Beyond the hype and speculation, non-fungible tokens (NFTs) are viable investments and intriguing new vehicles of creative expression. Not only that, but their implications for the art world and for the relationship between creators and collectors, are huge.
With a vision to capitalise on the potential of this space and make it so that artists and content creators can design, develop and benefit from their own NFTs, Glorious has launched as New Zealand’s first NFT studio and marketplace, and is offering a select number of exclusive, Founding Memberships to those who want to get on board early.
Cass by Rita Angus.
Put simply, Glorious works alongside the worlds most formidable artists and content creators to create authentic digital masterpieces and connect with serious collectors. Not reserved just for artists in the traditional sense either, Glorious will team up with athletes, musicians and other rights holders to create meaningful work that is enduring and that can be bought, displayed and enjoyed as works of art.
It is all about empowering the creators and ensuring they get the recognition and reward they deserve in this evolving digital landscape. Not only will Glorious facilitate the creation of NFTs but, using blockchain technology, it will guarantee its creators receive royalty payments every time their work changes hands. Glorious even has its own secondary marketplace through which collectors can buy and sell NFTs with each other directly.
So far, the impressive Glorious roster includes Dick Frizzell, Fiona Pardington, Reuben Paterson, Lisa Reihana, Dan Carter (also a co-founder), Steve Smith, Crowded House, Nathan Haines and so many more. Glorious’ next drop will launch this week with 12 exclusive digital masterpieces of Gordon Walters’ Maho. (Edition 1 recently sold via auction at Art + Object for NZD$36,210.)
As for collectors, if purchasing an NFT has been on your radar, Glorious is making it easier than ever to start. Holders of Glorious’ exclusive Founding Memberships — of which only 1000 will ever be offered — will be given an enduring and evolving piece of art (it launched with a piece by Reuben Paterson but will change to offer glimpses into the works of other Glorious artists), early access to NFT releases (for example, GFM holders will have access to the Gordon Walters drop an hour before the public), free airdrops of standalone NFTs (we’ve heard the first one is Dick Frizzell), induction into Glorious’ exclusive community and invitations to in-person events. Mark our words, as the NFT space evolves, this will become one of the most valuable cultural memberships you can own.
And as far as displaying and enjoying your NFTs, Glorious recommends Samsung’s The Frame for the most worthwhile viewing experience. That said, once you own an NFT, you can show it off however you like.
Maho by Gordon Walters.
Demystifying and democratising the world of NFTs, Glorious is proving that it doesn’t have to be as complicated or confusing as one might think. Our advice? Purchase some Ether (the cryptocurrency accepted by Glorious), load up your crypto wallet and allow this groundbreaking cultural platform to guide you through the new landscape.
At 15 years old, Melanie Lynskey was plucked from her life in New Plymouth to star alongside Kate Winslet in Peter Jackson’s 1994 film Heavenly Creatures. Her performance as Pauline Parker was critically acclaimed, and the film itself eventually nominated for an Oscar. Since then, Lynskey’s varied and intriguing career has proved a strong exception to the rule of eventual burnout that so often hangs over actors who enjoy early success.
Going on to play a raft of crucial supporting roles in films like Coyote Ugly, Sweet Home Alabama (with Reese Witherspoon), Up In the Air (with George Clooney) and The Informant! (opposite Matt Damon), before landing a recurring role on Two and a Half Men, and the leads in a number of acclaimed indie films like Hello I Must Be Going, I Don’t Feel At Home In This World Anymore and Sadie, Lynskey is one of those rare actors in ‘Hollywood’ whose work is not only consistent but of a truly high calibre.
This is something the industry has also recognised, rewarding the actress with a Sundance Special Jury Award, a Hollywood Film Award and Critics’ Choice nominations. For Lynskey, it seems, the love for her work lies in the process as opposed to the outcome, which explains the way she has managed to steer her career through a notoriously fickle industry with such understated grace.
Having recently finished filming her role in upcoming blockbuster Don’t Look Up (with a cast that includes Meryl Streep, Cate Blanchett, Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lawrence and more) and about to start production on an exciting new series for Showtime (with Christina Ricci and Juliette Lewis), Lynskey continues to go from strength to strength — a pattern we’re sure will continue to define her impressive career, well into the future.
Here, the actress divulges some of the lessons she has learned along the way, from listening to her instincts to the importance of diversity in film.
Lynskey (left) as Pauline Parker in Heavenly Creatures.
I am very much an introvert and I was painfully shy as a child, but the first time I was on stage in a school play, I felt this freedom being somebody else other than Melanie. It gave me a crazy confidence and it was such a powerful thing for me. I think I got addicted, because as soon as I would stop acting I’d go back to being that shy little girl. So I started to say it was what I wanted to do for a living and everybody was like ‘you’re crazy,’ and then I got Heavenly Creatures [with Kate Winslet and Peter Jackson] when I was still in high school.
You don’t just get a breakout role and become a ‘movie star.’ The people around me at the time, because they knew how hard the industry was, didn’t want me to get carried away. Everyone was like ‘go back to high school, get a degree and get on with your life.’ And I read it as a knock on my talent instead of them being protective, so I took some time to determine if it was what I really wanted to do.
I once auditioned to play Janis Joplin and I still sometimes wake up in a cold sweat thinking that there’s a tape of me auditioning to play Janis Joplin out there somewhere… so mortifying. It was when I was younger, and was auditioning for everything, so there were roles that I would go for that didn’t resonate with me, in my soul, and that was torturous. I mean I wish Janis Joplin was in me, but she really isn’t. Now that I’m older and am able to have a little bit more say, the roles I gravitate towards are the ones where I connect inherently with the character. Where there’s a part of me that understands this person and that needs to get their emotion out of my system. So the actual acting part becomes easy.
I know, when I read a script, if I can do it or not. The only thing I really do to prepare is something called creative dream work — it sounds very ‘woo woo’ but it works for me. You sort of channel the character and ask yourself for a dream, and whatever comes up in your dream you write it down in the morning. I get a lot of invaluable information that way, it could be a physicality or someone will be in the dream and I’ll realise how much of that person is in the character I’m working on.
I’ve only had one job when I didn’t have a dream. I was going through a horrible breakup and the script was about a horrible breakup, and my subconscious was like, I think you’ve got this.
It helps that I have good instincts and that I have learned to listen to them. I only do projects I am truly interested in. I have stopped letting myself consider movies that I don’t like because of the actors or directors that were apparently attached… the last time I did that, the actor I thought I would get a chance to work with (and the reason I did the movie) dropped out.
I had a therapist once who said,‘why are you so good at advocating for your characters and not for yourself?’ It’s hard for me in my life to say that I feel upset about something or that I feel angry, and I don’t like being confrontational. But at work, if I get a note that I don’t like I’ll just say no, very clearly. And it can cause tension. Some directors want you to do exactly what they say but I know my characters so well, they’re a part of me, and I’ll stand up for them. I wish I could do it for myself too, but I’m not as good at that part.
I recently filmed a movie that my very dear friend Justin Long and his brother wrote and directed together and it is the silliest comedy. I played this woman who is a stoner and is visited by a ghost from the 1800s who teaches her how to be a lady. I had been doing a lot of intense stuff, and the thought of being in sweatpants and just acting like I was high for a whole movie was so freeing.
Lynskey as Molly Strand in Hulu’s ‘Castle Rock’.
People think that all actors are millionaires. It’s so funny. Most actors are really struggling. There’s this website that publishes people’s net worths and they say mine is five million dollars and I’m over here thinking, ‘give me that money then, like where is it? Wherever it is, I’d love to have it.’
Often as an actor, if you dare say anything political, people get very upset and they say ‘oh well you’re one of the Hollywood elite and you live in your ivory tower.’ Most actors have come from nothing, and have had to work super hard to make their own way in the world. That perception that actors are out of touch and don’t understand what real people go through, it’s so strange to me. It’s not like we were just formed and put on the earth at 22 years old, we’ve lived life, we’ve had upbringings, we’re friends with a lot of different people even if we are working in film.
I try to use my platforms to draw attention to issues I care passionately about and I follow a lot of smart, politically active people on Twitter. Unfortunately, basic human rights are still something that need to be stood up for right now, for people of colour, for women, for gay people and trans people, and it’s nuts to me that we’re in 2021 and we’re still having to have this conversation.
Diversity is a big issue in my industry. But I do think people are starting to make changes. Especially in television, I’ve been working with so many more female directors. It makes the working days shorter because they’re more decisive — they don’t feel as though they’re allowed to take all the time in the world to make a decision. Not that all male directors are like that, many of them are empathetic and kind and collaborative, but in my experience, almost all female directors are those things. So that’s been a really nice change. I did a show a few years ago, Mrs. America, that was entirely directed by women, every episode. Having diverse voices and perspectives are so invaluable when you’re making art and for so long we’ve only seen the worldview of white men.
