Antipodeanism: The Architecture of Lightness in Australia and New Zealand

Clifford-Forsyth House, Remuera, Auckland NZ. Patrick Clifford / Architectus.

How to define Antipodeanism in architecture? Michael Sorkin, who died tragically of the coronavirus two weeks ago, has probably come closest. Writing in the late ’90s of Patrick Clifford’s house in Remuera, he said that the house displayed “… a certain antipodean lightness that comes of the logical economies of the new. There is a balance to this house that shows both a certainty and a courtesy towards its setting in both culture and nature.”

That same could be said of most architecture that feels essentially Antipodean. I think of Glenn Murcutt’s many houses and precisely the same could be written with equal accuracy: of the Marie Short House, of his Magney House, and of his own house renovation in Sydney’s Mosman. Here in Aotearoa, it’s not just Patrick Clifford: I think of other architects’ well-known houses like Mitchell Stout’s Heke Street House, Stuart Gardyne’s Tiratora, Pete Bossley’s Island Complex, many of John Scott’s works—and I could write precisely the same of each of them as Sorkin wrote of the Clifford-Forsyth house.

I think Sorkin’s formulation is ultimately a little too easy. In the end it’s an American’s take on far-flung new colonial architecture, for only in the colonies is there an enduring tension between culture and nature (in cultural centres the salient distinction is between tradition and the new, not nature and culture). And “the logical economies of the new”? Well, it’s a kind of architectural determinism—a little like saying that the harsh clarity of our light defined our architecture (as was said about painting by our art-historical nationalists). If we all face the logical economies of the new, then must not all our architecture display that Antipodean lightness? It most certainly doesn’t, as a quick glance at the rest of Remuera shows.

To be fair, Sorkin does acknowledge that he risks sounding like he’s writing a “colonial travelogue” about a “house I have not seen in a country I have not visited.” It’s testament to his thoughtfulness that he could offer such an incisive comment at such a distance. But I think more must be said.

Maybe it’s easier to start with sources and then to consider the variations. When I think of Antipodeanism my mind leaps to Aalto and Scarpa and the Japanese tea pavilion. Natural materials, then, wood first and foremost, but without any qualms about technology. Calmness and elegance over impressiveness. A deeply embedded modesty. A noble simplicity, but never coming anywhere close to grandeur. “Serenity” as a style and an effect. Perhaps humanism, plain and simple, sums the idea up.

Japanese-Scandinavian design affinities have been well explored, but the triumvirate of Japanese-Nordic-Antipodean design hasn’t yet been to any great degree. Environmental similarities perhaps produce similarity in architecture. Even more productive, I think, is the way that each of these regions have had to define themselves in relation to both international tradition and deeply embedded local vernaculars. None have had the privilege of cultural centrality to avoid thinking about these dichotomies. And so Japan and Scandinavia presage the Antipodean response, providing guides and models to form and materiality. Out of it, our architects have created something that stands apart, yet with these sources clearly visible if one looks hard enough.

For HOME Magazine’s 80th anniversary, Julia Gatley and Andrew Barrie were tasked with trying to pick the “best” home from each decade. They weaselled partially out of the impossible task by picking two homes from each decade—one from what they termed the “sugar cube” tradition of the International Style, and one from the “brown bread” tradition of regional modernism. Plischke’s Sutch House is then a “sugar cube,” and Athfield’s own house in Khandallah is of the “brown bread” tradition.

It’s a thoughtful approach; only, when I think of Antipodeanism in architecture, the houses that come to mind are impossible to place in one camp or the other. Many of Glenn Murcutt’s rural retreats, for instance, have all the interior slickness of a “sugar cube” urban apartment, yet with their monopitches and oversized downpipes they’re emphatically of the “brown bread” vernacular. Likewise with a house such as Stuart Gardyne’s own home, Tiratora: lined on the interior with plywood and keeping romantic remnants of a former tract house that stood on the site, yet also formed of glass cubes with seamless connections thrusting out towards the view. Or Bill Alington’s own house in Karori: included on the list as a “sugar cube” house, you nonetheless feel, when standing inside it, that it could just as easily be in the “brown bread” camp. To place these houses strictly in Gatley & Barrie’s typology is to dismiss what is most unique about them.

