Journey to Piopiotahi, Milford Sound
While travelling to Southland to work on 'Drawing Together: John McCulloch’s Community Architecture', I revisited Piopiotahi Milford Sound. I had never been there in summer; my previous visits were in wilder weather, when the landscape feels fierce and untamed. Still, it was easy to see the appeal of fine conditions for visitors to this World Heritage area.
After returning from a week working in Southland, it has been a pleasure to spend time with publications from John McCulloch’s archives as part of research for the exhibition 'Drawing Together: John McCulloch’s Community Architecture.' I am certainly not an expert in architecture, but, like many, my relationship with it is personal. My mother, an interior designer with a passion for architecture, collected books that allowed me to explore space and design as a child. My parents’ second‑storey extension to our first family home in Dunedin included my mother’s lead‑lighting studio, where stacks of imported coloured glass and feature windows she made revealed the material and social possibilities of architecture.
Through McCulloch’s archives, I am reminded that architecture shapes how we live and move, framing routines, interactions and a sense of belonging, often without conscious awareness. This issue of Architectural Design shows his engagement with debates shaping late twentieth‑century architecture.
Christopher Martin’s essay 'Second Chance' revisits the Prince of Wales’s 1987 Mansion House speech, his BBC film A Vision of Britain, and the 1989 V&A exhibition. McCulloch’s interest in these debates reflects his concern with human‑scale, context‑sensitive architecture. The Prince critiqued modernist redevelopment for erasing historic streets, squares and mixed‑use neighbourhoods, and argued for continuity, craft, and public engagement in design.
A bookmarked article, 'New Town Ordinances & Codes' by Duany, Plater‑Zyberk, and Chellman, likely noted by McCulloch because of links to another archived article by Duany, critiques regulations that prioritise traffic, parking, separated uses and low density. The Traditional Neighbourhood Ordinance they propose purports to reduce car dependence, and support social interaction, civic life, and a mix of housing and local commerce — principles McCulloch explored in his own work.
Richard Rogers’ 'Pulling Down the Prince' offers a counterpoint to A Vision of Britain, arguing that architecture reflects social, economic, and technological conditions. Traditions now revered were once radical. Rogers emphasises adaptability: buildings must change function while keeping coherence, a principle evident in McCulloch’s context‑sensitive design.
These perspectives intersect in McCulloch’s archives and practice. As Rogers notes, “once great centres of civic life have become jungles where the profiteer and the vehicle rule” (Architectural Design, 1989). McCulloch’s advocacy for walkable, mixed‑use communities and responsive design reveals an understanding of these issues that is practical and philosophical. This publication, as an artefact of his engagement, and in the context of 'Drawing Together', captures a moment in the ongoing conversation about continuity, adaptability, and civic life, showing why architecture, as McCulloch understood it, remains inseparable from the way we live.
John Wishart in his Invercargill studio
Fractured sunlight streams through the studio windows illuminating these abandoned things. Years of foraging overlooked remnants of past lives, industry once productive and valued. Smoothed, encrusted and transformed by the tide before being cast ashore, these collected abandoned things rest for a time, waiting to be newly reconfigured by the elements of the studio.
Sorted, piled, juxtaposed and integrated, these abandoned things are brought back into consciousness and questioning. A forgotten industry swallowed by the sea – an abandoned ‘Works’ at Ocean Beach in Bluff. “The Beach” both site and archive: a fossil of environmental intervention, a local economic ‘backbone’, traces of a century of labour and culture.
John Wishart gathers these hybrid artefacts and uses them not only as found objects but as points of departure. He creates new sculptural forms inspired by their ambiguities—objects that hover between the recognisable and the unfamiliar, the organic and the engineered. We are invited to ask: Is this naturally formed or man-made? This ongoing tension is central to the work, for it mirrors the very uncertainty produced by the sea’s intervention. By blurring categories of origin, the sculptures complicate our assumptions about material histories, authorship, and the boundaries between industry and ecology.
Abandoned Works speaks not only to the derelict freezing works but also to the idea that these objects—and Wishart’s sculptures inspired by them—exist in a state of becoming. Like archaeological fragments, or museum artefacts excavated from uncertain contexts, they appear suspended in time: neither fully of the past nor the present, neither wholly finished nor truly discarded. Weathering, erosion, and accretion become forms of authorship. The sea continues the work that industry began, and the artist, in turn, extends this chain of transformation. Each sculpture captures a moment within an endless cycle of making, unmaking, and remaking.
Abandoned Works preserves traces of an industry that once underpinned the local community, sustaining labour, culture, and livelihoods, yet whose significance was swiftly lost to time. These objects testify to the fragility of value, both material and social, and the ways in which human endeavour is shaped—and sometimes undone—by forces beyond our control.
