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.

John McCulloch worked on hundreds of projects across Southland, including tourism infrastructure in Te Anau and Piopiotahi. The Milford Sound Visitor Terminal is one of these. Driving the Milford Road, I imagined the regular site visits described by architect Brent Knight, who recalled the McCulloch team making fortnightly day trips for meetings. What a commute!

The scale of visitation was obvious. Traffic was heavy, and buses filled the terminal car park. Piopiotahi, named after the Piopio, an extinct native thrush, now attracts over a million visitors annually. Numbers grew from around 437,000 in 2012 to 883,000 in 2018. Most visitors take cruises from Freshwater Basin. Around 40–50% of international visitors to Queenstown travel on to Piopiotahi, as do 20% of domestic visitors, and 19% of international visitors to Southland. These figures, from the Milford Opportunities Project, show the pressures on the area and the need for planning.

Although widely known as 'Milford Sound,' Piopiotahi is actually a fiord — one of 14 in Aotearoa New Zealand, all in the South Island, formed by glacial movement carving deep coastal inlets.

Management of the area is evolving. Following six months of work, a new partnership has been established, facilitated and supported by the SDC. Previously shared between RealNZ (49%), Skeggs Group (49%), and the Council (2%), the structure now includes Kāi Tahu, through Ngāi Tahu Holdings, and eight Papatipu Rūnaka — as a 33.3% partner alongside RealNZ and Skeggs Group.

Experiencing the terminal amid such growth highlighted how environments change and how architecture must continually adapt. Projects like this are never permanent forms; they are catalysts. The terminal did more than provide shelter and ticketing — it enabled patterns of visitation, shaped how people arrive, gather, and depart, and organised the relationship between landscape, infrastructure, and experience. It became part of a larger trajectory no single moment of design could fully anticipate.

As visitor numbers rise, expectations shift, and leadership evolves, the architecture evolves too. Additions, reconfigurations, and new layers of meaning become part of its life. Rather than a finished product, the terminal is one stage in an ongoing process — a framework supporting environmental management, tourism, and identity building.

It is exciting to see Kāi Tahu taking a stronger role in kaitiakitanga in Piopiotahi, and to imagine how local narratives and cultural presence may become more embedded in the experience of this extraordinary place, shaping how it is visited and understood.

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.

The new year brought confirmation of ten re-established polytechnics across Aotearoa New Zealand, including SIT, Ara, EIT, NMIT, Toi Ohomai, Wintec, Unitec and MIT, Otago Polytechnic, UCOL and The Open Polytechnic. It’s a significant moment, but it also raises the question: what could autonomy in the regions enable?

Vocational training in the regions takes a community. Times have changed and so have the needs and aspirations of learners and industries. Industries are pivoting faster than ever, and expecting a centralised, siloed model of education and training to keep up is increasingly risky. Regional providers with local governance are far better placed to understand what is happening on the ground and to develop programmes and delivery modes that respond to real gaps in skills and capability.

While the regional institutions identified as sustainable will be relieved to continue this work, ten polytechnics alone will not fill the skills gaps across the country. Some regions will remain underserved. Learners can move or enrol in online qualifications, but attrition in remote programmes is high because the model simply does not work for many people. Onsite hands-on learning builds communities, and when it comes to work, having access to face-to-face industry and community networks who can support your learning journey is crucial.

One of the most visible gaps is for people already in work. Learning pathways are still largely designed for school leavers, who can dedicate months or years to full-time study. For those in full- or part-time work, often supporting families, this is rarely possible. After more than a decade in the sector, I have seen how limited the options are for people to grow or shift their skills in the places they live and work. We all can and should continue to drive our own learning, and access to online resources has never been greater, but the development of hands-on skills and capabilities that are relevant to regional contexts must be embedded in communities and workplaces. Learning is no longer a destination, as it was once viewed. Upskilling and retraining while in work are now fundamental to supporting thriving regions.