Antipodeanism, then, as productive avoidance of either the international or the regional? It’s as though houses in this style are far too knowingly aware of the traps of reproducing a staid internationalism, but also still aspire to a modernism that can be understood in international terms. They’re too learned to go in for any kind of vernacularism. This is why I’m not including New Zealand’s Group Architects in this Antipodeanism frame: their houses are concerned with New Zealand itself, and strove directly for a vernacular modernism. They have none of the lightness or even the internationalism of Antipodeanism as I have come to think of it.

To try another tack: where does Antipodeanism sit on the city house-country house scale? I can say only neither, and both. The houses I think of are baches in the city and city houses on the farm. They escape this typology, having both everything of the rustic bach and everything of the modernist box about them. Then: Antipodeanism as a style equally at home in the city, on the farm and at the beach? This seems to have something to it. In countries where European and American modes of dressing distinctly for city and country have never been salient, it’s logical also for our houses to escape entirely those same distinctions.

I’m aware that speaking of trans-Tasman currents in architecture is not exactly common. This is often for good reason, for without a larger rival, who could New Zealand ever measure itself up to? We have always defined ourselves by our differences, and I feel about as Australian as an Australian feels French, which is to say not in the slightest. And yet—and yet on a global stage we’ve always been more similar than we’ve wanted to believe, and there is something in our architecture that we share in common.

A Swede too feels different from a Norwegian, who feels different from a Finn. And yet despite this those nations have reconciled themselves to “Scandinavian” and “Nordic” monikers that emphasis the real commonality without (I think) overly obscuring national differences. Sverre Fehn’s Nordic Pavilion in Venice highlights how the larger grouping has worked to everyone’s advantage. And so why shouldn’t we, Australia and New Zealand, acknowledge our similarities; describe them and explore them; maybe, dare I say it, market them?

Antipodeanism brings together the under-appreciated similarities between Murcutt, Bossley, Leplastrier, Gardyne, Alington, Stutchbury, Clifford and so many others. To my mind, it captures a real style that has moved far beyond the “search for identity” that both Aotearoa and Australia undertook in the mid-century—and also moves beyond so many other architectural distinctions, whether it be city house/country house or modernist/postmodernist. The more I’ve thought about it, Antipodeanism is a term that captures something unique—it’s a term that is, to use consulting speak, mutually exclusive and collectively exhaustive; it defines something that cannot be described any other way. Which is exactly why it’s worth talking about and exploring further.

For a long time it was fashionable to compare a nation’s cultural life with the journey through a human life—from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. (Of course, no one ever mentioned the decrepit old age and death of the fully-formed “adults” they were comparing to). If we were to continue the analogy—just for old time’s sake—we might also recognise the truism that you grow up when you’re not really watching. Personal growth and development is somewhat tortured when too self-conscious; it’s worked best when you look back one day and realise the real changes happened when you were busy living life (or busy having fun with postmodernism, as the case may be). Perhaps the same has happened with our architecture, art and much else besides: when we stopped trying to force the development of a style, that’s when it finally came about.

Still, in the end, have I come any closer to a definition of Antipodeanism? I want to say it’s a certain lightness, maybe a certainty and a courtesy towards—yes, towards both culture and nature. OK, Michael Sorkin probably still came closest. And why should we be surprised? It usually takes a foreigner to point out the blindingly obvious.


Credit to individual photographers for the images below.

Antipodean Architecture Australia New Zealand
Clifford-Forsyth House
Murcutt architecture style Australia
Marie Short House, Glenn Murcutt
Stuart Gardyne NZ Architecture Antipodeanism
Labone Cabin, Stuart Gardyne
Bossley NZ Architecture Antipodean style
Island Complex, Pete Bossley
Peter Stutchbury Antipodean Architecture
West Head House, Peter Stutchbury
Mitchell Stout Heke Street NZ Architecture
Heke Street House, David Mitchell and Julie Stout
Fireplace NZ Architecture Antipodeanism
Heke Street House, Mitchell Stout
Murcutt House Australia NZ
Fredericks White House, Glenn Murcutt
Wellington Architecture Style Stuart Gardyne ArchitecturePlus
Tiratora, Stuart Gardyne
Leplastrier House Antipodeanism Architecture Style
Angophora House, Richard Leplastrier
Bill Toomath NZ Architecture Modernism
Bill Toomath House
Gardyne NZ Architecture
Labone Cabin, Stuart Gardyne
Clifford Forsyth House NZ Architecture Modernism
Clifford-Forsyth House
Leplastrier Australian Architecture Antipodean Style Mid Century
Tom Uren House, Richard Leplastrier
NZ Rural Architecture Modernism Antipodeanism
Otoparae House, Mitchell Stout Architects
Bossley Antipodeanism Architecture
Waterfall Bay House, Pete Bossley
NZ Bathroom Architecture Style Antipodeanism
Waterfall Bay House, Pete Bossley
Treetop Peter Stutchbury Antipodeanism
Treetop House, Peter Stutchbury
Antipodeanism Japanese Architecture
Angophora House, Richard Leplastrier
Murcutt Antipodean Architecture Australia New Zealand
Fredericks-White House, Glenn Murcutt
Herbst Antipodean Architecture NZ
Great Barrier Bach, Herbst Architects
Rural NZ Antipodean Architecture Modernism
Island Complex, Pete Bossley

