Art has always been part of my daily life. Growing up with parents who were artists, there was always a fish skeleton, bumblebee, or plant specimen on the windowsill waiting to be sketched or sculpted. One of my mother’s many talents was as a bird whisperer—children in the neighbourhood would often bring her injured or orphaned birds they found. When these didn’t survive, they were put in our fridge or freezer, for drawing later. It was only the reactions of my school friends that made me realise this was unusual.

Many of my parents’ closest friends were artists—actors, directors, painters, sculptors, woodworkers, musicians, chefs. As a child, I benefitted hugely from watching their practice—whether it was memorising King Lear lines in the corner of our living room, preparing canvasses, or slab-milling timber for woodwork. I saw an unshakable commitment to their own artistic development, an ethic of care for the materials and tools they used, and the keenness with which they observed the natural, spiritual, and political worlds around them.

I draw inspiration from many sources— the striking geomorphic forms and palettes of Aotearoa New Zealand, Antarctica, and their glaciers, mountains, and coastlines; the bold simplicity of modernist art and design; and Japanese aesthetic traditions.

Over the past decade, my human rights work has deepened my understanding of climate change as a social and environmental justice issue. It has also affirmed art’s power to confront injustice, strengthen democracy, and shape conversations about identity, inclusion and representation.