So how might newly announced regional autonomy begin to serve those who are currently underserved? Most regions will not see it as viable or desirable to encourage people to leave to train, nor is it practical for many to do so. Regions now have the chance to establish their own models for growth around identified gaps. There is a real opportunity to reimagine delivery so that learning is embedded in workplaces and local industries, with facilitated, blended training that fits around work rather than requiring people to step away from it. Learning and working life are intertwined, and regions are best placed to determine how skills development connects with their industries and communities.

If we are serious about thriving regions and sustainable local economies, learning must be designed and delivered to fit the lives of learners while strengthening the communities around them. Regional providers, industry partners, and communities can now work together to shape models of vocational learning that are accessible, practical, and deeply connected to local needs. This is how skills development can support both people and places, creating thriving communities where learning is part of everyday life.

I started my ‘formal’ tertiary education at the Dunedin School of Art, completing a four-year degree followed by a two-year masters. It sounds like a long time now, but at the time it was standard, and like all periods filled with activity, it flew by. I finished my degree and chose to continue straight into my masters because I felt I had more to learn, I was in the ‘zone’ in terms of navigating that learning environment, and I could already see how hard it was for those with greater financial commitments to step back into study.

What I also learned in art school is that learning never ends. The more you learn the less you know. That really did ring true for me. And although I have spent much of my life in learning institutions, learning itself is not confined to them. It can happen anywhere and at any time, and we are now in a moment when learning has never been more accessible. We can choose learning that fits with the contexts we are navigating.

Many institutions still treat learning as a destination, where you acquire a qualification which signals that you have arrived and will now naturally progress to your aspired place in the world. This does both learners and institutions a disservice, because generally a qualification is not a ticket or a pass to anything. Educational institutions often boast that qualifications result in better employment outcomes such as earning more in the long term. However, rather than the acquisition of a qualification, what really matters is the active pursuit of learning in whatever form that takes.

There are ongoing debates about the relevance of tertiary qualifications, especially in relation to how quickly graduates transition into work. This is an ongoing challenge for institutions whose funding models and historical ways of operating struggle to support the kind of agility the working world now demands. That does not mean there is no value in undertaking a qualification. When I later completed a PhD, I knew the credential mattered less than being supported to pursue research in the real world, and to keep learning as part of how I work.

Those who treat education as a destination, and who prioritise maintaining the status quo over learning, are inevitably steering themselves into irrelevance. You have never arrived. A qualification is not a ticket or a right to the working life you imagine. Lifelong learning is not something an institution gives you — it is something you choose, again and again, as the world, and your place within it, keeps changing.

When I was at art school, I lived off a student allowance, which meant a very lean life with little room for expenditure beyond rent, power, phone, and food. I didn’t have internet at home, or my own laptop. I made black coffee in a pot on the stove, later upgrading to a stovetop coffee brewer I found for $2 at an op shop. I slept on a mattress on the floor with a broken bed base, owned an old antique dressing table, and put cash into jars each week to make sure I could keep the power and phone on.

Most winters I froze and went to bed fully dressed, wearing a beanie and using two hot water bottles. My first flat was a concrete-block, two-bedroom unit with a one-bar heater. Each morning I woke to condensation streaming down the walls. I owned an old second-hand television that worked sometimes but had an ancient video player that worked just fine—aside from the occasional moment when I had to unscrew the top to rescue a chewed tape.

There was a shared washing machine with two tubs, requiring mid-cycle load swaps. I walked long distances to art school, to buy groceries, pay bills, and visit op shops, only occasionally taking the bus. I kept spare clothes in my locker at school because arriving soaked was not uncommon in Dunedin.

None of this felt unusual. And this isn’t a story about hardship—I was happy. I was making my own way in the world and had the opportunity to attend art school and learn from people I admired. I became an avid op shopper and attended auctions, amazed by how much could be acquired for so little.