An Elegant Shed in Marlborough: The Axe House by Stuart Gardyne

Axe House Stuart Gardyne Architecture Plus Moore-Jones
House by Stuart Gardyne, Architecture+. Photography by Thomas Seear-Budd.

An essay commissioned by HOME Magazine New Zealand, published in print Feb/March 2020 issue.

“A paddock with grapevines on it” is Stuart Gardyne’s description of the site in Marlborough’s Omaka Valley in which this refined yet unpretentious house is found. There are views of the mountains, and neat, regular rows of vines. A few olive trees dot the site, as if to emphasise the many subtle shades of green and grey. For an architect the choices would have been almost limitless: the house could be placed anywhere on the site, and without any close neighbours there are no immediate other buildings or forms to respond to. Modernist glasshouse, or a sprawling estate? Both have been done before on New Zealand’s vineyards. Many now sit uncomfortably and feel out of place. What works on the coast doesn’t work on the farm.

When asked about the freedom that a site like this affords, Gardyne, who was approached by the owners of the land seven years ago, recounts a comment he once heard attributed Mark Mack, a postmodern American architect: “Sometimes you can have too much freedom.” And in many ways the house that now stands is a subtle, careful musing on that idea, for architect and client alike. What should you really do, when you can do anything? And what’s most important, when the choices are limitless?

Gardyne is perhaps the only architect to have a letterbox featured in architectural publications in this country. Known for his meticulous attention to detail and a love for materiality and tactility, he speaks with fondness for David Chipperfield’s work—specifically of the way that for all its marbles and patinated bronzes, his work still manages to get out of the way, pushing to centre stage the objects in a museum or the lives within a house. And in this house in Marlborough, that’s exactly what has been achieved, and without making any kind of fuss.

“If you’re striving for simplicity,” Gardyne says, “then the architecture has to have a level of perfection in the way it’s composed and in the spatial qualities of the rooms.” This is a simple house in its basic form, looking to the barns and sheds of the rural New Zealand vernacular, and to the long, repeated rows of vines of its immediate environment. At 41 metres long, the house is an elongated, extruded shed broken only by cut-outs that form decks. From this perspective it mimics the length of the vines. Yet the house is also just five metres wide, so that from the other angle it sits small and modestly, reminiscent of the idealised house forms of Stephen Bambury’s small sculptures and prints, or the cubist barns of Rita Angus’ paintings.

Located at the end of a driveway, you first drive past the vines and down the length of the house before arriving. Enter the front door and turn right, and you’re in a self-contained bedsit intended for use by one of the owners’ parents. Turn left and you are in the main space of the house, a large living-dining-kitchen area with a deck off one side. The main bedroom is located at the very end of the house, and to get there you walk through other rooms: a study, a multi-purpose room (or spare bedroom), past the bathroom and wardrobe. This arrangement of spaces, with a central corridor connecting the entire house, is economical despite the house being located on an expansive site. It implies a more thoughtful, time-honoured way of inhabiting space, rather than our modern, disconnected rooms in large multi-storey homes.

Gardyne explains that one of the critical design decisions was what pitch the gable should have. Too steep, and it could be evocative of a cathedral rather than a vernacular shed, looking foreign among vines and paddocks. Yet too low and it could look squat or stout, as though pushed a bit too firmly from the top into the ground. The 35 degrees finally settled on feels right in an inexplicable way, to the extent that there’s almost nothing to comment on. It’s “super normal”, in Naoto Fukasawa and Jasper Morrison’s formulation: design that distils and refines everyday objects to produce a new version that is instantly familiar, correct and comforting.

