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McPhail proud of GDC stint

McPhail proud of GDC stint

Richard McPhail will be stepping away from council, departing what he calls a changed landscape for local government, with a fair few jewels.
His decision to step away from the role comes after three terms in very different councils, with very different circumstances.
Many a committee has had Mr McPhail sitting at the table, but he said in recent years it has been harder to juggle his roles and his work as a councillor.
It was in his blood to get out and help, as Mr McPhail said his late father Neil instilled him and his two brothers with a sense of community.
"We were brought up by a father and a mother that said invest in the community, do what you can do," he said.
Reflecting on his three terms, Mr McPhail said he was proud of his work in council, but admitted there were some rocky moments.
"The first term was under a different mayor, there was Tracy [Hicks] and [Steven Parry], I was a chair, I think we had some good achievements.
"This term's obviously been a bit different. There were issues at the start getting ourselves sorted out, but we continued on," he said.
A post-Covid economic and political landscape also shifted the ground in terms of what the community expected out of councillors, and felt they could receive.
It was as though you needed a crystal ball, he said, with councillors needing to know yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
Not only this, but Mr McPhail said frustrations grew out of movement from central government putting pressure on councils, who would bear the brunt of the criticism.
"A lot of decision-making in council, you've almost got your hands tied behind your back.
"You can't make the most appropriate decision, because it's been based on legislation or what the minister at the time wants. It's frustrating for councils," he said.
That aside, Mr McPhail said he was very proud of the work done, and looked back fondly on his time in council.
"There are some projects I've put a question mark by, but if you look at our specific administration building, the James Cumming Wing, the library, they're generational assets.
"We've got a new water treatment plant in East Gore, the Mayoral Task Force for jobs which Tracy had, I felt it was a really positive input," he said.
The events, the people he met, all these things added up to Mr McPhail, who learnt a great deal from his time at the table.
Mr McPhail said although some moments may have been turbulent, he felt now was a time to take a step back — without closing the door entirely.
"For me, this is a natural closure at this time. It's not to say the game is over, but at this time, I'll step back," he said.
If you want Mr McPhail, he will not be hard to find, as he is already planning the committees and volunteer work he is to return to.
gerrit.doppenberg@alliedmedia.co.nz
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Carving a different path: The art and whakapapa of Leon Kipa
Carving a different path: The art and whakapapa of Leon Kipa

The Spinoff

timea day ago

  • The Spinoff

Carving a different path: The art and whakapapa of Leon Kipa

After two decades in industrial design, Leon Kipa returned to his roots. Now a fulltime carver and contemporary object-maker, he's fusing customary Māori forms with modern practice – all while turning his studio into a hub for whānau and creativity. All photos by Chevron Hassett. On a crisp morning in Panmure, artist and carver Leon Kipa is in his garage-turned-studio surrounded by chisels, sketches and rākau. Kipa is open about his whakapapa, creativity and carving out his own path as an urban Māori artist. With a background in industrial design and a commitment to customary knowledge, his practice moves between traditional whakairo and contemporary object making, always grounded in his connection. Can you introduce yourself and share how you began your creative journey? Kia ora. He uri tēnei o ngā waka o Tainui, Te Arawa, Ngātokimatawhaorua, Māmaru hoki. On my mum's side, I'm from Ngāti Toki, Ngāti Whātua ki Kaipara, Ngāti Kawau and Te Hikutū. On my dad's side I'm from Ngāti Māhanga, Ngāti Hauā, Ngāti Rangitihi and Tapuika. I'm based in Panmure with my whānau. I always wanted to pursue my own practice, but I took a long path. I worked in industrial design for over 20 years to build stability. But I always kept one foot in toi Māori. During Covid-19, everything shifted. I stayed home with my son, and whakairo became a healing, grounding process. That's when I committed fully to my studio practice. What was the turning point for you to make that decision? There wasn't a single moment. I always hoped my uncles would start a studio when I was young. When I was at work, I'd think about how the tools we used could benefit my own practice. Covid-19 gave me the opportunity. I carved every day during lockdown, and it just felt right. That was the moment we just said: 'let's go'. Since that shift, what have been some of your key works? The pou I made based on my tūpuna Rangitihi stands out. It was a way to explore my whakapapa and reconnect with the legacy of whakairo in my whānau. The original pou by Te Amo a Tai is in Auckland Museum. I studied his visual language, how he layered 13 figures to tell the story of Rangitihi and his descendants. I was exploring the story of Rangitihi, the tūpuna of many iwi. He had four wives and eight children, and from those children descended multiple iwi across the motu. That pou became a way to visualise that whakapapa to see how we're all connected. That was powerful for me. It helped me see how pattern and form carry whakapapa. And more recently you've created the Kapua works? Yes. Kapua came from an exhibition of object-makers. I wanted to create a fragment, something cloudlike, undefined. It draws from waka huia, our Pacific links, and the Anaweka waka fragment. The idea was to provoke curiosity and allow transformation. It could be part of a waka, a piece of furniture, or something else entirely. How do you approach the balance between customary and contemporary? I used to separate the two, but they're starting to blend. Everything I make now is contemporary. It's made through my lens, now. But I respect and study traditional forms closely. Whakairo is layered, and I want to honour that. My aim is to simplify the form without losing depth, so people can enjoy it immediately, then go deeper. What role does material play in your practice? It's huge. Using native timber like tōtara or kauri connects me to our ancestors. Certain patterns just belong to certain woods, they respond in a particular way. I want to use the materials my tūpuna used, to understand what they understood, and feel what they felt in the process. What's your studio routine like? It changes depending on the day. I usually have a few things going at once. I carve during the day, and do admin or draw at night. My son and I often draw together at the table, or sometimes in the workshop. The studio's become a creative hub for our whole whānau. Since I started carving, my mum, aunties and nephew have taken up raranga. My whānau meet here for waiata practice. That's the dream, to see our culture living and growing. What do you hope to leave behind for your son? I want him to know he has options. That creativity is valid. He doesn't need to follow a nine-to-five unless he chooses to. He's seen me carve a different path. I want him to know he can do the same. What's your dream kaupapa? I'd love to help build a wharenui. And more broadly, I want to keep carving and create a self-sustaining practice that nurtures creativity in our whānau and community. If you weren't an artist? If I was six inches taller, I'd play for the Warriors! Favourite kai in Panmure? A Korean restaurant called Wangsibli. Tool you can't live without? Pencil. Dream material you want to work with? I already am. Kauri from the north and tōtara from the central North Island. What are you listening to while carving? Mostly hip-hop – Freddie Gibbs. Also disco, like The Whispers and Earth, Wind and Fire. And some reggae.

