My work table is an uncurated map of the state of my mind. It’s in an admittedly messy corner of a shared studio up two levels in a 1970s “mini brutalist” Te Aro tower. This is where the fishing, gutting and RSI of architectural production happen. It’s a practical setup; the desk is nothing to write home about. But, ironically, this place is probably the most personal and one of the most frequented places of my waking hours. The view from here entails scribbles, notes to self, computer screens and sprawling piles of project documents. There are keepsakes that find their way to my table, keeping me company with reminders and memories.
To my right is chump change inside a ceramic ramekin made by my potter wife, Lucy Coote. It’s a reminder of her talents and support, and of the futility of trying to save money these days. On a shelf under my display screen are postcards from friends or architectural admirers. The handwritten notes provide much-welcomed positive affirmation. Write me a postcard and you’ll get a place on the mantel…
Front right is a cluster of three little glass-filled ceramic “puddles” gifted to my kids by artist Kate Newby that have somehow ended up here. And some little 3D-printed models of a Palestinian house. It’s a depiction of Katrina Mitchell-Kouttab’s mother’s home in Katamon, Jerusalem, stolen in the first Nakba of 1948. In light of the genocide and latest ceasefire, I am reminded of its unmitigated architectural undoing – the complete or partial destruction of 92 percent of residential buildings, including 436,000 homes, according to UN estimates as of April 2025. This is greater than the combined housing stock of Christchurch, Wellington, Hamilton and Tauranga – or 71 percent of Auckland’s. As I labour and pour care on people’s houses for a living, this trinket on my table stirs inside me the mantra that architects must build and not destroy... Build, not destroy. Build, not destroy.
Studio MYLA
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