Axe House Stuart Gardyne HOME Magazine

When a house is to be inhabited lightly, as this one is, filled with very few but very beautiful possessions, the architecture has to do extra work—it can’t hide behind paintings or bookshelves or rugs, and must provide texture and personality that those furnishings usually offer. “I think it does place a larger demand on the architecture to actually be part of that aesthetic,” Gardyne explains, “because it’s not going to be shrouded or masked by the normal clothes of life, the things and objects of inhabitation that people bring.”

Looking at this house in our age of easy Instagram minimalism it becomes necessary to think a little harder about what complex and simple, more and less, really mean. For many, moving away from urban life and to the countryside is itself a response to those thoughts. Yet in its considered, refined interior, and with its beautiful realisation of the most basic shapes and forms, this house says that a simple life in the country doesn’t at all mean a life with less thought.

Raised half a metre above the grass and vines, the vistas out through the windows and from the decks are connected to the landscape, but from an architectural vantage point. There’s a play of connection and disconnection, closeness and distance, as you look out across the top of the vines to the hills beyond. 

But the real pleasures of this house are probably a treat only the owners will ever know: the serenity of moving through passages and spaces in which every doorjamb has been laboured over; the ease of pushing on the large black D-handles on the doors rather than turning a handle to enter another space; following the day’s light around the grapevines on each of the decks. This house has none of the pretension of an urban dwelling, but it didn’t get rid of refinement along with it. It might be minimalist in aesthetic, yes, but it’s a house emphatically maximalist in thought.

Stuart Gardyne NZ House

Culture and Wellbeing: Towards a Humanistic Public Policy?

McCahon Elias, New Zealand Culture and Wellbeing Moore-Jones
Colin McCahon, Elias (1959). Private collection.

The search for a language of human value in public policy has been ongoing for some time, especially in New Zealand, with many shuffling towards it and trying to speak about it directly. Max Harris’ “politics of love” in his The New Zealand Project (BWB, 2016) is one attempt at this. Treasury’s Living Standards Framework is another. Robert Gregory and Kristen Maynards’ argument in Policy Quarterly that the Māori idea of wairua can enable a “more humane public service” is one more. The theme was dealt with by Minister of Finance Bill English in his social investment budgets, and it is being dealt with now by Minister of Finance Grant Robertson in his wellbeing budgets. Are we all grasping towards a humanistic public policy?

The language of policy as it has developed as a social science from Weber onwards is generally positivist to the extreme: footnotes aplenty, no first-person, and certainly no place for art, culture or literature. But if we’re looking for a “humane” public service, might these things be a way of communicating directly? Perhaps the era of positivist public policy is drawing to a close—and what we need more than ever is a new language of policy that puts human values at its very centre.

Here I want to say that culture is itself a language of humanity—something we sorely need when concerned with living standards and human wellbeing.

— — — —

The Labour Government’s Wellbeing Budget had this to say about wellbeing: “Wellbeing is when people are able to lead fulfilling lives with purpose, balance and meaning to them. Giving more New Zealanders capabilities to enjoy good wellbeing requires tackling the long-term challenges we face as a country, like the mental health crisis, child poverty and domestic violence. It means improving the state of our environment, the strength of our communities and the performance of our economy.”

The problem is that wellbeing is ephemeral, as indicated by phrases like “purpose, balance and meaning.” American political commentator David Brooks once wrote that “meaning” as it is used in public today is “flabby and vacuous, the product of a culture that has grown inarticulate about inner life… Meaningfulness is pure and self-regarding feeling, the Nutrasweet of the inner life”—giving a sense of its ephemerality and intangibility, to put it mildly.

What is of interest is that government has mentioned “meaning” in the first place, something that indicates the search for a language of human value. The problem is it also indicates public policy’s general muteness when it comes to explaining what those human values are, or how they might be achieved.

At the same time as the “humanities” have been maligned and neglected in our universities and culture at large, they’ve never been more needed in public life. The term itself gives a sense of their significance—the humanities being those things that deal with our humanity, with what makes our societies unique. They give depth and meaning to the concept of wellbeing. One book alone won’t do it, but the collective knowledge of and education in the humanities gives a literal common language of humanity.