In the studio, Wishart’s sculptures extend this dialogue: they are never finished, only abandoned, entering a state of suspension between making and letting go. Each piece captures a moment within an endless cycle reminding us that artworks, like communities and landscapes, are provisional, open to change, and inseparably entwined with the passage of time.
What does it mean to paint in the landscape? To create portals that appear digitally superimposed, unnatural, disconnected, yet undeniably present. Like stumbling across a painting you have somehow miraculously stepped inside when you were convinced it was simply a photograph. A process you have entered and become a part of. Witness to the dynamism of scribbled loops rendered digitally into monumental, bold yellow environmental, almost architectural intrusions.
Nathan Ingram’s Superimposition Loops translate small, hand-drawn gestural marks into monumental forms, expanding the immediacy of painting into sculptural intervention. Each scribbled, extended loop carries the energy of a drawn line, amplified. They evoke moments reminiscent of Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988), where cartoons exist against the backdrop of filmic reality—like Eddie Valiant approaching a dark tunnel, uncertain of what awaits in Toon Town.
By projecting these painterly gestures into landscape, the sculptures create thresholds and frames through which the landscape becomes changed both physically and perceptually. They are points of pause, of reflection, and of reorientation within the environment. Each form resonates with a tension: it is both familiar and uncanny, abstract yet suggestive of habitation. In their presence, the act of painting becomes immersive, a record of gesture and precision, movement and stasis, simultaneously frozen and in flux.
These interventions ask us to reconsider our relationship to place, materiality, and creative process. The landscape becomes a canvas, yet one that is inhabited, navigated, and experienced. In translating painted gestures into environmental forms, the work underscores painting as a generative practice of experiential possibilities extending beyond the two-dimensionality of the wall. Each loop is a testament to the tension between creation and encounter, mark and monument, suggesting that painting is never fully confined—it spills outward, reshaping the world it touches.
By projecting these painterly gestures into the landscape, Ingram’s Superimposition Loops conjure thresholds where the ordinary dissolves into the extraordinary. Like stepping into a scene where the familiar terrain suddenly feels animated, uncanny, and alive—a place where imagination and reality collide.
Each monumental, scribbled loop retains the energy of a hand-drawn mark, amplified into bold, architectural presence, yet retaining the freedom and immediacy of its gestural origin. Even the most seemingly natural environment is revealed as layered and enchanted like a set where human mark-making in the landscape is rendered visible.
John McCulloch compiled folders of archives that resonate deeply with me—reminders of a time when we routinely photocopied inspirational images, book chapters, and cut-out newspaper or magazine articles, keeping them as significant reference points to return to.
Scattered among these were records of our own practice: photographs, notes, sketches, and writing. I still have my own versions of these folders stored in my garage. McCulloch kept his in his office, alongside an extensive collection of artefacts accumulated over a lifetime of architectural interrogation.
Of course, this method of collecting and storing information has now largely disappeared, replaced by digital archives. Yet there is something captivating about physical archives assembled in this way. They allow us to see an experiential order of things: a tactile timeline of thinking, a collage of influences, and an unfolding relationship to what was happening locally, nationally, and globally.
This physical process of archiving underpins the exhibition. In my last post, I reflected on McCulloch’s focus on pedestrians and the importance of designing town centres that reflect community life. His 1975 thesis lamented the growing encroachment of cars into pedestrian spaces and argued for places where people, rather than vehicles, are drawn together.
Following this thread, a 1989 article titled “Traditional Towns” by Andrés Duany, a photocopy McCulloch kept in his files, describes “a depressing and aggressive analysis of what’s happening in the suburbs.” Duany references Virginia Beach — a landscape dominated by large buildings, retail complexes, car parks, and multi-lane roads. Everything, he purports, is designed for the convenience of cars, moving and parking them, at the expense of pedestrian and therefore social life.
For Duany, commuting by car is no longer a choice but a system reinforced by planning codes that block walkable, mixed-use towns. The result is suburbs with no real public realm, little street life, and no safe reason to walk. These conditions erode social cohesion, “stripping life from our streets.”
Seen through McCulloch’s eyes, the article’s relevance is clear. His work in New Zealand during the 1970s and 1980s faced similar challenges as town centres shifted toward car-dominant planning. By filing Duany’s critique alongside his drawings and notes, McCulloch documented both his process and the wider conversations shaping it.
As I revisit these archives today, I'm prompted to ask: What lessons can we reclaim from critiques of car-dominated planning? How do we re-centre people in our towns and cities? What role do designers, planners, and communities play in shaping environments that support connection, safety, and social life?