I committed fully to painting and took every opportunity to do commissioned work: portraits of children, pets, houses, and gardens. When I started, I had two paintbrushes and three colours—black, white, and red. I made my own canvases at art school. Later, a local art supply store allowed me to open an account, paying $10 a week so I could gradually buy more brushes and colours. I painted constantly, developing strategies to work with what I had.

For a large-scale commission, I woke at 4am to paint for three hours before my flat mates woke. The canvases were too large for my bedroom, so I unpacked and repacked them daily.

I didn’t need much to begin. I worked for years with a 35mm camera a friend loaned me, bought 120mm cameras at auctions, and still use two old tripods—one bought for $15 thirty years ago, the other found abandoned.

Limitations became my greatest ally. The skills I learned served me well when I took my first paid role in the non-profit museum sector, where budgets covered little beyond salaries and modest programme costs. Fundraising was routine, and doing a lot with a little was simply how things were done.

Creativity thrives on constraint. Limitations force choices, sharpen focus, and build resilience. Working with less taught me how to begin, how to persist, and how to solve problems rather than wait for ideal conditions. Abundance, by contrast, can often be a hindrance to creativity, encouraging hesitation, distraction, or the pursuit of perfection. These lessons continue to inform my creative practice, reminding me that meaningful work rarely depends on having more but just on getting started.

Commission for Dunedin Hospital, 1999.

As I was searching our bookshelves for a particular quote I wanted to reference this morning, I thought again about books as objects/artefacts. Yes, I am old enough that I completed both my master’s and PhD before the advent of AI, and while I used online sources, I relied heavily on books.

I remembered the substance of the quote and the author, and I was able to locate the book fairly quickly from our very large, unorganised (and somewhat out of control) book collection. Why was I able to access the book so quickly? Because I remembered the book as an object: its size, the colour of its spine, and the cover. A skill that was likely fundamental to the research I was engaged in.

When completing my masters, referencing was done manually, and you learned your lesson very quickly if you did not make note mentally or physically of an important source. This made me think of the connection formed with a book as a physical object that is handled, paged through, post-it filled, marked, and notated. Books that hang around the house, lying open at pertinent pages. Books that are packed in bags and carried around. That are lived with. That are valued as artefacts.

If I used online articles, I was in the habit of printing them and filing them away with the reference carefully documented on the front page. These were also the days when we printed our own texts, particularly when tackling something with chapters, and took to the pages with scissors and tape to reorganise, restructure, and physically address flow and consistency. It all seems a bit strange now — so what, if anything, have we lost when books or articles are read on screens exclusively? Would I have remembered both the author and the content of the quote if it was not tied to the physical experience of handling, paging through, and living with the book?

We often have a young visitor who enjoys perusing our diverse and chaotic collection. Piled on every surface and overflowing from numerous bookshelves (yes, including the garage). Her selections always surprise me but of course I understand that she is selecting piles of books based on their appeal as objects: the size, the colour, the title, the cover, and the illustrations inside.

The physical act of searching and making choices is an embodied experience. Where, when, and how you choose to cosy up with a book all contribute to how we retain what we read. Whether the book is read aloud or consumed in silence. With or without juice, a cup of tea, or snack. The experience of the book is embedded in the physical acts before, during, and after reading.

Do we still need or want to remember in times when we can simply Google or Chat locate a new reference via our screens at any time? What do you think we stand to lose when the experience of books is no longer embodied?

“A life of making isn’t a series of shows or projects, or productions, or things; it is an everyday practice.” Anne Hamilton

Creativity is often framed as a sudden spark — a flash of inspiration. In reality, creativity is built through practice. Your first idea becomes a catalyst. Creative work requires time: interrogation, reworking, and refinement. It often requires unlearning.

As we age, we are taught, subtly and repeatedly, to abandon imagination in favour of certainty. Creativity becomes defined and contained, rather than unlimited and expansive. Fear and doubt begin to feel like barriers instead of natural companions to experimentation. Mistakes, happy accidents, and even failure are not signs of inadequacy; they are essential to the creative process, just as they are to learning itself.