The most common arguments given for why nations should care about the humanities are (and I adapt these from Helen Small’s wonderful book The Value of the Humanities):

1. The argument for economic growth (national culture becomes one of the greatest tourism drawcards, and can be a significant export industry—imagine Book of Kells and James Joyce tours in Dublin)

2. The argument for intrinsic value (culture is valuable for its own sake, and to justify it is to reduce it)

3. The argument for democracy (culture teaches us empathy and allows us to see different perspectives; it also teaches skills like critical thinking, which are essential to a functioning democracy)

4. The argument for individual happiness (culture embeds us in layers of meaning and significance that are essential to happiness)

5. The argument for non-economic values (after neoliberalism, culture alone gives society a way to see values that do not have numbers before them)

Arguments one and two appear significant, and correct, but ultimately they get caught in their own logical knots—or at the very least undermine the other arguments. Instead, I think arguments 3, 4 and 5 above present an overwhelmingly strong case for why we today need culture and the humanities to re-enter the language of public policy. Culture alone teaches us about human values, and about what’s worth valuing in life; culture strengthens democracy, by teaching us about perspectives and conditions we may otherwise never understand; and culture increases happiness by embedding citizens in history and networks of meaning.

These arguments are not unique. They’re as old, in many ways, as culture itself. But what is unique is making them in this particular combination at a time when New Zealand, and many countries in the developed world, grasp for a new, human-centric way of conducting public policy. In Aotearoa, the emphasis on wellbeing seems an attempt to acknowledge that human life and happiness are at the ends of policy—things we’ve grown unaccustomed to talking about, seeing them fluffy and imprecise.

— — — —

What does this mean, practically speaking? These thoughts still need to be explored and developed, but some early suggestions:

  • Politicians and public policy practitioners must learn to be more comfortable with speaking in metaphor and cultural example—with letting go of certainty, in other words, because certainties are impossible in our age of complexity.
  • There must be increased funding of culture and of cultural education. As a language for governments and citizens to communicate with one another about the most important things, it deserves emphasis. (It is a central irony that cultural services are being cut and abolished at precisely the point that they’ve never been more urgent).
  • Businesses, too, should emphasise cultural education as a way to begin speaking about human values. Culture is a way for businesses to become truly human-centric, serving humans everywhere.
  • When politics is being fractured by a regression into unchangeable identity characteristics, emphasising human values is one way of bridging divides and creating cohesiveness.

— — — —

The painting at the top of this essay is by New Zealand’s great painter Colin McCahon. His paintings are often difficult to understand at the best of times, but his Elias series, of which this is one, are perhaps most difficult of all. Some canvases are large, others small; some dark, some light, and some nearing apocalyptic; what they share in common is the word “Elias” scrawled and etched across their surface. “ELIAS will he come, come to save him?” “Will ELIAS save him?” “ELIAS cannot save him.”

McCahon struggled his whole life with the public incomprehension and derision of his art. His Elias paintings were an attempt to communicate about human comprehension itself, to struggle through the incomprehension and find a way to mutual understanding. They abstractly depict—in words, because these paintings are about language itself—a moment when Jesus, crucified on the cross, calls out to “Eli”, his God, to come to help him. Bystanders, however, mishear him in his moment of need. They hear him calling for “Elias”. In misunderstanding they call out, again and again and again across McCahon’s many paintings. Elias, Elias, ELIAS—but it is too late. Words and communication failed to reach across the void.

At a time when the public understanding of and trust in government is at an all-time low in many nations around the world, now seems a time for us to think like McCahon. How can governments communicate with citizens to increase belief and trust? How can government departments talk about humanity itself? How can we re-think our tools, just as McCahon re-thought the nature of painting itself, to say what we need to say?

In this task, culture offers governments a language with which to make wellbeing mean something.

What’s really at stake in book-culling decision [Newsroom Essay]

This essay was originally published on Newsroom, February 10, 2020.

Festina lente. Make haste, slowly.

This was the motto of one of the Renaissance’s greatest publishers, whose most famous book the Alexander Turnbull Library in Wellington in fact owns a copy of.

The motto implies that we must make progress, that we must move forwards, but always with the wisdom of the past. Move forward, but with care; with attention; and with the knowledge that we today could be wrong. The motto has always seemed perfect for a library’s vision statement, summing up its central role. Yet in its decision to deaccession more than 600,000 “overseas” books, our National Library seems to have done us a disservice. “Shortsighted,” Helen Clark said of the cull. All New Zealanders should care deeply about the Library’s decision, because it strikes to the heart of how insular or open we are as a nation.