I have pinch-me moments all the time. I did a movie a few years ago that Steven Soderbergh directed, and he has always been one of my favourite directors. I’ve seen everything he’s ever done. So to have him think I was doing a good job and to be in that film with Matt Damon, playing Matt Damon’s wife, every day on that movie I was like… wait what?
I did a scene with Leonardo DiCaprio the other day… it was bizarre. He’s one of the very few famous people I’ve met who just seems like a guy, I really was not expecting that. There are famous people like George Clooney (who is one of the nicest people, by the way) who walk into a room and there’s an energy shift… and it’s not something he means to do — he doesn’t have a trailer, he doesn’t have a makeup artist, he hangs around with everybody on set —but there’s something about him.
Reese Witherspoon is another one — they’re movie stars. And so it was really interesting with Leo, that he came into the room and I didn’t notice for a minute. He carries himself with such modesty. It was inspiring to work with somebody who really is at the top of their game, but who was also so generous as an actor. His performance off camera for me was exactly the same as when the camera was on him. There was no holding anything back or trying to save it for his close up.
Lynskey as Michelle Pierson in HBO’s ‘Togetherness’.
My favourite directors are the ones that trust me. I don’t like being micromanaged. Jay Duplass, who I did the show Togetherness with, said that if he went onto set and told his actors exactly how to do it and how to feel their emotions, it would throw them off so completely because they’re ready to let everything out they’ve been holding onto for months, and it confuses their instincts. If you let an actor do whatever they want for the first take, then you can give a million notes — but chances are, you won’t need to.
It’s a bummer to have to say this but the biggest challenge I’ve faced in my career would be my own body image and the way that the industry views people’s bodies. There’s sort of an implicit expectation of perfection because everybody looks the same but I had a bad eating disorder for 10 years and even when I was like 58 kilograms I would still be shamed in wardrobe fittings for not being sample size.
Or now that I’ve had a baby it’s like, ‘you should be proud of what your body has done’ and it’s upsetting that the only way women are allowed to not look perfect is if they have given birth. Plenty of women have never given birth and they should be allowed to look however the fuck they want.
I did a movie once [Hello, I Must Be Going], where I had a young love interest and a lot of the reviews were just men trying to process how I could realistically be sexually attractive to someone younger. Roger Ebert, god rest his soul, who was a wonderful reviewer, spent his entire review trying to understand how this man would want to have sex with me. He said that Chris Abbott (my co-star) was almost a good enough actor to make him believe it and that I was cuddly and sweet BUT… And I was like seriously? You don’t think that a bored 19 year old would want to have sex with me for the summer, like really? Is it that dire of a situation?
Recently I was on set with an intimacy coordinator. It’s something that’s around more after MeToo, someone who is on set to make sure the actors feel comfortable with an intimate scene. I wish I had had that when I was younger. There were a couple of times early in my career when I didn’t have enough agency to say that I was uncomfortable. I once had to do a scene where a man attacked me and tried to force himself on me and we had choreographed the whole thing with the stunt coordinator and then at the last minute, the actor and the director changed the choreography so it would look more ‘real,’ and it was so scary. I wasn’t even good in the take because I was so confused.
My measure of success was always whether or not I would have to pick up a second job. Being able to make a living in this industry without having to ‘fall back’ on something is an amazing thing, and I’m very grateful for it. Especially now, being in a position where I don’t have to audition as much and have a bit more choice. Sometimes, people on Twitter write to me saying ‘you should have a better career!’ but I feel good about it, myself.
Lynskey as Amy Minsky in ‘Hello I Must Be Going’.
My guilty pleasure is reality television. My fiancé and I watch The Voice, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Million Dollar Listing and all seasons of The Bachelor — even the first season of the New Zealand one. My fiance loved it. He couldn’t get over how low key the production was…. like when a girl had to drive herself to a date, he was shocked.
People would probably describe me as anxious. I had a therapy session with all of my siblings once, and they all said that I needed to worry less. My siblings make fun of me because ‘be careful’ is the last thing I say to them in emails or over the phone.
I would like to be remembered for being kind. That’s always my hope when I interact with anybody, that I could have made their day a little bit better. I just hope that when people think about me they think, ‘she was nice.’
Of everything I have done, I’m most proud of my daughter. I had her when I was 41 so I was a little late getting started but she’s two now and she is so funny and weird. It’s been a really corrective experience for me.
I’ve just finished doing a movie called Don’t Look Up which has this ridiculous cast [Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lawrence, Cate Blanchett, Meryl Streep, Timothée Chalamet and more] and then I’m doing a drama/thriller series that has been picked up for Showtime called Yellowjackets with Christina Ricci, Juliette Lewis and Tawny Cypress. Half of it takes place in the 90s as our younger selves and half of it is today and we’re survivors of this plane crash where a lot of crazy shit went down.
At the moment I’m getting tested three times a week [for Covid] and while it’s weird standing close to another person without a mask on, I do feel very lucky to have a job this year. I guess you just have to keep going when the world seems terrible. You have to hold on to some hope that more people are good than bad and things will get better.
For the uninitiated, the metaverse can feel like an unassailable concept; complex and ever-evolving. And while Facebook’s recent name change to Meta (which many have argued is a strategic move by the company’s embattled CEO to pivot from scandal) has dominated headlines, the metaverse is broader than what one social media juggernaut alone is offering.
The central idea of the metaverse proposes that virtual worlds (digital havens in which people can purchase products, buy land and socialise with one another) are the future of the Internet, but its development gives rise to the question of how blurred the lines will become between our ‘real’ world, and the one we can inhabit online — and how the two can coexist.
So what is the metaverse, exactly? Broadly, it refers to the ways in which our interactions with technology are changing, and it will affect how we socialise and how we do business. To look at it structurally, the metaverse comprises virtual worlds, augmented reality and a growing (and thriving) digital economy. According to Cathy Hackl, a prominent tech futurist who helps brands prepare for this new technological frontier (she has been called ‘the Godmother of the metaverse,’) it is “…a further convergence of our physical and digital lives… It’s about shared virtual experiences. It’s about breaking free from two dimensions into a fully 3D environment.” For Hackl, the metaverse makes the impossible possible. It is the successor of the Internet, and it promises the kinds of opportunities for businesses and creators that have never existed before.
The Internet of old is set to transcend the tools we use to access it (phones, tablets and computers), and is morphing into something immersive and truly omnipotent. More than something we can see, it will become something we can experience and feel. Which will probably make it much harder to switch off from. And perhaps that’s the point.
‘The Gucci Garden’ on metaverse gaming platform Roblox
But before we get carried away, it must be said that the metaverse is still more or less a fictional space. A wealth of ideas but a distinct lack of infrastructure (the software and hardware both have a way to go) means that it doesn’t really exist yet. And because the metaverse is still in its infancy, any attempt to define it would be like someone in the 80s waxing lyrical about the Internet — pointless and destined to be proven wrong. Really, the virtual spaces that do exist now, in games like Fortnite and on platforms like Decentraland are simple and rudimentary. And despite there being a lot of speculation (including some pretty serious financial speculation) around the potential of the metaverse, no one really knows what it is, or crucially, what it could become.
We can only really discuss what we’ve seen already, which has included the rise of cryptocurrencies, the proliferation of NFTs and the beginnings of what some are calling the new goldrush — a virtual real estate boom. In 2021 alone, over USD$500million of real estate was sold on metaverse platforms, and that is predicted to reach USD$1billion this year. Let that sink in. Brands re-evaluating their footprints are quickly realising the commercial potential of virtual land. Not only will it open them up to literally millions more customers, but it offers a level of versatility and freedom that any brick-and-mortar storefront could not. This has huge implications across a number of industries, including luxury fashion, arts and culture — all sectors that have traditionally relied on real-world interaction for their bread and butter.
Fashion, in particular, seems to be embracing the metaverse wholeheartedly, with luxury labels rushing to make their virtual mark early. Major metaverse players like Decentraland are already boasting fashion districts in which people can shop, as well as creating virtual events like Metaverse Fashion Week, which will see platforms teaming up with big-name designers to create virtual shows and sell digitally-rendered collections. Jonathan Simkhai and Roksanda are two labels that entered the metaverse for their most recent fashion week outings after a number of successful events last year proved the profitable potential of this new frontier.