You are not born with a finite number of ideas. Creativity is generative. It produces infinite possibilities: new ways of thinking, solutions to problems, relationships with materials, and approaches to connection. Think of creativity like a muscle — it strengthens through daily use. Small acts of making compound.

If fear or doubt arises, that is a sign you are on the right track. We naturally fear the unknown, but it is precisely in the unknown that creativity flourishes.

Another barrier that emerges with age is the pressure to become an ‘expert.’ Curator Marcia Tucker resisted this position, stating, “Experts are people who are deeply involved with what they already know, and I don’t want to be one of them.” The amateur, the one who does not yet know, remains open, curious, and willing to experiment. It is in this state of not-knowing, or perhaps un-knowing, that innovation becomes possible.

When I see children create, I see unrestrained creativity. Their work is not measured against invisible standards or weighed down by fear it does not ‘measure up.’ There is freedom in that, and it is a freedom worth reclaiming.

So, make something every day. It doesn’t matter what. Write a poem, a post, a story, an article. Play with materials, meaning, and process. Dance. Sing. Perform. Animate. Compose. Curate. Film. Draw. Document. Archive. Just make.

Learn as you go and embrace the amateur in you. Work in the unknown. Fear, doubt, and failure are not signs to stop — they are your friends. They tell you that you are moving beyond what is familiar. Nothing new comes from sticking to what you already know.

Creativity is a practice, a daily commitment to curiosity, exploration, and growth.

Hamilton, Ann. Making Not Knowing. In Learning Mind: Experience into Art, edited by Mary Jane Jacob and Jacquelynn Baas. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2010, p. 69.
Tucker, Marcia. Out of Bounds: The Collected Writings of Marcia Tucker. Edited by Lisa Phillips, Johanna Burton, Alicia Ritson, and Kate Wiener. Getty Research Institute and The New Museum, 2019, p. 240.

Volunteering has long been the backbone of communities—sharing knowledge, building networks, and creating resilience. But many of us no longer have the time or energy for long-term roles alongside work, study, and caregiving. That doesn’t make volunteering less valuable—it just means it needs to look different.

Having worked with many volunteer groups, I’ve seen the benefits for both volunteers and organisations. Volunteering builds skills, confidence, relationships, and often opens up opportunities that emerge through connections rather than formal channels.

It shows people what you can do, teaches you to work with diverse groups, introduces new ways of thinking, provides applied experience, and challenges you to solve unfamiliar problems. Many opportunities in my career have grown directly from volunteering.

When I began my studies, internships were rare. That’s why I recommend that anyone choosing a course of study today prioritises programmes that include practical placements. Gaining hands-on experience, whether through placements or volunteering, can be incredibly powerful.

Volunteer roles may not pay the bills, but they help both emerging and established professionals develop skills, build networks, and gain experience at any stage of their careers.

At art school in Dunedin, I deliberately said yes to as many voluntary opportunities as possible. This led to my first role in the creative industries. I gained real-world skills and, just as importantly, a network of people who believed in me. Volunteering gave me access to communities and experiences I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Do I still volunteer today? Absolutely. I make volunteerism a part of my working life and see it as integral to the work I do. Strengthening the resilience and sustainability of the creative industries is my purpose, so this time is well spent.

Working with people in the sector you want to join helps you build your community, which is essential to a sustainable career. That’s why I encourage micro-volunteering: contributing small, manageable amounts of time to a project or organisation aligned with your values and aspirations. If you see a problem or want to contribute, propose how you might help—even in a small way. You never know who will notice, or what opportunities may emerge.

Micro-volunteering recognises modern realities while preserving the heart of volunteering. It allows you to contribute meaningfully without overcommitting, while building skills, relationships, and purpose.

Small, intentional contributions can lead to lasting change. Look for gaps in your sector, consider how your skills, or even a commitment of time, could help in a sustainable way. This is how careers, communities, and industries are strengthened over time.

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.

