Me

Lance. Born in New Zealand 1961. Young memories I still hang onto are being woken gently by my grandfather’s breath before sunrise, then driving, wrapped up warm in a blanket, to isolated black beaches where we would catch delicate, translucent whitebait while listening to faraway news on the radio.

I felt my grandfather’s sense of witness. He had fought in a war. Seen things with his cobalt blue eyes that would fascinate me.

My father worked as a boner at the abattoir, my mother dressed windows and sold records at a local department store. They were ridiculously young parents at 19 and 20. My father from Irish descent, my mother Lebanese. Being carted from one family to the other, one rural town to a more cosmopolitan city, meant that a dozen schools later I always felt like my grandfather, a witness.

One of the country schools I attended was a walk across a few cow laden paddocks. In winter while everyone played before the bell sounded for class, some of the boys would stand in fresh cow dung to warm their feet. Abandoning your school shoes was a sign of toughness, most of the year you ran around in bare feet anyway, so for the few of us who wrestled each other for this ‘privilege’ it was very serious! As I would lie hidden in long grass watching there world spin on its axis it came to me as an enduring metaphor in life, if you are not careful you do find yourself standing around in shit all day, why would you fight for it? My one friend at that time, would ultimately spend a great part of his life incarcerated, he was the best at this game. Go figure. Summer days, we would walk an hour to go eeling in the stony river that ran down from the snowy mountains in the distance. Taking our mothers old silk stockings and tying knots in the feet, one of us would lift the stones and the other would try to coax the silver bellied eels, a local delicacy into the mouth of the stocking. A snap of the wrist later we would take our catch of eels to our local Maori neighbours who would happily ‘negotiate’ a sale, usually a few dollars, maybe a bottle of beer my friend and I would gingerly sip from. Always taken by the festive, communal atmosphere of these communal homes, kids, dogs running everywhere, a guitar always present most often being played. Yelling, screaming, laughter-my head always spinning as often fizzing acts of violence were also at the door close by lurking waiting to slam. A punch in the head, a boot in the ass, didn’t matter where you were really, it was always just around the corner. Keeping my head down and eyes raised continued my training to witness without drawing more attention to myself than necessary-noticing most others looked away as if not to see, or in fear, or amusement, occasionally retaliation swift, loud and brutal.

Growing up going through various picture albums of my mothers and fathers distinctly different heritage and having ALL the pictures explained became an obsession. When an uncle who considered himself quite the amateur photographer with his flash new Nikon offered me an ‘old’ camera never used by my grandfather anymore. A dusty old Leica M2 he relieved dead German officer of whilst serving with the Anzacs in Egypt. The bitter sweet taste of irony.

And so it began.

As a teenager growing up in the 70’s, cinema unleashed a new world to me; Gritty, grainy New York streets. Baron, monochromatic, nordic landscapes and the verve of French new wave. Tarkovsky, Kubrick (that Kubrick gaze!), Mallick, Bergman, Godard, Scorsese, Leone and Coppola all had me in their grips. Had an unquestionable hunger for images. Music too, I gravitated towards, Pink Floyd fighting endlessly with Richard Wagner who would end up fighting with the Beegees, on the family turntable. One day I was kicked out of high school for showing a lack of any academic interest and was questioned point blank by my hippy English teacher why I even bothered attending if I was so disinterested? OR what would I like to learn? I was honest. I just wanted to learn about films, possibly making them. He had similar interests, pursuing the school board to set up a film unit which he would now head along with the drama class. We made a film on a Super 8 camera getting me a interview with the national broadcaster to become a film trainee, a 3 year apprenticeship to become either an editor, cameraman, sound man or possibly even a film director. I was 15 and I got the job on the condition I go back to school for one more year to at least pass the minimum requirement for a government job. I squeaked through that year barely , had the job and threw myself in once again as a willing eye witness. Adapting quickly was soon offered an apprenticeship in the film editing department. Not my first choice, however in the long run it has been significantly beneficial. I was just 17 years old and learning how to find the essence in the visual and the narrative, to distill in a language that engages, captivates and informs.

Sent into the news and current affair department to edit solo I was hit with a worldwide news event: The New Zealand government mandated a South African national rugby tour of New Zealand. This divided the nation and received an international spotlight on what would almost become a civil war. New Zealand, a multicultural society was accepting a racially selected rugby team by a government violently and vehemently upholding apartheid (see Israel today). Here I was thrust into the epicentre, professionally and politically, identifying friends and family on both sides of the enormous moral divide. Tensions grew between those that supported the tour and those that did not, along with an infamous police presence, named the riot squad, who were pro-tour. With an ever growing international media presence, I found myself with a small camera crew, wearing a crash helmet somewhere in the middle, helping to cover the mayhem. It was around this time I read Micheal Herr’s ‘Dispatches’, a journalistic essay on the Vietnam War, which introduced me further into a world I was now part of. The power of photo-journalism and one man in particular who would fascinate me was iconic anti-war photographer, Tim Page. The fact that we would eventually meet and become friends, getting to do one photographic sitting with Tim before his recent passing is my greatest personal coup de tat. There is a film lurking in me about these amazing characters and their chosen vocations. Bringing to the world images that they had not previously seen. War-the human races saddest indictment that we are all ultimately responsible for.

Film was being replaced with videotape. This helped fast forward me to another passion, music the world of music videos, which at the time was proving to be an artfully expressive new medium. Jumping the Pacific to Sydney to put these newfound skills to the test. Further ambitions catapulted me to London. After a stint in drama at the BBC. Plunging headfirst as a music video director thus joining the MTV zeitgeist, music videos took me to far-flung exotic places with incredible artists. This new visual language was quickly identified by global advertising agencies as the future of connecting with the public.

50 countries later - 500 films later-awards and accolades I have largely forgotten, or personally place little stock in- I have lived a largely a nomadic existence till now where Sydney is home with my best friend, collaborator and partner in life.

I have 2 sons I look up to, two grandsons I looked down to.

I take big pictures and make small films but I am working on that.