Balenciaga x Fortnite
One example was Gucci’s ‘The Gucci Garden’ on metaverse gaming platform Roblox, which saw the brand selling virtual products for real money. A classic Dionysus handbag sold for around USD$4,000, which is actually above the retail price on the ones that can be carried around in real life. Balenciaga also released a collection last year with gaming platform Fortnite, for which the luxury house created a series of ‘skins’ that players could purchase for their avatars. And Dolce & Gabbana at its Alta Moda show released a separate collection alongside its real one in which each piece was attached to its own NFT. The combined sale price of the collection at auction was USD$5.7 million. There are even metaverse department stores being launched like British start-up The Dematerialised, whose founder envisages a future where consumers’ virtual wardrobes are bigger than their actual ones.
For fashion brands, the metaverse is an exciting (and very real) new revenue stream that promises big margins with minimal resources, and no pesky leftover stock. It also offers ultimate freedom. In the metaverse, a dress or a t-shirt doesn’t have to abide by the laws of physics. And when functionality is no longer a requirement, clothes can be whatever their designer wants them to be.
It is a similar story in the world of arts and culture, which has seen the rise of NFTs, (Non-Fungible Tokens, digital identifiers recorded in a blockchain that are used to certify authenticity and ownership) open a hugely profitable new market for artists and auction houses. Sotheby’s recently established itself in the metaverse by creating a permanent space in Decentraland, while Christie’s teamed up with the world’s largest NFT marketplace OpenSea, to offer curated auctions to NFT collectors around the world. Even New Zealand artists are getting involved. Last year, Auckland-based auction house Webb’s sold the NFTs of two original glass-plate negatives of a photo of Charles Frederick Goldie for a combined NZD$127,000 — a sum far higher than expectations. And beyond the auction houses, it’s artists who are able to really capitalise on the NFT craze. This month, a new NFT marketplace called Glorious is set to launch in New Zealand, which will team up with well-known artists and creators to help them sell NFTs of their work.
Justin Bieber’s metaverse concert
But it isn’t just NFTs that are drawing people in. Virtual art experiences and concerts are offering a whole new way for people to engage with culture. At the end of last year, Justin Bieber held a metaverse concert on the virtual music platform Wave, where audience members could interact with the hitmaker’s avatar. Elsewhere, renowned museums and art galleries around the world are looking to see how augmented and virtual reality might enhance visitors’ experiences and interactions with their exhibitions.
Beyond the bottom line, the metaverse promises artists more control over their work and how it is consumed and sold. It could also see a fascinating new subsection of digital creators coming up with art forms that have never previously been possible, and bringing with them a new demographic of collectors and critics from outside the traditional body.
This speaks to the broader picture of why the idea of a metaverse is an appealing prospect. It not only promises creativity and an escape from the bounds of reality, but it offers a chance at transformation. It democratises spaces that, in real life, can feel inaccessible and elite. That’s the idea, anyway. It will be interesting to see whether this vision of egalitarianism can hold true once more and more people enter the space. Money still talks as loudly in the metaverse and there, profit is power.
Importantly, most discussions of the metaverse leave out crucial questions of governance, surveillance, data security and personal safety — one woman reported having her avatar groped within minutes of her being in Meta’s metaverse and there are apparently issues arising with young children using platforms they shouldn’t and the related risk of sexual predators. None of those things have been addressed yet. In short, there is still a long way to go before the metaverse lives up to the vision of its proponents, beyond all the marketing hype.
But as technology weaves itself more deeply into the fabric of our everyday lives, we can’t help but wonder how far-fetched the idea of us living in a virtual world is, when our current reality is already so augmented. And as we become more reliant on artificial intelligence for connection, socialisation and business, the metaverse feels less dystopian and more like our next evolutionary step.
Born in Cypress but based in London, where he studied industrial design and engineering at London’s Royal College of Art and Imperial College, and where, in 1994, he first launched his own design studio, Michael Anastassiades is a designer whose impressive career spans more than 20 years. Over that time, Anastassiades has honed a practice that spans products, spatial interventions and experimental works, proving his prowess as much in industrial production as in artisanal techniques and establishing himself as one of those rare designers able to create products that are luxurious and meticulous, while always maintaining an element of simple practicality. For him, timelessness and lasting design is the underlying goal.
Of course, if you know anything about this designer, it’s most likely to be his work with lighting. Anastassiades has cultivated a stellar reputation for lighting design that combines simple, geometric shapes (think tubes, oblongs, spheres) with materials like polished bronze and mirrored glass. Lights like his series for Flos, are made to appear as though standing at odds with the laws of gravity — orbs perched awkwardly on angular stands, or hanging off a rod, attached, apparently, to nothing. He is masterful at playing with moments of tension in his work, so that to look at one of his pieces is to question everything you think you know about construction. So revered is Anastassiades for his lighting, in fact, that its these kinds of pieces that now make up around 80 percent of his studio’s commission work.
So, in the interest of giving you a crash course in design history, and hopefully imbuing those pieces you might have sitting in your living room with a little more context, we have rounded up four interesting things to know about this prolific designer — available locally from ECC.
1.He fell into design accidentally Originally, Anastassiades wanted to be an artist. But to appease his parents’ expectations, he enrolled in the industrial design and engineering courses that would inevitably prove the gateway to his career. And while it’s hardly surprising that creativity had been his calling from a young age, design was never a straightforward prospect for him. Ironically, it was likely this sense that he didn’t fit the traditional ‘mould’ of design that ultimately gave Anastassiades such a unique perspective and approach to his work (and ultimately contributed to his success).
2.He stands at odds with the idea of ‘newness’ Speaking with Dezeen last year, Anastassiades explained that, despite the fact that the nature of his work was to create new products, his attitude was (rather paradoxically) that “nothing in this world is new… not even ideas.” Instead, Anastassiades acknowledges that while ideas already exist, there is a creativity in finding the qualities that make them timeless, that extend their relevance over a longer period. It’s this attitude that has resulted in Anastassiades’ focus on design that truly lasts. And really, when you look at his lighting work, many of the pieces he has created would be suitable in a range of trends and times.
3. His collaboration with Flos was a turning point Some of Anastassiades’ most recognisable work, and the pieces we have become so familiar with from seeing at ECC, are the lights he designs for Flos. Teaming up with the renowned Italian brand allowed Anastassiades to pair his design experience with a newfound sense of freedom, thanks to the larger scale he was afforded. It’s hardly surprising then, that his Flos collections seem to garner such widespread acclaim — they are the perfect expression of this Anastassiades’ design philosophy.
4.His work sits in a number of internationally-revered permanent collections Anastassiades work can be seen in the permanent collections of institutions like the Museum of Modern Art in New York and the V&A Museum in London. It has also, in the past, been showcased in exhibitions at globally-renowned galleries like London’s Institute of Contemporary Arts, the Design Museum, Somerset House and Sotheby’s.
Words Margie Riddiford | PHOTOS Alex Hedley | 28 Dec 2021
He is one of New Zealand’s most iconic figures, but don’t expect Sam Hunt to take up that lofty mantle readily. While over 50 years of writing and performing poetry has seen Hunt’s work come to hold an incredibly important place in our wider literary landscape, he is not interested in waxing lyrical about his legacy or acknowledging the influence his distinctive voice holds. For him, the idea of a ‘career’ sits at odds with his work, which he would tell you is something that has just been in his blood since childhood.
Impressively, poetry has been the way that Hunt has made his living since he started touring the country in his early 20s, frequenting pubs and venues up and down New Zealand to enthral audiences with his spoken-word performances, and making a name for himself with his shaggy-haired, lovable-rogue presence. (He officially retired from performing five years ago.)
Over the years, he has published numerous books and anthologies, his work has inspired a documentary film and he has had a number of articles penned about him in which he has been painted as a rakish character and a true bard — both true. But more than all that, poetry is something from which Hunt just cannot escape (and he doesn’t want to either). It is more than just a way for him to express his experiences; it is a lens through which he looks at the world, where a conversation with Hunt will see him recite cantos and lines from a mind-boggling number of other writers’ work — all of which (and thousands more) sit comfortably in his memory.
Here, we sat down with the man himself to discuss his fascinating poetic process, the lyrical voices that run through his head, the beautiful stillness of his home on the Kaipara Harbour and the crucial importance of listening.
As long as I can remember, poems were part of the scene at home. My parents both loved poems, but different sorts of poems in different sorts of ways. If I could put it plainly, my mother’s favourite tipple was the lyrical poems, whereas my father’s great love was for the ballads. He used to tell me ballads like Lord Ullin’s Daughter:
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry!
“Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
This dark and stormy water?”
“O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.
And so on and so on. Wonderful. So I grew up with all of that.