Yesterday I walked to a local second-hand bookshop. After having a cast removed from a broken ankle, I’ve been gradually extending my walks again. As a lifelong walker, the loss I felt when I couldn’t walk was significant. That absence sharpened my awareness of how much walking has declined in our towns and cities, replaced by the convenience of driving. Our spaces are now largely designed to prioritise traffic flow and parking, even for very short journeys.

The walk—around an hour return—wasn’t especially pleasant. It followed a busy main road, noisy and exposed. Still, arriving at the cool, dim interior of the bookshop made the effort worthwhile. The shop sat within a small cluster of businesses: a gallery and a vintage emporium, places once sustained by foot traffic. The bookshop was running a 50% closing-down sale, and it was easy to see why. As shopping shifts online, retailers that depend on people passing their doors struggle to survive.

Yet the experience of a second-hand bookshop cannot be replicated digitally. Rows of mismatched shelves, books arranged by loose logic and happy accident—this kind of discovery doesn’t exist in franchise stores or online marketplaces. I drifted toward the children’s section. As a lifelong reader, and with a regular young visitor who loves books, I was looking for new adventures. I browsed until I selected two books for the modest total of $10.

The owner told me he would be taking the business online. I felt a quiet sadness at the loss of this physical presence. Books are objects as well as vehicles for learning and imagination. Holding them, being present with them, is an experience I’ve always valued.

One purchase, though shelved with children’s books, is now more suited to older readers: Six Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm, illustrated by David Hockney, with its stark depictions of death. The other was If I Was a Banana by Alexandra Tylee and Kieran Rynhart. Illustration matters deeply to me. Over a lifetime, I’ve seen how powerful images foster joy and a love of reading in emerging readers.

On this walk I passed only a handful of other people on foot, which feels typical now. On the way home, an RV dealership caught my attention. I wandered from vehicle to vehicle, imagining possibilities unlikely to be realised—but the wandering itself was what mattered.

What do we lose when we accept that our towns and cities are no longer designed for pedestrians? We lose chance encounters, unplanned discoveries, and the small curiosities that happen only at walking pace. We lose places that invite lingering, and businesses that rely on presence rather than efficiency.

Walking creates space for noticing—for drifting into bookshops, pausing at windows, imagining different futures. The walk itself, imperfect as it was, reminded me that moving through a place on foot is not just a way of getting somewhere, but a way of belonging to it.

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.

Looking back on my journey in the Creative Industries, one thing has always driven me: solving problems. This is a fundamental principle of creative practice-based research. Every day, I see opportunities to address challenges through creative practice — opportunities to transform human experiences, whether small or large.

Creative practice is more than ideas; it’s about making them happen. This requires experimentation and refinement. Nothing new is born from simply following conventions. If you always stick to what you already know, you risk stagnation. You will face doubt, uncertainty, and setbacks — but the trick is not letting this stop you.

Don’t be afraid to do things you have never done before — this is where growth begins. Start small, take risks, and experiment with materials, methods, and approaches. Each step expands your understanding and reveals possibilities you couldn’t have imagined. Never stop learning, and you will never stop growing.

Don’t worry about what others might think of your work. Everyone has an opinion, and the opinions of those who do not understand your journey are often the most negative. Some people fear risk and cling to the status quo — that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you have to. There is greater joy in solving a problem than continuing to replicate a problem that already exists.

Start building a network of people you admire. Connect with peers at the same stage as you, as well as leaders in your field. They can support and advise you, offering insights that will help you navigate challenges along the way. Problem solving, whether big or small takes a community. Listen to those who have earned your trust and respect and let their guidance inform your practice.

Work with others who share your vision. You can achieve more together than alone. Conversely, don’t spend energy working with people who don’t share your vision — banging your head against that brick wall will only deplete your energy. Collaboration is essential, but it only works when everyone is aligned and committed to a shared purpose.

