My first time at Evening Books was a crisp December day in 2023. Piupiu Turei was minding the store, laughter was pealing from the back to the front of the shop. Tini Whetū Project Space put on an exhibition of Jess Nicholson’s uku, kōkōwai pieces from Moewai Marsh, as well as pieces from Madison Kelly. It was my first interaction with Ōtepoti’s bursting mahi toi scene. This was one of many exhibitions that Fran held at Evening Books.
There was a DIY zine launch later that evening to go with the exhibition, one of many events held by Piupiu through Tini Whetū Project Space at Evening Books. On display was a delightful array of hand-picked texts; I counted books from radical publishers like internationally renowned AK Press, works at the nexus of art, activism, ecology, niche arts journals on queer issues, and an attentive smorgasbord of local publishers—5ever books, Lawerence & Gibson, Tender Press, Awa Magazine, Rebel Press, Dead Bird Books, and of course, bad apple’s Āporo Press. There were voluptuous amounts of poetry from queer writers, a hākari of prose and poems from Māori authors, and a feast of feminist fiction and theory.
Evening Books shifted spaces a few times from its conception in 2022. It was first housed upstairs at 43 Moray Place, before somebody knarked on the state of the stairs going into the shop space. In the rooms upstairs of Yours Ōtepoti (now a screen-printing studio), a figure of a skeletal double-headed goth mermaid reading a book remains, haunting all those who enter with the feeling that they should Read More Books.
In the second Princess Street location, Fran teamed up with local florist owner Jacqui Margrets to host Evening Books inside a smaller space that merged with the florist’s shop. These books and flowers became a second currency and a go-to gift. A friend bought me an apology/thank you bouquet and asked Fran to choose me a book—she chose Tusiata Avia’s Fale Aitu | Spirit House poetry collection.
I bought a friend a copy of Leaked Recipes—a cookbook full of recipes leaked from the internet. I bought a copy of Damien Levi’s and Amber Esu’s Spoiled Fruit. In one visit, I noticed a trash sculpture from local artist Anna-Marie Mirfin displayed in the corner. I spotted Sasha Francis’s collages displayed on the windowsill.
The space was light and inviting; Fran often offered me hot tea, and I was grateful for the equally hot takes about the many flaws and possibilities of the political left, which sharpened my own understanding. Sometimes other friends would turn up at the book shop and another cup would be poured.
Many cups of tea were drank at Small Press Fest, which brought Aotearoa’s literary world to Ōtepoti’s doorstep, and Carl Naus’s cooking at Yours café fed the weary travellers. This three-day, free festival open to the public was hosted across the New Athenaeum Library, The Pioneer Woman’s Hall and Yours Café and Venue, all situated in the Octagon.
Fran had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the different presses in Aotearoa, who ran them, what they published, and where they were based. Mostly based in Wellington, it was a treat for regional Ōtepoti to get access to the literary talent at a Free Public Event. At Small Press Fest, I went to Damien Levi’s poetry workshop, got to hear about Spoiled Fruit being one of the first anthologies of queer writing in Aotearoa and met Liz Brezlin for the first time.
As much as the books, it was the events that Fran ran through Evening Books, and the people that I was introduced to through these events, that were so meaningful. It was the relationship between the text, the world, and the people reading, where the inspiration and possibility sprang like flowers from a garden.
More than a bookstore, Evening Books provided our community of disenfranchised left with spiritual and intellectual sustenance. I borrowed AM’s copy of Silvia Federici’s Caliban and the Witch, introducing me to theories of social reproduction and the campaign Wages for Housewives. I also borrowed Linea’s copy of Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy by Barbara Ehrenreich and Angus’s copy of Cold Intimacies: The Making of Emotional Capitalism by Eva Illouz.
Fran has an uncanny ability to pick the right book at the right time. My friends will continue swapping her books for years to come. These are books that are vital to the survival of our spirit and our understanding of the world around us and how we might be in it.
Evening Books closed late March 2025, almost a year from this publication. Evening Books liberated critical intellectual works outside of the stifling institutional mustiness of the university and placed them in the context of Ōtepoti’s art and Aotearoa’s small press scene.
Fran’s organising, curating (and small business) practice opened a door of political and necessarily creative possibility, centred around looking hot from reading a hot book. Fran’s Evening Books was distilled political joy for many. She introduced me to the worlds of feminist theory and Aotearoa’s literary scene. I am forever thankful to have witnessed Fran in action, to see her holding her own, not putting up with bullshit, trusting her taste, and doing cool stuff with her friends. Your manaakitaka was out the gate. Your bookstore is still missed. The flowers are still blooming.