When I was seven my mother converted to Catholicism and I became an altar boy. I had never been sure about the religious side but I think it was Bach who said something along the lines of “the only good thing about religion is the music”, and I quite agree. Johann Sebastian and I are at one on that.
My mother’s father, Harry Bosworth, was another influence. He had a great memory. He would know entire Shakespeare plays by heart. Years ago, when Allen Curnow was a youngish man on the ferry between Devonport and Auckland, he said he had seen the most amazing thing — a drunk man standing on top of the ferry quoting canto after canto of Don Juan — that was Harry Bosworth. Some years ago a film was made about me called The Purple Balloon, and my poem, Purple Balloon, is about Harry Bosworth. It’s got lines in it like:
When Gangrene set in
my grandfather’s feet on a rack,
laid in the hospital bed,
he watched them slowly turn black…
And on it goes.
There are poets that became huge influences on me. Like Alistair Te Ariki Campbell and James K. Baxter, who wrote the famous letter to me… it starts off:
Dear Sam, I thank you for your letter
And for the poem too, much better
To look at than the dreary words
I day by day excrete like turds
To help to Catholic bourgeoisie
To bear their own insanity;
But the most beautiful verse I was trying to get to (that’s another thing, I’m not very good at quoting verses from a poem, I have to remember the whole thing):
Dear Sam, this day as I came down
The steps that take me into town,
Rehearsing in my head these rhymes
That hold a mirror to the times,
A perfect omen crossed my track,
Pugnacious, paranoid and sly,
A tomcat with a boxer’s eye
Dripping a gum of yellow pus;
I thought that he resembled us
Who may write poems well, with luck,
About the dolls we do not fuck,
And hear the dark creek water flow
From a rock gate we do not know,
Till we ourselves become that breach
And silence is our only speech.
As a 22-year-old I received that in the mail. What a poet. What a poem. It’s quite funny, I heard somewhere that it’s been published in a big smart anthology somewhere. When Baxter wrote that, it was banned. The magazines that had published it had to destroy all copies. It’s since been published by Oxford University Press.
My mum loved a poem by E.E. Cummings called No Time Ago. One day, one of the Sisters of Mercy at the convent said to my Standard 2 class, ‘Does anyone know a poem by heart?’ So I put up my hand and I said this poem, which is a beautiful 12-liner. I don’t know where it came from but I loved it then and I love it now, it goes:
no time ago
or else a life
walking in the dark
i met christ
jesus)my heart
flopped over
and lay still
while he passed(as
close as i’m to you
yes closer
made of nothing
except loneliness.
There’s a whole chapter in a psychology book dedicated to my memory. It was written by a Professor of Psychology at Auckland University. According to that, I do know a few thousand poems.
The reason I can remember so many poems is just because I can’t forget them. I don’t really know where some of them came from and what often happens is that I don’t have a bloody clue who wrote something. I’m not really interested in poets or poetry when it all comes down to it. But I love great ones. That’s the guts of it. The ones that won’t leave me. A good poem can keep me awake all night.
Some of the poems in my head I’ve never seen written down. A friend of mine Paul Firth recently died and years ago, when his older brother Mark died, their father Clifton wrote this poem about him, and I remember when I was about 15 or so Clifton saying this:
There is no question that a star was born
a supernova flared and died
as supernovae do from time to time
yet what is this conflagration but a fission
confusion of atoms at a critical moment
nothing, nothing, nothing at all
but surely it’s enough
that now and again
a supernova flares
and a star is born.
And I had not until recently, when a friend of the family came across a copy, ever seen it written down. But I’ve known that poem, I’ve had it in my head, for 60 years.
I came across a piece the other day by a North American poet (he shot himself I think, most good poets do) Theodore Roethke, Wish for A Young Wife… this is how it goes:
My lizard, my lively writher,
May your limbs never wither,
May the eyes in your face
Survive the green ice
Of envy’s mean gaze;
May you live out your life
Without hate, without grief,
May your hair ever blaze,
In the sun, in the sun,
When I am undone,
When I am no one.
That could change your life, that poem. You might go home to your husband and say, “sorry mate, I’m off”.
I think of the poem not as written down, that’s just the score. And you can get to the poem by way of the score. But I hear poems. I know the voice of the poem. If a new poem is coming along, it’s like a pregnancy, different things happen at different times. For me, it doesn’t happen the same way every time by any means but a poem starts with a sound. It’s almost like I’ve recognised a voice from somewhere. Sometimes the poems land on the roof and I’m not sure whether it’s a possum or a poem! Something thumping across the corrugated iron on top of my house, and I think, what is that?
I’ve worked out (it’s just a theory of mine) that I’ve got five voices. Two of them are female and the other three are male. And if I wanted to, I could divide my poems up into those five voices as far as where they’ve come from. There’s a line of Ezra Pound’s (a wild old bugger — he was a contemporary and good friend of T.S. Eliot’s, who dedicated The Waste Land to him — ‘to Ezra Pound, the greater master’) that ends up talking about the five voices, and this is what he says:
Oh world my poems are written for five people
Oh world I pity you, you do not know these five people.
Isn’t that great? Long before I would come to know those lines I worked out that I basically had five lyrical voices in my heart and head.
Sometimes I can make the mistake of trying to scribble a poem down too quickly in my Warwick 1B8 exercise book. But then again, if I don’t scribble something down, particularly if I wake up in the night with a line or a phrase or a word, it will be gone in the morning. So that part I recognise. But equally I recognise going the other way. It can’t be rushed. It’s a strange process and I still find myself astonished by it. It must be like the people who see birth all the time, like midwives. Most of them would agree with Ted Hughes in a poem he wrote about a birth, and in the last line, it’s a wonderful, throwaway line, he says:
Just another ten-toed, ten-fingered miracle.
The empty page is a good workbench. But I’m listening more than writing. For me it’s a sound process, which is probably part of the reason why I have often ended up working with musicians. People like Barry Saunders and David Kilgour and other people.
I didn’t have to go to a vocational guidance person to ask what I wanted to do. If somebody had stopped me in the street when I was young and said, ‘well, what are you going to do with your life?’ I don’t know, I’d have probably said I was going to go to jail or something. Do a life sentence and get it over with. I didn’t really know what I was going to do but I knew that poems were going to be at the heart of it.
When I was quite young, everyone was taking what they used to call OEs (overseas experiences) and honestly, what wankers. They came back more boring than they were before they left. And around about the same time I was discovering poets like William Blake with his lines like, ‘to see a world in a grain of sand’. You don’t have to travel all around the world. I mean it’s wonderful if it helps you make something of it all, but so many people just take selfies. That happened to me recently, someone tried to take a selfie with me and I just grabbed the camera and threw it on the ground. What an insult to humanity that is?!
I hate the word career. Career is a six-letter word starting with ‘C’ like cancer. I never had a career, and I never want a career.
Experiences had more to do with my poetry than any sort of marks I got for School Certificate. I remember once, my father and I were going to see French cellist Pierre Fournier at the Auckland Town Hall (who was playing, among other things, the Dvorak cello concerto which I fell in love with that night and love to this day) and I discovered a passage from my father’s chambers on Queen Street directly to the Auckland Town Hall backstage, and I ended up in the number one backstage room where Pierre Fournier was tuning up his cello for the show.
Later that night we were walking down Queen Street to catch the ferry, and an old friend of my father’s, Lewis Eady, was closing up his music shop, but he let us go in to see if he had a copy of the Dvorak cello concerto, which we found on double vinyl. We went home and stayed up all night playing the vinyl over and over. I’d describe those kinds of moments as spiritual experiences. They’re certainly the ones that have stayed close to my heart and consciousness, and subconsciousness.
I was very fortunate to be able to earn a living on the road. Often I’d do shows, one of my regular ones was the Gluepot in Auckland, and I’d do a one-man show where I’d get around 1000 people which was the maximum upstairs there, and it would be $10 a head. The pub would take the bar and we’d take the door. And so driving home the next day, or the day after, or the day after, I’d maybe have made, over a couple of nights, around $20,000 in cash. In the end I did get caught by the tax department. I was living outside the law. But what did Bob Dylan say? “To live outside the law, you must be honest”.
I retired on my birthday, on the 4th of July, five years ago. I do miss performing but I don’t miss the in-between bits of getting there and getting home. I miss the energy of doing shows and, although I don’t want to get sentimental about audiences, I’ve had some bloody lovely audiences. If I didn’t do a good job I didn’t expect a good reaction from the audience, and there were times that I bombed out (drunk and stoned and a long way from home) but that didn’t happen very often. And for all the times when the magic was taking place which involved not just me but every member of that audience, the relationship was almost electric. I miss that.