The Library is culling books from its “Overseas published collections” to “make room for New Zealand, Māori and Pacific stories”. The books being “rehomed” or destroyed (whichever it is, the effect is the same for National Library users) encompass philosophy, religion, arts, science, languages and a great deal more. In public announcements, Library staff keep trying to emphasise the irrelevance of the books they’re culling, like old computer guides from the 1990s. But time and again, even the books they cherry-pick as irrelevant examples seem deeply relevant. We may not learn about how to use a computer from an old computer manual, but we might learn about the ephemerality of new technologies—something the Library itself should be thinking deeply about as it gets rid of physical books. (A line from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 comes to mind: “The books are to remind us what asses and fools we are. They’re Caeser’s praetorian guard, whispering as the parade roars down the avenue, ‘Remember, Caeser, thou art mortal.’”)

We should remember too that what seems niche and irrelevant now may not be in the future. I’m 25, and I have been continually surprised by the turns and detours my interests have taken, leading me deeper into books I had never thought I would be interested in—and I know this is true for many other young people. The idea that young people will read digitally and not need print books is itself a patronising attitude, failing to take into account how technologies fall in and out of favour. Many now see the beginnings of a rejection of technology in young peoples’ lives, and it would not be surprising if this translates to a return to reading physical books.

The Library’s public announcement was good PR—it turned a negative into a positive, because which New Zealander doesn’t want more books about New Zealand? But that decision to cull internationally-published books to make room for New Zealand ones belies a deeply unsettling idea at the heart of the National Library and its master, Internal Affairs. It implies a ‘little New Zealandism’ that many thought we dispensed with decades ago. It’s a form of nationalism: an unsettling one at a time of growing nationalism around the world. In essence, it’s about whether we see ourselves as an insular, navel-gazing nation, concerned only with ourselves and our own affairs; or whether we see ourselves as shaped by and part of a global community, continually learning from the world.

Where the discussion should be centred is on the role of the National Library. The institution has decided that its role is to focus exclusively on “New Zealand, Māori and Pacific stories,” at the expense of the world around us. I expect Library staff might point to the impossibility of our National Library collecting deeply in international materials, or to the British Library’s own emphasis on British collections. But in the first case, the impossibility of collecting everything does not mean we should throw out those international resources we already have. And we simply cannot afford to take the same approach as the British Library, because we are a different nation with different needs. Our geographic distance still affects us daily, and it will always mean we need to go out of our way to connect ourselves to the world.

How will the culling affect New Zealanders? A few examples.

First, the growing number of migrants coming to our shores, who are already and who will become New Zealanders, need a library that contains their own cultural histories too. What might now appear niche, foreign and irrelevant is to someone else their very culture—it might just be the book that connects them to themselves and to others, providing inspiration and social connection. A decision to throw out all the books that might link to our new citizens’ origins is a cultural handicap at best.

Second, New Zealand’s historians, academics and researchers do not study only New Zealand. From New Zealand, they study the world—all corners and all cultures of it. To deaccession any book that does not relate to New Zealand is a severe restriction on the kinds of thought our researchers can do. It throws us back into the days of staid cultural nationalism, when it was thought that New Zealanders were only good for studying New Zealand; and it says to every aspiring New Zealand thinker and researcher, from the start, that all that matters here is that which is within our borders. We should be wary of the current tendency for countries to turn in on themselves.

Finally, a decision like this slowly works its way into the national psyche. Our collective sense of possibility is shaped as much by what knowledge is absent as that which is present. This can be seen clearly in our arts and literature of the 1930s and 40s, when artists and writers struggled to obtain international books. At worst, it forces young people to go overseas—ensuring New Zealand remains a kind of frontier from which intelligent and interested young Katherine Mansfields and Frances Hodgkinses feel they must quickly escape.

No book is obscure to the person who needs it. Many will know the experience of discovering a book that seems essential and necessary to one’s life or studies. You may well be the first person to have requested the book from the library in 30 years, but to you it’s essential, the most important book in the world. A library should exist for those moments, for the intangible, unmeasurable power that even one book can have on an individual life and on a nation’s culture. Right now, if such a book was published overseas, there’s a good chance it has been or is soon to be culled from our National Library. And that thought is a crushing reality to any New Zealander who believes our country must be large enough to encompass at least some of the world, and not just the world within our sandy borders. In the words of John Beaglehole, one of our great historians: “The tradition of an island need not be insularity.”