These provocations sit at the heart of McCulloch's practice, encouraging us to consider not just how we archive ideas—but how we act on them.
Duany, Andrés. (1989). “Traditional Towns.” Architectural Design, 59 (9/10), pp. 60–64.
As I continue delving into the archives for the exhibition 'Drawing Together: John McCulloch’s Community Architecture', I’m struck by how clearly McCulloch understood something we still struggle with today: towns and cities should first and foremost work for the people who walk through and around them.
In his 1975 University of Auckland thesis, 'Invercargill: A Study of the Town Centre', McCulloch placed pedestrians at the centre of his thinking. He argued that the heart of a town or city is defined not by cars or buildings, but by the everyday activities and experiences of the people moving within it.
His thesis focused on revitalising Invercargill’s town centre—creating a sense of identity, a true ‘arrival’ point, and a civic heart shaped around pedestrian activity. Shelter from the weather, clear walkable routes, green space, trees, places to sit, places to gather—simple, human-centred elements that make a town or city feel alive.
Re-reading his work makes me reflect on my own daily experience as a committed pedestrian. I navigate cars reversing out of low-visibility driveways, unlit paths, damaged pavements, broken glass, scooters, and spaces that feel increasingly designed for vehicles first. The sense of abandonment in some pedestrian and cycleway areas stands in stark contrast to the vibrancy McCulloch envisaged.
One passage he quoted in his thesis, taken from Ilf and Petrov’s satirical novel 'The Golden Calf', feels surprisingly contemporary in its lament of car dominance over pedestrian space:
“The streets built by the pedestrians passed into the hands of the motorists. The roads were doubled in width and the pavements were narrowed down to the size of a tobacco wrapper. In a large city, pedestrians lead the life of martyrs, just as though they were in a traffic-run ghetto. They are allowed to cross the street only at crossings – at points where the traffic is heaviest and where the thread by which a pedestrian’s life usually hangs may most easily snap.”
Written nearly a century ago, it still reads like a critique of many modern towns and cities.
McCulloch believed Invercargill—and all towns and cities—should offer a welcoming, human-scaled centre: a place where walking feels safe, accessible, intentional, and valued. His early advocacy for pedestrian-first design now feels less like historical research and more like an urgent reminder.
The exhibition research keeps me returning to this question:
What would our towns and cities look like if we loved pedestrians again?
Ilf, I., & Petrov, E. (1964). The Golden Calf (J. H. C. Richardson, Trans.). Frederick Muller. (Original work published 1931).
For the past 25 years, I’ve worked across public galleries, community and artist-run spaces, and creative industries education, and I’ve facilitated numerous projects in spaces and places shaped by the voices of the people who use them.
Alongside this, my PhD research into DIY Museums immersed me in community-led initiatives where stories are told by the people who live them. These experiences showed me something powerful: when people are trusted with the tools, skills, and agency to create culture for themselves, the results are bold, relevant, and deeply connected.
That’s the opportunity we’re standing in front of right now.
The pace of change is faster than ever. Whether you’re a business, an educational provider, or a cultural organisation, meeting your audience where they are — in how they live, learn, connect, and consume culture — is no longer optional. Those who listen deeply, adapt quickly, and co-create meaning will not only survive, but thrive.
Imagine if every project, initiative, or experience began not with “what do we want to make?” but with “what matters most to the people we serve — and how can we build it together?” That’s when creativity becomes magnetic. That’s when people show up, participate, and share.
As I step into running my own creative business, this is the work I want to do: help organisations, businesses, and communities design experiences that feel participatory, relevant, and alive — spaces where the audience is not just watching but shaping what happens.
So here’s my question for you:
If you’ve worked in creative industries, education, or community culture — what’s one change you believe would make these experiences more relevant, inclusive, and alive right now?
I’d love to hear your thoughts — whether they’re big, structural shifts or small, practical actions you’ve seen make a real difference.
Anzac Day, Invercargill, 2025
Times have changed and so have the expectations of museum audiences. Like many sectors, museums have been fundamentally reshaped by the pandemic. Have we truly responded?
Historically, many institutions followed a 'build it and they will come' model: design an impressive architectural spectacle in a central location, add technology bells and whistles, promote in-house programmes—and then wait for the crowds to pour in.
But what happens when people don’t come—or when they can’t?
If a museum is defined by its purpose—to share culture and knowledge—then the expectation that people must always come to us begins to unravel.
Our purpose does not need to be gatekept; it can be shared. Museums are facilitators of purpose, not sole directors. It is not our role to dictate what communities need, or to sit in offices brainstorming projects we think the public should want to see.