Now that I’ve stopped performing I’ll go downstairs in the house where I’ve got my own PA system and I turn the microphone on and I speak my poems into that. I don’t know what the cattle and the sheep think about hearing my voice booming out in the paddocks but the microphone gives me just a bit more objectivity. Again, it comes back to listening. When you go and do a show you’re putting your voice out there and it gives you that distance. I think, I wonder what this poem’s like and I wonder what it sounds like, and it’s different from sitting here and reading what I’ve scribbled down in my 1B8 Warwick. I wonder who Warwick was? I think I’d like to have met him.
Some poems are stillborn, or die young. And there are many more that maybe should have. But there are certain poems that I feel blessed to have written. There’s been a guiding hand there somewhere, or an ear that has listened and has taken it in. And it still amazes me. The poem that my mother always said meant a lot to her was one of mine called Wave Song. It’s sort of a carnal poem, a lot of them are anyway. But that makes it special.
I hope I’m not being curmudgeonly when I say that some of the biggest threats to poetry come from the writing schools. I know some of them have produced great stuff but there is great stuff that I believe would have happened anyway. Trying to learn poetry is a bit like learning how to dream. “And professor, what do I do when I close my eyes?” There are a lot of so-called poets who are being published who really haven’t done a hell of a lot more than go to a computer and start playing around with rhymes and things, and I’m thinking well, where is it coming from? I don’t need to know what a poem is about per se, I’ve never had that urge. But I want to feel that it’s going somewhere.
There’s a lot of talent among young people, but if I look for what’s happening in poetry now, I’m more inclined to listen to people like Benee and other ones like her. They’re the poets as far as I’m concerned because they’re doing it and they’re not bullshitting. There’s a lot of bullshit out there.
I love my home in the Kaipara. I live in a treehouse. I love this place. When I retired I couldn’t have been happier. And often, apart from when I go out with a couple of friends and get lost on the back roads (there are some beautiful backroads up here and sometimes there’s a pub at the end of them too) I don’t really see too many people. A lot of people like to visit people… they’re forever visiting… and I can’t work it out why anyone would visit somebody. I like the sign that apparently Bob Dylan has on his property in California that reads: ‘If you haven’t rung, you’re trespassing.’
When my youngest son Alf turned 11, I wrote 11 runes for him, and one of the little four-liners goes:
Alive Alf to live
clear of any city
live as we do
five gunshots from humanity.
And that’s where we live, five gunshots from humanity.
Alf recently gave me, for a present, six months of Spotify, which was very sweet of him except that I discovered the first six months were free anyway. I rang him and we laughed. He’s good. I thought, what a beautiful gift for a son to give his father and then I realised that it was all for free! Well, so is love, so is love.
You’ve got to fight for the ability to be still and sit in one place and listen. People will trespass on that territory easily and that’s why I do live five gunshots from humanity and not just physically and geographically but mentally. I’m not saying that I’m better than anyone, I’m just saying that I’m on my own. Jim Baxter, when he was 17 years old, wrote in High Country Weather:
Alone we are born
and die alone
Yet see the red-gold cirrus
over snow-mountain shine.
Upon the upland road
Ride easy, stranger
Surrender to the sky
Your heart of anger.
Poems are always there if you listen long enough. I had to renew my licence the other day and I overheard a phrase at the AA in Dargaville, I won’t repeat it now because I want to keep it echoing in my head, but it started me on something new. I think it was James K. Baxter who said in a poem dedicated to Maurice Shadbolt in the Pig Island Letters… ‘Whoever can listen long enough will write again.’
I’ve never worried about the dryness of the mind. At one stage I didn’t write a poem for quite a few years because I was just taken up doing other things and I wasn’t able to take the time to listen long enough… and then one day they all returned.
I stuttered quite badly from my adolescence, something I developed in puberty. And then in my later teens and early 20s I found myself out doing shows (as I did for the next 50 years), and the stutter went away completely. But in the five years that I’ve been retired from performing, I’m stuttering again and I don’t mind it. I think it had been outrun by the performances where I couldn’t stutter. And now it’s back.
I’m sort of working on a new collection. I recently wrote a poem called Mum and Mary about my mum, Betty and Mary, Mother of Jesus, out sharing a joint. It will be in this new book which I was going to call Last Poems but my publisher asked what would happen if I decided to write a few more?
I enjoy life but I’m looking forward to death. I’m three-quarters of a century now and it’s all happened really fast. I’m looking forward to having a look around the corner. ‘Hey around the corner, behind the bush, looking for Henry Lee’ (line from a 1955 song by The Weavers). That’s where I’ll be.
I don’t want to be remembered for anything. I was recently, very kindly offered an award and I just had to turn it down because it didn’t represent anything that I was about. It was a corporate thing. And they wanted to make me their poet. And I thought, if I get short of money I can stop in at a pub and play somebody on the pool table for $1000 and then move on to more dangerous places.
There’s no one really that I’ve ever fantasised about conversing with. Sitting down and talking to you is what it’s all about as far as I’m concerned. There’s a beautiful line in one of Bob Dylan’s many great songs where he says:
I have dined with kings
I’ve been offered wings
And I’ve never been too impressed.
I wonder if someone these days would be able to have a similar run to me. I hope that they would be able to, but looking back on it, it’s got to be in your blood. It’s not something you can pick out of a line-up of vocations or a booklet of possible professions. It must be very hard now. I’m recently 75 but I would find it very very tough being a 15-year-old now. It’s all so confusing.
I’m not a man for giving advice because all the advice I’ve given myself has got me into ditches. But again, I quote Bob Dylan, with the title of one of his well-known songs, ‘I Believe In You’. Believe in yourself. I know that you can’t just turn on a button and believe in yourself but make sure you get the poems down that will make you personally believe in yourself. If you’re listening to the voice, or voices and if you can tune in to your own one as it’s transmitting stuff from your conscious mind by way of your subconscious… if it’s working, it’s like love. It’s wonderful.
Considering his father was a founder of the original Radio Hauraki in the 60s, Zane Lowe’s eventual ascent to becoming one of the leading and most trusted voices in international music feels a lot like destiny.
Passionate about the industry from a young age, the Kiwi producer/DJ/radio host has enjoyed a career that has seen him easily described as New Zealand’s most successful music export on the global stage.
From producing records and touring as a DJ in his own right, to his influential stint hosting the prestigious BBC Radio 1 (where he held the power to make or break the career of any up-and-coming artists simply by choosing to play their music), to now, having been shoulder-tapped as Apple Music’s Global Creative Director, Lowe has been placed firmly at the forefront of music’s new era — streaming.
Instrumental in setting up and now running Apple Music Radio (formerly known as Beats 1), Apple Music’s free-to-access, 24-hour radio station, Lowe’s new shows reach a massive global audience, but it’s his uniquely honest and relatable style of interviewing that attracts the who’s who of the music industry.
For them, a conversation with Zane is about way more than just the music and interviews with artists such as Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga and Kanye West often make headlines, with The New York Times last year calling him ‘Pop’s Unofficial Therapist.’
But while the accolades have certainly opened doors for Lowe, his curious and passionate approach has remained more or less the same since he picked up his first record. For him, it’s about being as close to the music as possible — and that will never change.
Zane Lowe and Justin Bieber.
Music is one of the early entry points for imagination. I was fascinated by music from a really young age and being a parent now, watching how my kids have gravitated towards it too, it really sparks a lot of colour and movement in them.
I’ve been using music my whole life to help me translate things that are too hard for me to identify. In my formative years, when I started to develop my own thoughts and my own voice, I would spend a lot of time in my imagination, creating worlds in my head, and the thing that really moved me the most was music.
It really transported me to this other place. It wasn’t that I was trying to get away from my own reality but I was definitely searching for something more. Something that didn’t have any boundaries, that wasn’t necessarily what I could see outside my window. And music really took me there.
It was like a gateway to emotion and to things that I didn’t have the capacity to understand when I was younger. So that’s what began this deep relationship and I think it’s remained like that all the way through.
My grandfather played guitar, my grandmother loved music, my mum and dad loved music, my brother was instrumental in getting me into certain types of music because he had the record collection and he had the taste.
But I definitely think I took it to new levels personally. I was always asking, how can I get in the room where the people are making or playing music?
I was drawn more towards the experience and the process, not just the result, so that’s where, for me, it developed from an interest to a passion and from a passion to an ambition and from an ambition to a life’s work.
I was a fan first and foremost but I knew, way before I had the means or the maturity to do it myself, that music was what I wanted to do. I wanted to either be in a band or make records or produce records or talk about records. I suppose my dad’s big influence came from the radio side of it because that’s where I ended up eventually.