The outcomes of creative work can be modest — a small impact within a community — or significant, creating sustainable change. What matters is embracing the process and getting your work out into the world, no matter your age or experience. The initial plan will evolve as you progress, shaped by learning, experimentation, and collaboration.

Creative practice is about seeing problems, exploring possibilities, taking action, and learning as you go. It’s about letting go of constraints, discovering freedom in your work, and making a meaningful impact along the way.

So, go forth and create!

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).

Before you sign up for a programme of study, start with the most important question: what kind of work do you want to do? If you’re not sure yet, that’s completely normal. A bit of research will help you figure it out.

Begin by looking at real job listings across areas that interest you — animation, design, film, gaming, content creation, photography, music, or any other creative fields. Pay attention to what roles spark your interest, the skills employers are looking for, and any patterns that show up across different jobs. If you spot a role that feels like your ‘dream job,’ reading the position description carefully can give you a clear idea of the skills you’ll want to build through your training.

Once you’ve collected a few examples, make a list of the skills that appear repeatedly. Creative industries change fast, but the skills employers consistently ask for give you a strong indication of what is currently in demand. This list becomes your starting point for figuring out what type of training will support your goals.

It’s also important to remember that studying is a major investment — not just financially, but also in time and energy. Once you know what skills you’re aiming for, compare different programmes and check how well they align with the direction you want to take. You want to be sure the training fits your needs, your interests, and your aspirations.

When looking at different options, choose programmes that are genuinely connected to the creative industries. Look for tutors or facilitators who are active in the field — people who are working professionals, researchers, or creators with up-to-date knowledge. Most institutions list staff bios on their websites, and these should clearly show industry engagement. Learning from people who work in the sector means you are more likely to gain relevant, current skills.

It’s also worth asking whether the programme has industry advisory groups, partnerships, or alumni networks that are genuinely involved in shaping what is taught. These networks help ensure that your learning reflects real-world expectations and give you valuable opportunities to meet the people who are already doing the work you want to do. Alumni networks can help you see the many different pathways graduates take and can give you insight into how people build sustainable creative careers.

Real-world learning is another essential component. Ask whether the programme offers internships, placements, or live client projects. Opportunities to apply your skills in real situations help prepare you for the transition into work, and programmes with strong industry connections can often see students moving into jobs even before they finish their qualifications.

Finally, look for programmes that understand the realities of creative work. Many creatives switch between employment and freelancing, so the programme should prepare you for both. You’ll want the freedom to explore different pathways and build the confidence to take opportunities when they arise. Ideally, the programme should also offer flexible options so that if you are offered an internship or job while studying, you can take it and continue working toward your qualification.

Choosing the right creative industries training is about finding a programme that connects you with real professionals, teaches the skills employers are looking for, and supports your transition into the creative workforce. With the right foundation, you’ll be well-placed to build a creative career that is both exciting and sustainable.

Vocational training in New Zealand has been on a rollercoaster for years — restructures, closures, shifting priorities, and constant uncertainty. Skilled people have left the sector, and programmes have disappeared. In the South Island regions, the impact is unmistakable: access to hands-on tertiary training is shrinking, and more people are being pushed toward online-only options or relocating to major centres.

These days, every region needs opportunities for people of all ages to upskill, reskill, and adapt to rapid change — from evolving technologies to shifting customer expectations. Industries need capable, creative workers. Communities need people who can step confidently into new roles as the landscape transforms.

And this is where the current structure often fails the regions. Large, centralised institutions tend to move slowly. Redeveloping programmes, responding to emerging needs, designing new solutions — these processes can take years. Vocational training, however, needs to be able to pivot quickly, especially as industries evolve at speed. This is where the regions have historically been strong. Regional communities, employers, educators, and councils have shown time and again their ability to come together, innovate, and create practical solutions that meet their own needs.

When programmes are designed from a distance, without deep connection to local industries or context, they risk becoming disconnected from the very places they are meant to serve.