People want more than observing from the sidelines. They have their own stories to tell—and they are already using the tools available to them to tell these stories. So how are we responding?
Purpose can be fulfilled anywhere:
In schools, businesses, libraries, rest homes, hospitals and parks
Through pop-up exhibitions in community spaces
On digital platforms and immersive online experiences
By embedding stories and collections into daily life
This doesn’t mean the museum as a place loses value. People still seek the aura of objects, the atmosphere of a gallery, the joy of visiting a cultural space together. But it does mean our responsibility shifts—from assuming audiences will arrive at our doors, to meeting people where they are and working alongside them to tell their stories in their own ways.
And this raises some challenging questions:
Should success still be measured by visitor numbers to our buildings, or by the depth of connection across multiple spaces and platforms?
How do we maintain trust and identity if the museum becomes more distributed, flexible, and decentralised?
Are we willing to step back from being 'the experts,' when that very mindset can get in the way of truly understanding the people we serve?
What does it mean for staff, resources, and ways of working if museums exist as networks rather than a single site?
The future museum is not one destination but many—defined less by walls, and more by relationships.
👉 What if the measure of a museum’s success was not numbers through the door, but how far its purpose travels?
Garrett Steam Engine at the Southland Rural Heritage Centre in Thornbury
Many of our council-controlled museums began life as DIY micro-museums—born of hard work, perseverance, and the passion of local volunteers. This grassroots model is not the exception but the dominant pattern in Aotearoa New Zealand. We make our own museums to tell our own stories, in our own ways.
DIY museums often proliferate in the face of marginalisation and centralisation. They are communities reclaiming their art, history, and culture as their own. They want to tell stories in ways that resonate with them. In doing so, they tell us something important about what it means to be a museum in New Zealand.
Yet as museums grow and professionalise, something is often lost. The community ethos that drove their existence can become marginalised—sometimes even intentionally—through the performance of ‘professionalism.’ Too often, this professionalism is modelled on large overseas institutions whose practices reflect the contexts of their own places, not ours.
But what if we measured professionalism differently?
• What if our definitions of a ‘museum’ came from the needs and aspirations of our own communities, not centralised or imported standards?
• What if professionalism wasn’t about having climate controls, but about how well you connect, collaborate, and sustain the stories of place?
• What if, instead of competing and undermining each other for funding, we celebrated the community energy that underpins museums across our country?
Frictions exist. Competition for funding is real. Yet DIY museums did not emerge to professionalise, centralise, or dominate. They grew from community desire to protect, share, and celebrate local stories. I have seen them achieve incredible things through their own support mechanisms—often with a broader people-base than large museums could mobilise.
Many remain unaware of how dominant the DIY museum model is in New Zealand. This lack of awareness is a missed opportunity. Large museums rarely collaborate meaningfully with their small and micro counterparts. As a result, extraordinary stories across our communities remain fragmented or invisible.
But what if large, centralised museums became conduits and catalysts—championing their DIY foundations and celebrating how they were made and remade over time through the sheer will and drive of their communities? Rather than dominating, they could be key drivers of promoting the diversity of our museum landscape, amplifying local stories and connecting them to wider audiences.
Imagine a sector that recognised the value of all its players—where the community ethos that created museums wasn’t a quaint origin story, but a core measure of professional strength. A sector stronger together, rooted in the energy, ingenuity, and care of its people.
Across Aotearoa New Zealand, I see incredible destinations—museums, galleries, historic sites, cultural spaces—that are often overlooked when together they could be powerful, unified, and unforgettable.
Now imagine this:
Visitors start engaging with your arts, culture, and heritage brand before they even arrive, discovering and planning experiences through a cohesive online platform.
They’re welcomed at the airport with your region’s identity on display.
Over breakfast in a hotel or café, stories connect them to your place.
And it flows through their journey—alive in streets, public spaces, businesses, and cultural and heritage venues your community proudly shares.
Arts, culture, and heritage shouldn’t be stumbled upon by chance. They should be embedded in daily life, part of your region’s identity, and told as a cohesive and compelling story.
Imagine your museums, galleries, archives, heritage sites, trails, creative spaces, and businesses working together, creating a living brand experience your community can celebrate—and visitors can’t ignore.
When arts, culture, and heritage are central to a region’s brand, they don’t just enrich community life—they attract people, investment, and pride of place. The secret is already there. The question is: will you keep it hidden, or will you unify it into the story your region tells the world?
Let’s work together to make your region’s arts, culture, and heritage impossible to miss—contact me to start the conversation.
Southland Fire Museum