I started by producing records before travelling and getting myself into the best job I could find, making and presenting music TV, which led me to radio and eventually to the BBC. It was within that space that I realised I could draw on my passion for performance and being inside the process and translate that into the language of media.
I learned how to bring the energy that music gave me into the media space. So I would get on the air and throw myself into it and be passionate about it. And while my style might be divisive to some, all I needed was a few people to get it — and they did.
When you’re at BBC Radio 1 you never want it to end. It’s the dream gig if you’re a radio DJ or a broadcaster of any capacity, and I had an amazing 12-13 years there. But as that was coming to its natural conclusion, music was moving into this new, on-demand space where we no longer had to make appointments to listen to or view what we wanted, it was just there. And I was starting to see those behaviour changes occurring through my kids.
So that’s when I started looking at what could be next, and realised that subscription services and streaming were going to be the way to access the things that we loved. If I could find somewhere where they put it all in one place and I could become a part of that new experience, then that was going to be the ultimate. And sure enough, that’s what happened, thanks to a group of people at Apple who felt the same way.
Everyone I’ve ever worked with at Apple believes in the power of music, the importance of artists, the relationship between artists and fans and the privilege of being a conduit, a bridge between those two. That is the only conversation that matters and it’s something that Apple has placed at the core of what we do.
My role is to be immersed in that experience as deeply as I can be, and to be a guiding light for the artistic community to help bring them into the streaming experience, as well as evangelising our own streaming experience (which obviously, I think is the best) back to the industry.
Apple is the sum of all parts of my journey in a strange way because I’ve had to put everything I’ve learned and all my instincts to drive this new lane of communication through our radio shows and interviews.
But when it comes down to it, it’s answering the same questions I’ve always had — can I be as close to the process as possible? And when all is said and done, how many amazing experiences can I stack up along the way?
The fans are closer than they’ve ever been to the music. That door is open now and I don’t think it always was. You used to need permission to ask those deeper, more personal questions before, when conversations were more transactional. It was like, ‘if I’m going to talk to you, I have a job and you have a job and we’re here to sell records.’
But with artists using new tools like social media, direct-to-fan communication and direct distribution through streaming, that formal format has evaporated. Now, what we have is a very artist-forward future, which allows artists to hyper-focus on what they want to say and how — it’s all very bespoke.
If you’re an artist with a strong vision, you’re picking your future and you’re building it.
Zane Lowe and Kendrick Lamar.
When I was growing up, I thought a record deal was the only way to get past go. And while they still count, they’re not the only way anymore. That translates into the conversation space too. I’m seeing so much more openness and an interest in diving into new areas of the experience.
I’ll have a conversation with someone that goes pretty deep and then I’ll look at the comments and there is so much personal expression in that space from fans saying ‘oh man, that made me feel some kind of way,’ so it’s sparking this new interest in communication and I love that. But that’s only happened in the last half a decade.
If you listen to my interviews before, really up until the time I interviewed Jay-Z, it was very much about ticking the commercial boxes.
I used to do a lot of talking, but I really only just learned to listen. That’s the simple answer to why I’m able to have such personal conversations with the artists I interview now. I still do a lot of talking, but I always used to be searching for ways to insert myself into the conversation, probably out of insecurity.
A few years ago, I sat down with this great performance coach who watched my stuff and said, ‘I know you’ve been doing this a long time but there are some fundamentals here that you’re ignoring,’ and one of them was my need to always fill the pauses. So I had to learn to wait and to not be afraid of letting someone collect their thoughts. And that was a major game-changer for me. It slowed everything down and made me realise that a conversation is not a game of table tennis.
If I was talking to a friend or a family member who was giving me insight, I wouldn’t cut them off, so why would I do it with my guests? So I started to actively force myself to sit in the moment without trying to fill the space.
Once I started listening, I learnt so much more, and could apply those learnings to the next interview and the next one, so the conversations started changing in real time. And as I was able to open myself up, artists seemed ready to do the same.
It can be challenging when great artists get to that era of ‘no.’ They don’t want to talk to anyone, they don’t have to talk to anyone and they’re just dedicated to their craft and to their fans. And for someone in the media space like me, where access is everything, I’m like ‘what do you mean ‘no’?’ But actually, that is a beautiful place for the artist, and if you’re able to let that process play out then eventually, when they come back to you and say, ‘let’s have a conversation,’ it’s THE conversation.
It’s the one you’ve been waiting for because they want to do it and they have so much more to talk about. It might not always be me that has it but it will always be me that watches it, listens to it or reads about it because I recognise that when an artist gets to the place where they’re living and working by design and not by demand, it’s incredible. And when I have those kinds of conversations, it reminds me why I do this.
Every time I’ve spoken with Jay-Z it was like listening to this incredibly intelligent, wise empathetic and confident human explaining things in a really beautiful way. I’m not sure if we’ll ever get a chance to chat on the record again but he’s one of my favourite people to talk to. Even when I see him off the record it’s just the same — he’s got this amazing, thoughtful way of communicating.
Zane Lowe and Kanye West.
Sitting down with Kanye West was like being in a room with somebody who is just so in the moment, so hyper-present. A lot of times when you have conversations with people, there’s this dance and it’s all a bit architectural, like you know where they want to go.
And people often say that Kanye has it all mapped out and has this agenda, but that’s not the feeling I had. I just felt like I was going through each moment with him in real time, and it was one of the most spontaneous experiences I’ve had in an interview, which made it super fascinating.
The last conversation I had with Eminem was just about his cassette collection and it was one of my favourite conversations ever. Those ones are always a joy, the unexpected ones. I always get something brilliant out of them.
Last year felt like a very human year. We found this ability to open up the virtual experience and make it incredibly meaningful. At Apple Music 1, we stacked up over 100 ‘At Home With…’ shows and a lot of one-hour interview pieces and every day felt different, with such a variety of conversations.
It was probably the most fascinating year I’ve ever spent communicating with artists because it never felt transactional, it just felt very human. Of course it was also unbelievably challenging and disruptive and sad and frustrating but it also had moments that were really inspiring.
In and amongst all of the tragedy of the last 12 months, there was a lot of stillness for the artistic community, a lot of time spent not travelling or being distracted by the noise, because if you want to stay active as an artist it’s super hard work and it usually never ends. Getting observations from the artists inside that quiet place for the first time and in such succession was so enlightening.
There used to be so many barriers between artists and their audience. They needed a promoter who was going to book them, a label to put them out, someone to do their PR, a record store to sell their records. It was like a long lunch table where media, business and legal teams were sitting and artists would come up and say ‘hey can I sit next to you?’ and they’d be like, ‘well that depends.’
Now, the table is full of fans and artists and the media, business and legal teams are the ones coming up and saying, ‘hey can I sit next to you?’ and they’re saying ‘well that depends.’ That has been one of the best ways the industry has changed, in my opinion.
The way music is distributed now is incredible. Sometimes we get songs an hour before they’re available to everybody and for someone who came from radio and was used to having records for six weeks before they came out (at Radio 1 the audience relied on us to hear them before they went out and bought them) that’s just gone now.
I’m inspired by that because it really speaks to me as a fan. When I was in the middle of the Radio 1 era I felt like I held this responsibility as the gatekeeper of new music and while I loved every second of it, the whole system now is geared up to superserve the fans, which is the way it should have always been. The smartest people in the industry are the ones who recognise that.
Music has become such a hybrid culture. I grew up in a genre-fied space so people either loved heavy metal or indie music or hip hop or rock or whatever it was, and they would wear the Metallica or Britney Spears t-shirt and buy the poster and hang out with people who listened to the same things but it’s not like that anymore. Yes, there are still devout fans but most kids now are just listening to great.
The Apple transition was a sharp learning curve for me. When I first got to Apple I was asking things like ‘what do you want me to build? What is Beats 1? What is the format? What is the theme?’ And Jimmy [Jimmy Iovine, an Apple Music executive and one of the founders of Beats Electronics which was acquired by Apple Music in 2014] was like ‘it’s great. That’s the genre.’
So it was a couple of years of swimming in the deep end, trying to build a radio station with a few people and expanding that to 60-70 people across three countries and three studios and something that had to exist on 24-hour time in all time zones.
What we did with Beats 1 had really never been done before and the whole thing was so intense and the stress levels were high, but they should have been. We were building something new and trying to establish a radio station on a streaming service in a really competitive space. So it was about doing whatever we could do to make sure that it actually took off.
Five years later, Beats 1 became Apple Music 1 and we added Apple Music Country and Apple Music Hits.