Vocational training takes a community who understand the region’s realities — its challenges, industries, aspirations, and potential. It requires employers who are willing to partner and mentor. It requires learning facilitators who can deliver programmes grounded in place, responsive to local demand, and flexible enough to support both full-time and part-time learners. It requires iwi, councils, and community organisations who help shape pathways that genuinely reflect local needs.

And crucially, it requires the agility that only communities themselves can create. No one cares more about a region’s success than the people who live and work within it.

That’s why the regions need the autonomy to build their own solutions — vocational pathways that are locally governed, designed, delivered, and able to adapt quickly.

If we want strong, resilient regional economies, we can’t rely on centralised one-size-fits-all models or wait for solutions to filter down from elsewhere.

It takes a community to build vocational training that truly works — and the regions are ready to lead.

When looking for work, do the categorisations drive you crazy? “Are you a curator? A marketer? A manager? A lecturer? An engagement specialist?”

In the Creative Industries, these silos are pronounced. “Are you a content creator? A museum director? A designer? An educator? An artist?” Each discipline has its own expectations, language, and definitions of value — and yet, the work we do rarely fits neatly into a single box. I’ve struggled with this my whole career. I don’t see myself as having one definitive role title. I see problems to solve and opportunities to solve them, and that’s what I’ve always set out to do.

You run organisations, manage budgets, drive income, attract funding and sponsorship, build websites, coordinate, design, and deliver marketing campaigns, manage volunteer and memberships, design and deliver education and outreach programmes, teach, lead teams, support professional development, undertake research, develop, deliver, report on and evaluate projects, propose and implement new initiatives, grow organisations, attract new clients, manage communications … yet in New Zealand, employers often want to pigeonhole skills and knowledge to fit a narrow role description.

The risk is that when we reduce people to one box, we miss out on the full value they bring — the insights, connections, and innovations that emerge when multiple experiences intersect. Imagine if these boundaries didn’t exist. Imagine working across disciplines freely, drawing on the full scope of knowledge and skills people bring to the table.

To employers: look beyond the boxes. Consider the broader skills, experiences, and perspectives people offer — they can make your teams stronger, your projects richer, and your outcomes more impactful.

To anyone whose experience spans multiple areas: articulate it, demonstrate it, and show how your diversity of experience creates real value. Take the chance to be all you can be. Don’t be reduced to a box.

As I sit with my sprained ankle raised, unable to move much, I’ve been thinking about education — and more specifically, how we learn.

How to solve problems and adapt to new contexts is fundamental to learning. Even something as small as working out how to manage daily life with limited mobility has required fast adaptations — getting food, reaching the washing line, navigating stairs. These are small but real reminders that learning isn’t just about absorbing content; it’s about applying thinking in new contexts.

Having been involved in New Zealand’s education system for most of my life — as a student, educator, and leader — I keep returning to one question:
Are we really teaching people how to learn, or just instructing them to meet pre-determined standards based on our experience of education?

We talk a lot about innovation, but too often our systems reward compliance over curiosity. One consistent skill our education system teaches — intentionally or not — is how to follow institutional processes, meet metrics, and navigate bureaucracy rarely designed with learners in mind.

Yes, that prepares people for navigating institutions. But it also reduces learning to procedural compliance. It becomes something you acquire through qualification — tick the box, move on. But real growth doesn’t follow that trajectory.

Staying in your comfort zone isn’t learning. Fighting to preserve a status quo that no longer serves is also not learning. Education can become a trap. We grow confident in what we already know and stop questioning how we know. We become protectionist about the things we learned in the past, convinced that because it worked for us, today’s learners should simply 'take their medicine.'

A colleague recently reminded me: curiosity is too often missing in education. And it matters. Curiosity drives us to explore what we don’t know rather than defend what we do. It invites questions. It fosters exploration rather than just passing on information.

The ability to learn — to think critically, explore creatively, and adapt with agility — is a lifelong skill, not something confined to any classroom. Yet we still prioritise structure over imagination, and assessment over ambiguity.