Let us down this day with our daily bread
Let us down this day with our daily bread

Otago Daily Times

time3 days ago

  • Otago Daily Times

Let us down this day with our daily bread

Disappointment is the stuff of life. And it's fertile literary ground. "Life offers," said Thomas Hardy, "to deny." So let's make a little disappointment together. Let's bake bread. Like everyone, I started baking bread during Covid. And like almost everyone, I stopped again soon afterwards. Because the bread I made was never as good as the bread I imagined. And no loaf came close to living up to the smell it made when baking. (Few foods do. Evelyn Waugh's ideal meal consisted of dishes wafted past the nose one after the other, leaving the diner always on the cusp of gratification, but never disappointed.) The smell of baking bread goes back to hunter-gatherers. The hunters were the blokes, of course, who liked the look-at-me heroics of bringing home the bacon. Meanwhile, the women just got on with gathering the stuff that kept them all alive. Among that stuff were the seeds of certain grasses that they ground into a flour. The word lady is Anglo-Saxon for kneader of the loaf. An Anglo-Saxon loaf was made of flour, yeast, water and salt. So is ours. Let's start. Put a bit of sugar in a bit of warm water and stir in a sachet of instant yeast. This isn't necessary, because instant yeast works fine if stirred in dry, but there is pleasure to be had in witnessing a resurrection. Yeast in a sachet is a hibernating bear. Sugar and warm water act like spring. When bubbles form you know you've brought the bear back to life. And in a few hours time you're going to bake it dead. That's cooking for keeps. For the relative proportions of flour and salt and water, there are a thousand recipes on the internet all promising the perfect loaf. Choose one and add a pinch of scepticism. It will serve you well. Stir all ingredients together with a wooden spoon. When the shaft of the spoon snaps the mixing's done. We've got what bakers call a shaggy dough. Shaggy looks about as promising as it sounds. We'll cover the bowl with a teatowel and put it on the highest bookshelf in the living room where the log-burner is going night and day. Now you go your way and I'll go mine and we'll reconvene in an hour. The hour is done and you can smell that the yeast's been working. Peel back the tea towel and the dough has changed from shaggy to something smoother, larger and alive. Wet your fingers, slide them down the side of the dough and raise a handful. Feel it stretch then fold it over. Turn the bowl and do it again. Do it half a dozen times for the pleasure of the handling, then shelve the bowl for another hour and do it all again. The third hour is the witching hour. Put a lidded casserole into the oven and turn the temperature up to the end of the dial. You want that oven humming like Chernobyl. You want it cherry-red. You want it pulsing. Turn the dough out on to a floured board. With floured fingers, puddle it, fold it, knead it. Feel the elasticity you've made, the living organism. Then roll it into a ball on a piece of baking paper and put it back into the bowl and on to the shelf to rise again. Open the oven when it reaches the point that you are scared of it. If the heat blisters your face, it's good to go. With your nuclear oven mitts take the lid off the casserole, and drop the risen dough in, baking paper and all. Replace the lid, close the oven and breathe again. Soon the kitchen will fill with the smell that real estate agents use to sell houses. After half an hour, take the lid off the casserole. Spend the next 10 minutes imagining the loaf you want, a loaf as good as it smells. Picture the crust that crackles, the crumb as light as air. Turn your loaf on to a wire rack. It will look good. It may even crackle a bit. You will feel some pride. But by the time it has cooled enough for you to cut a slice it will already have dulled and shrunk a bit. It will be denser than you'd hoped. Butter it, chew it and be honest. It's bread. It's reasonably nice bread, but it's not great bread. It's not the bread you imagined. It's not transcendent bread. It's a disappointment. Again. "Between the idea And the reality," wrote T.S. Eliot, who must surely have been a baker. "Between the conception And the creation ... Falls the Shadow." • Joe Bennett is a Lyttelton writer.

Response to info dot trial ‘really positive'
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