I definitely have my issues with anxiety there’s no doubt about that. And it’s something I have to constantly monitor. It’s really important that I find a balance between how much I’m willing to throw myself into work versus how it affects me on the back end of the day, because when I’m in it I don’t think about it.
Also suffering from OCD throughout my life as a byproduct of all of that gives me this focus, but there have been times where I don’t read the signs and I come out of a period of work and feel knocked out.
Being a father is something that keeps me vigilant about overworking. My kids are 15 and nearly 13 now and I want to set an example in the way I manage my work and my lifestyle. Although I love my job, nothing is more important than my family. I love what I do but never at the sacrifice of them.
I’ve listened to more music being at a streaming service than ever before. At the BBC it was difficult because we were so focused on our playlists and I was doing a number of jobs and touring a lot, so my music time was split across different things.
When I came out to California and decided to focus entirely on Apple, not only were my kids developing their own taste in music and turning me onto things, but I was suddenly driving again, and it’s like, what else is there to do in LA traffic but listen to music? So it restarted the passion for me and I’ve been loving it outside of work in the strongest way.
I’ve been obsessed with making playlists and I recently started collecting vinyl again. When I pull out a record and hold it in my hands, it’s like an event. It’s this incredible commitment — Side A to Side B all the way.
Zane Lowe and Billie Eilish.
As I move forward in my career I’m becoming closer to music, not further away from it. I’m as excited now getting a record in the post or going record shopping as I was when I was a kid and I don’t know if that’s my midlife crisis or whatever but going record shopping for me is such a great way to spend time.
It’s all a byproduct of moving into this space. I use streaming in the way that it’s supposed to be used. I share a lot of music, I make a lot of playlists, I’m inside the process, I’m malleable with the music, I manipulate it and move it around. It’s tactile to me even though it’s in my phone.
The idea of success has changed throughout my life. At first it was about proving something about my ability (probably to myself). And then it became more competitive around whether my show was bringing in the numbers and hitting all the targets. But coming to Apple was freeing because I wasn’t brought on board to worry about any of that other stuff. I just had to make Beats 1 fantastic and that’s what we set out to achieve.
I had always craved that freedom to build my show however I wanted, and with Apple, it went from a show to a station, and it went from a country to the world. So when I think about what success is to me now, I just have to ask, am I still enthralled by the opportunity?
Am I still excited by the idea of sharing music and of discovering new artists? Do I still get a huge kick out of interviewing Elvis Costello or Barry Gibb or Cyndi Lauper? Hell yeah!
Do I love waking up on the 5th of January and having someone play me ‘Driver’s License’ and realising that a brand new superstar is here? Do I love sitting on a mountain in the most obscenely amazing environment having this great conversation with Billie Eilish? Absolutely.
Am I looking forward to talking to St. Vincent tomorrow? More than I ever have, and I’ve talked to her heaps. So as long as I’m still feeling that excitement and enthusiasm, that is success to me.
I’m not hung up on the competitive side of it anymore. I’m still hungry but it’s not the driving force. I just want this experience to have a really great arc. I don’t want to burn myself out to the point where I feel that I should have stopped years ago or I should have done something else.
I want my life to have a great cadence where it’s like, wow I learnt a lot, my family is healthy and I’ve had all of these amazing experiences and lessons — the ups and the downs, the challenges and the triumphs, a full life lived.
There are no scenes in music anymore, it’s all thriving! Dance music is going to be massive again. And meditation music is about to go through the roof too. Everyone will want to either stay calm or dance, that’s what it’s going to be like.
Expect more festival shit, rock music, a lot of amplification and guitars coming back, and rap music will be stronger, bigger and bolder than ever, there are some unbelievable voices coming through in that space.
Zane Lowe and Lady Gaga.
My advice to young artists is listen to your instincts and do your due diligence. Trust your gut, if you believe what you’re making is great, it is. If you’re not sure why people aren’t connecting to it, do the work. It’s not about the quality of the music if your instincts are telling you that this is the most honest reflection of who you are as an artist, you have to work to find your audience.
Music should come naturally but the audience takes work. So go and find your people. The good news is that you have every tool at your disposal now.
You have your own social media handle, your own distribution model, the ability to create your own artwork, do your own videos and create your own music with a fraction of the money it took to do those things 10 years ago. All that stuff is laid out.
So the only question you have to ask yourself is whether this is what you really want? And if you want a life in service to your art and your music, then wow, what a time to be alive.
Because it’s all right there. And by the way, I’m still here and I can’t wait to hear your music. I can’t wait to play your song on the radio, or talk to you about your music. So the opportunities are bountiful, but the principles are the same. Believe in yourself and do the work.
To design something that endures, that transcends tastes and trends over time, is almost impossible. But in 1966, that’s exactly what American designer Warren Platner did, creating a collection of furniture for renowned brand Knoll that, since its release, has not only never been out of production, but has become a cornerstone of modernist design, its ubiquitous pieces catapulting their creator to the lofty status of ‘icon’.
Warren Platner studied architecture at Cornell University before working with the likes of Raymond Loewy (the ‘father of industrial design’), Eero Saarinen (known for his explorative and experimental architecture and famous for designing the Gateway Arch and the TWA Terminal at JFK Airport) and I.M. Pei (the iconic designer who conceived the Louvre pyramid). Eventually, he set up his own studio and went out on his own, producing a number of formidable designs. But although his CV read like a who’s who of modernist design, it wasn’t until his collection for Knoll that Platner’s independent vision was given a global platform.
Not afraid to colour outside the lines, Platner’s particular brand of modernism marked a change in the aesthetic from something that was often stark, rigid and minimal to something that didn’t shy away from the ornate. In fact, it was the designer’s ability to balance these two opposing ideas that made his collection for Knoll so successful.
At the time, Platner said, “I felt there was room for the kind of decorative, gentle, graceful design that appeared in period styles like Louis XV… but it could have a more rational base.” As such, the designer’s seminal collection was sculptural and sinuous, with pieces fashioned from hundreds of thin, nickel-plated steel rods, seamlessly manipulated to form fluid shapes and intricate, cylindrical bases in a delicate combination of practicality and polish. And while the collection as a whole has been hailed as a triumph, it is the Platner chairs — the Easy Chair, the Lounge Chair and the Dining Chair— that have perhaps achieved the most recognition.
So what is it about these chairs that, despite decades having passed since their release, have seen them remain staples of interior design? For one, there is a beauty in the way that their simple curves and sleek, understated presence belie their incredibly complex construction. For some versions, more than 1,000 welds are required and nowadays the Platner chairs are available in a wide range of base and upholstery options, including a special, 50th-anniversary version that was released in 2015 with rods plated in 18-karat gold. For another, Platner designed these pieces to look as impressive with a person sitting in them, as they did standing alone, ensuring each would catch the eye without ever taking over a space, or being louder than their users.
“It is important that if you design a chair, you produce something [that] enhances the person in it,” Platner said of his creations, “because the basic premise [of a chair]… is ridiculous from a visual standpoint. I think that’s why chairs are so difficult to design.”
Since their release, the Platner chairs have found a universal audience — from design enthusiasts to interior experts to those who really know nothing about their history beyond the way they look — which, unfortunately, has also resulted in their frequent replication. That said, none are ever as good as the real thing, which (luckily) is available to us locally via the clever design specialists at Studio Italia.
Of his designs, Platner once reflected that “you hope to produce a classic. A classic is something that, every time you look at it, you accept it as it is and you can see no way of improving it. You can refine something forever, but you reach a point where you’re moving backwards…” Indeed, from their enduring nature to the way they can be made to suit any space, the Platner chairs exemplify this idea of the ‘classic’. It’s easy to say that they were ahead of their time, but really, if their decades-long lifespan says anything, it’s that they are truly ageless.
Designing breathtaking jewellery for over 30 years and with an eponymous brand that is one of the go-tos in Auckland for high-end finery, Brent Sutcliffe is an expert in the art of adornment. Often asked to create special, one-off pieces for his Sutcliffe Jewellery clients, here he tells us everything we need to know about the bespoke process (including some of the most extravagant custom pieces he’s ever created).
How many customers do you have who want bespoke pieces made? Customers wanting bespoke pieces would comprise about 70 percent of our overall client base.
What are the kinds of bespoke requests you get asked for the most? Are there any trends you’re noticing? Most of the bespoke requests we get are for rings — New Zealanders love rings. Probably more engagement rings than anything else. Large elaborate dress rings I think people prefer to see up close in real life rather than deciding to buy from a 2D design. Although there a few that do and are blown away by how much more beautiful the real thing is compared to the painting we do for them when we finalise the design. In terms of trends, we are seeing a lot of rose gold, platinum and engagement ring upgrades to include much larger diamonds.