So, I find myself asking:

Are we preparing learners for complexity, or just for benchmarks?

Are we protecting outdated models because they serve learners — or because they protect us?

Are we resisting change because it feels risky to what we already think we know?

These aren’t easy questions. But they matter. Because if education is to stay relevant, it needs the courage to evolve — and that starts with curiosity.

With art history evolving across education at all levels, I’ve been reflecting on its potential to equip learners for today’s image-saturated world.

At its best, art history has always been about more than artists and movements. It teaches us to read images — to ask who made them, why, and how they became part of art history, including questions of representation and cultural context.

Today, access to images has changed dramatically: they are available on demand, 24/7, across mainstream media, social media, streaming platforms, video games, and AI-generated content. That constant exposure makes the ability to engage critically with images more important than ever.

The democratisation of image-making has also changed the game: anyone can upload a video, create a documentary, design a game, or generate AI content. This raises critical questions for learners: Who created it? Why was it made? Whose perspectives are represented, and whose are missing? What impact does it have on audiences and culture?

At the same time, the reality is that not enough learners are choosing art history, which means its value is often not fully understood. The pathways into creative industries are also complex: over 80% of people working in the sector don’t hold formal creative qualifications, and of those who do, most do not go on to work in the field. This highlights the need for a curriculum that equips all learners with the skills to engage critically with visual culture — whether or not they follow a creative industries pathway.

Some questions I keep returning to:

Should art history continue as a standalone subject, or be integrated into a broader curriculum of visual culture and media literacy?

How can it combine theory, practice, and technology to remain relevant and engaging?

What value does it bring to learners making subject choices with future careers in mind — in design, marketing, journalism, politics, or education?

How do we ensure it develops pressing real-world literacies while maintaining the cultural depth that has always made it meaningful?

Reimagining art history isn’t about replacing it — it’s about enhancing it. By connecting traditional knowledge with contemporary visual culture, we can equip learners with the tools to critically interpret and engage with images across all platforms, from classical artworks to AI-generated content.

The ability to question, decode, and contextualise images is more than an academic skill — it’s a vital competency for navigating the 21st century.

There’s been a lot of attention lately on the productivity of New Zealand’s creative industries, with strong advocacy for more recognition and support. But one barrier keeps us from real progress: the way creativity is siloed as a separate 'sector,' as if it sits outside the real economy.

In truth, creativity is the economy. Every major global brand, from tech giants to food producers, knows this. They invest in design, storytelling, and branding because they understand its direct impact on consumer behaviour, loyalty, and value creation. Think about it: the product you reach for in the supermarket isn’t just a choice—it’s influenced by packaging, colour, typography, and the story the brand tells. The phone you use, the car you drive, your coffee, your clothes, even your home furnishings—they all show how design shapes your decisions, guides your preferences, and influences your experiences.

Even beyond products, the built environment, landscapes, digital interfaces, and media we consume are curated by creative professionals. Our daily lives, often unconsciously, are shaped by creativity—guiding what we notice, how we feel, and the choices we make. Every interaction with a brand, a space, or a service is a small moment of design in action, a deliberate act of influence that contributes to economic outcomes. In short, creativity is not peripheral, it’s the engine behind nearly every transaction, preference, and experience that drives markets and fuels growth.

Here in New Zealand, we still treat creativity as an add-on, something 'nice to have.' The result? We undervalue its contribution to GDP, productivity, and innovation, and miss its critical role in national branding and international competitiveness.

Policy makers, business leaders, and educators have the opportunity to recognise creativity for what it is—essential infrastructure central to driving economic growth, strengthening New Zealand’s global positioning, and building a resilient future.

When creativity is integrated into strategy and investment, it doesn’t just benefit the creative industries themselves. It strengthens every part of the economy that depends on design, storytelling, and innovation to thrive.

Breaking down the silos around the creative industries is essential if New Zealand wants to unlock the full potential of its economy. Creativity isn’t the side show; it’s the main stage.