The 19th century was in its infancy. Princess Nāhi‘ena‘ena, descended from the ali‘i and most elite echelons of Maui and Hawai‘i Island society, was still only a child when she was gifted a feather pāʻū so magnificent that its fame lives on today.

Creating the pāʻū was a massive undertaking. The skirt consisted of 1,000,000 tiny feathers bundled and tied to a netted base by the people of Lahaina over what could have been a mere year, says Marques Marzan, the cultural advisor at the Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum, where the skirt now lies. Especially remarkable is its color, which is almost entirely yellow. This hue required the rarest of the feathers to be taken from a small tuft of golden plumage at the neck of the now extinct ʻōʻō. The sheer volume of plumage required kia manu, or bird catchers, to venture in groups into the forests for days to pluck precious, wee feathers from the evasive honeyeaters.

Featherwork can actually be seen all across the Pacific and the world. Early Hawaiian settlers brought the art with them from their homes in older parts of Polynesia, says Marzan, and over time the practice evolved in slight, distinct ways. The type of net backing used in traditional Hawaiian handiwork, for example, was made of olonā, a fiber found only in Hawai‘i. Originally, he explains, both making featherwork, as well as wearing it, was reserved for the chiefly class. The Bishop Museum collection houses everything from magnificent cloaks in royal yellow and red shades, and iconic, crescent-shaped feathered helmets, to elegant lei, and fierce, feather-coated god effigies.

Today, mother and son team Lehuanani and Kaimana Chock, who craft traditional feather lei and hat bands under the name Kahailimanu, are part of a small community of artisans carrying on this artistic legacy of their ancestors.

“I learned when I was 16, dancing hula, loved it, and always kept making lei,” says Lehuanani. Everyone in her hālau had to make their own lei sets—thus proving their commitment and dedication—in order to participate in the Merrie Monarch Festival. “Then, when I got married, my husband’s grandmother would make lei with her sisters. As each sister passed away, I would inherit all of their feathers. She wanted me to keep on. She wanted to make sure the art didn’t die.”

Now, as interest in Hawaiian culture grows, so does interest in feather making, according to Kaimana. “I think there’s a resurgence,” he says. “There was a time period when it was only a really small community making the lei.” Lehuanani teaches feather-making classes at their home in Pearl City, bringing together groups of women and the spare man gather for two hours a week to devote themselves to slow-going work and tiny stitches.

The Chock home is filled with the fruits of lifetimes spent doing such work: kāhili (handheld standards); hakupapa-style bands (like those on hats); lei kāmoe (where the feathers lie flat, like they would on the bird); and lei poepoe, which feature features standing up, making for a fluffier effect. The feathers of ancient times, gone with the endangered or extinct birds, have been replaced by others such as pheasant, with its almond-like pattern, or brilliant peacock, with its iridescent sheen. The Chocks even source feathers from home-raised chickens.

While the materials have changed since the princess received her pāʻū, the methods of creating featherwork pieces remain the same. “We very much still make them in the same manner that it was made for generations,” Kaimana says. “There’s that person-to-person transmittal of the practice. We’re not learning from a book—we learn from a kupuna. That’s what makes it Hawaiian to me.”

They still process, cut, and tie or stitch every single feather with intention and purpose, infusing it with a bit of themselves. “In old Hawaiian thought, because lei is something that goes on your body, it automatically gets your mana and part of your energy,” Kaimana says. “Think how much of you goes into the final product—you’ve tied each of the thousand feathers, taken three stitches or three times around with your piece of thread—all of that.” Adds Lehuanani, “So that when you’re giving it, it’s almost like giving them a little bit of you.”

What featherwork represents today has changed considerably, according to Marzan. In the past, the material culture produced served as a visually understood symbol, a vestment of the chief and their station. “Today, it serves more of a purpose of holding on to cultural practices,” Marzan explains, a symbol of your commitment to preserving this knowledge. “It’s about committing your time and energy to the creation of a piece and observing all of the things you see in the process.” The intention behind modern day featherwork practitioners is still to celebrate and honor, but it’s now not just to uplift a social class of people, but instead an entire people.