What is the process of designing a custom piece? Is it better for clients to come with an idea of exactly what they want? Or is it easier when the starting point is more conceptual? If we are starting from scratch is always good for the client to know what they like…or don’t like. We need some kind of brief in order to make something the customer loves. But just a concept is fine and we will ask questions and have them try on what we carry in store to get a more specific idea of the direction.
How much creative input do you have in the process? We get as much information as possible from the clients and then we present some concept designs which get refined a number of times before the final options are presented. Sometimes a concept design is all it takes and sometimes we need to tweak the final design, it all comes down to the interpretation of the brief. In some instances, it takes a little bit more consultation, but it’s really important that we get it right so that the customer loves their final piece.
Have you ever had any bespoke requests that you’ve had to say no to? Only requests for certain things that will mean the ring will break or only last a year or two. I’ve spent 30 years making jewellery so I’ve seen what does and doesn’t work, and I don’t want to design or make something that I know will only lead to disappointment.
What is the most extravagant/spectacular/impressive custom piece you’ve ever made for a client? There have been a few that have been simply amazing to make, but the most recent was a bespoke Egg Pendant that had diamonds and black enamel on the outside and opened up to show a flower inside with an entremblent (moving or trembling) butterfly. It was one of the most difficult and time-consuming pieces I’ve ever had to make but the finished piece was… let’s just say I didn’t want to give it to the customer, I wanted to keep it!
What happens if the client receives their piece and doesn’t like it? Then we do what we have to, to put it right.
What kinds of pieces would you recommend going bespoke for? Anything can be bespoke, but the simpler pieces are easier for people to imagine finished. There has to be a certain amount of trust that we will deliver an amazing final piece.
What advice would you give people thinking of having a special piece made? If you’re thinking of getting a bespoke piece made, try to do as much homework as you can, and be clear about what you like. It means we can design a piece that’s perfectly suited to you and can refine the design a lot faster. And be brave!
Emigrating to New Zealand from what was Soviet Ukraine at the age of 12, Mikhail Gherman first found his creative feet in art school, before becoming a widely-respected Creative Director in advertising. Now, he is most known for his current tenure as the other half of Karen Walker (the designer’s husband and the brand’s Creative Director).
He is a man with an unconventional story and a uniquely creative mind. His thoughtful outlook, inquisitive approach and ability to think outside the box have seen him achieve renown in a number of fields, but for the last 30 years it has been focused on developing and executing the visual language of one of New Zealand’s most lauded fashion brands.
Creating quirky, attention-grabbing campaigns that have seen Karen Walker reach unprecedented, international heights, Gherman himself might be a quieter figure in the wider landscape of fashion, but his work speaks for itself.
Here he gives insight into his thinking and tells us why old sea captains are his current source of inspiration.
I’ve always been drawn to subversive-ness and outsiders. My formative years were the second half of the ‘70s and punk held for me a perfect combination of style, humour and “fuck you”. It was a glorious moment of music, fashion and politics coming together in a way that anyone could be part of if they had the right energy. It was especially perfect for those who felt like they didn’t belong in the system — it was kind of a revenge of the outsiders, and I related.
Karen Walker eyewear campaign with Toast
I’m inspired by things that are bland or quotidian or super uncool — I reinvent or elevate them. Dogs wearing glasses, for example, was an existing, slightly cheesy, genre that we elevated and made into a luxurious, tongue-in-cheek, blockbuster moment when we did our campaign with Toast. When we worked with Advanced Style for an eyewear campaign, and later a jewellery campaign, we loved that Ari Seth Cohen’s central idea for Advanced Style was to take an entire group of people, those over 65, who had been, on the whole, swept aside and treated as bland or invisible, and allow them to take the stage and really play with fashion and being in the spotlight. Now the media is full of images of glorious, silver-haired people with over-the-top jewellery but when we did the projects with Ari it was unheard of and eyewear campaigns were, 99 times out of 100, shot on dewy-skinned girls at the beach.
Everything about Rome makes me nostalgic. I lived there for two years in my early teens and my feelings for it are palpable. The colour of the stone, the sound of the scooters, the skyline, the light, the stone pines. Also, when I recently picked up my paint brushes again the smell of linseed oil made me very nostalgic for art school.
The urge to create is something I have no choice about, despite being naturally lazy. I have to be creating and making. It’s innate in me. It’s what gets me out of bed.
My formative years were in the 70s, and that suited me just fine. I hated everything about them until I heard Sex Pistols’ Never Mind The Bollocks and then I was hooked on the energy of raw talent pushing against everything and breaking it all down.
I learned resilience from my dad, his own could have filled a book. Surviving the Holocaust, four years in the Soviet Army, 40+ years in the Soviet Union and the uncountable trials and tribulations of a refugee’s life are just the beginning. My wife is the other person I look up to, for her ability to create order out of chaos — the perfect counterbalance to my natural tendency towards creating chaos out of order.
I would love to collaborate with Grayson Perry — a contemporary British artist known for the subversive way he chronicles contemporary life. He takes the conventional and turns it on its head. And his work is beautiful.
I’ve been learning to paint again. Over lockdown last year a friend asked me to participate in an exhibition (really just an excuse for a party) of works by art school alumni friends of hers. The brief to respond to was The Male Gaze. The concept for my 35 oil paintings was Men In Isolation. They were all painted on Beehive matchboxes. There were several reasons for choosing matchboxes for my canvas: they speak to the intensity of manhood when reduced down to its essence; they speak to the fragility/danger/fleeting nature of manhood; they look like Instagram images; I knew Karen would freak out if my painting studio was bigger than an A0 piece of kraft paper; and, I’m lazy and they don’t take much time to paint. My favourite story within the works were my 15 sea captains. I love sea captain paintings because it’s a cheesy genre, an oeuvre reserved for small-town junk-shops — I thought it deserved a reinvention. Also, they all look kind of like me: hirsute, weather-worn, grey and with a Breton shirt (my summer uniform). The only difference is I don’t smoke a pipe and all my captains do.
I’m most proud of my 30+ year marriage and my daughter’s critical mind because both of these things are rare.
Untitled (Gril with The Cat), 2016 by Aleksandra Waliszewska
Everyone should be looking at the work of painter Aleksandra Waliszewska. She has a 21st Century, Breugel-esque, post-apocalyptic vision of the world.
I’m actually at my best in changing times. I embrace the discomfort that they bring. When there are massive changes and everyone goes back to zero I’m at my most energised. It must be my survival instincts kicking in and taking me back to my childhood when I had to adapt, embrace and affect huge changes after leaving my hometown at age 12 (Odessa, in what was then the Soviet Ukraine) and living the refugee’s life through my early teens.
I’m quite happy at home right now but I would like to visit my brother in L.A. at some point.
I’m often reminded of a piece of advice I was given a long time ago, and always come back to: surround yourself with people who get it.
Words Margie Riddiford | PHOTOS Kasia Gatkowska | 30 Aug 2021
To transform a historic, central Amsterdam building into a family office, the Dutch outpost of renowned design firm Framework, joined forces with their French counterparts for the first time (although judging by the result, it will hardly be the last) matching Parisian luxury with elegant, Dutch materiality in a workplace that defies expectations.
Within the 220-square-metre space, comprising four single rooms and one meeting room, clean lines and sophisticated details set the stage for an office that really feels more like an expertly furnished home. Generous swathes of timber, both on the restored, centuries-old floors and in the sleek, French oak panelling, act as a warm and inviting canvas on which Framework has layered intriguing art, sculptural design pieces with furniture classics.
Trust desk BY Poltrona Fraufrom Studio Italia, Lampe Athena Lamp by Herve van der Streaten, Sculpture by Florian Tomballe.
With the client a young art collector, the Framework teams introduced a mix of works by French, Italian and Dutch artists, including abstract sculptures by Antwerp-based artist Florian Tomballe and a range of wall pieces by artists like Lucas Hardonk. Even the furniture feels deliberately artistic, with pieces like the famous Pierre Jeanneret chairs, a Poltrona Frau Trust desk, a sublime, custom-made brass desk by New York-based Patrick Parrish Gallery and trio of vintage armchairs, conceived in 1968 by Italian designer, artist and musician Luciano Frigerio, carefully handpicked to cultivate an air of comfortable sophistication.
From its calm atmosphere to its refined, private spaces, this office is a place one would happily spend the weekdays — a workplace that doesn’t adhere to the sterile norms of its conventional forebears but instead, posits the idea of a quiet, inviting environment as crucial to the productivity of those who work within it. And considering the changes that have occurred around corporate culture in the last year, this idea feels more relevant than ever before.
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