I was born Friday the 13th of June 1986,

My father was a German leather jacket wearing house trucker, and my mother was a young Gypsy Madonna. Not long after my nappies where tie dyed. Depending on who you ask, I was either stolen by my father or given up by my mum. She gave birth to another boy and moved away. If we were not on the road with the Gypsy Fair, you could find us anywhere between Raglan to Waihi beach. I remember we would drive through the gorge in old cars that were so rusty they would snap in half. My dad would be smoking a cigarette blasting Jimi Hendrix on the way to the Rat Market via the Tavern to throw some pots. My home was wherever we parked the bus. At the edge of gullies, under willow trees and next to lakes, or we would be parked in the ghetto staying in houses with dirt floors. There was a whole community of us, all living in hand built motorhomes parked around bonfires. I was part of a group of Gypsy babies that would play in the forest until we got too hungry and had to return. We would be greeted by a cauldron over the fire filled with pea soup. Parties lasted for weeks, every day new vagabonds and badgers would pull up with truck loads of kids with faces that I knew from a commune somewhere else.

The first time I remember encountering photography I was about 7 years old. My mum had brought me a film camera. It was a baby blue robot and super special to me because I didn’t get to see her much. I didn’t have a lot of flash things. I would tell her that when I grew up, I would be flash like her too. I asked the Dr. of Laughter from the Buddhist Centre if I could take his photograph. he turned to me and said that I can’t because if I did, I would steal his soul. I remember thinking to myself that photography must be powerful then. I believed him too because above the sink was a beautifully painted cupboard called the window to your soul. all you had to do was open it.

My Dad should’ve stuck to pottery but instead he made candles and sold weed. The cops were catching on, they kept showing up and not finding anything. He said it was getting too hot now, so he faked his death and we jumped into the bus and moved to Waiheke. My new life started on this island community. For the first time I got to visit my family on the weekends. I got to live in houses with bathrooms and start the year at the same school as the previous one. Waiheke became the closest place I can call home. as a teenager I spent a lot of time with pencil and paper, around the same time my baby sister was born and so was my creativity. I found photography. And my dad found meth.

Life started to get dark. I was coming to the end of high school and I needed to escape. I knew I had something in my photography that needed exploring, I just didn’t understand what it all meant. I knew I would be able find answers in art school.

My dad was starting to spiral. I watched as he screamed at me about pieces of paper and treasure. I knew that me leaving was going to be a defining part in his life, I was the only thing he had that gave him purpose, after that there was only drug dealing. He built an empire on that island. He, and his stone bleeders sucked the life out of that community. My home was overrun by addicts, I would wake up for school in the morning and search the couches for rolled up $100 bills knowing that I was off that island soon and that the hole he dug was too big. Not long into my degree I started getting phone calls from him saying he was getting raided, but they weren’t finding anything. One weekend I was staying with him and in the middle of the night I heard the door get smashed in. the second the police came in and got me I knew it was over. I got to watch as what was left of my dad’s life was washed away by the court. To this day he has never set foot on that island again.

Not long after I finished Uni the global financial crises hit. My girlfriend fell pregnant. I had to make a choice that day. I didn’t think it was going to be possible to raise a family and pursue this at the same time. I had a clear plan in my mind, but I didn’t feel I’d be taken seriously being so young. I just kept hearing my grandfather’s voice in my head. Ever since I was born, I knew he always thought I’d just end up being like my father. I always felt his disappointment for me being his grandson. He was afraid of getting old, and I just made him a great grandfather. So, I accepted that apprenticeship and spent the next 13 years in that windowless room. I was told about those crystals and I knew the whole time they were the wrong ones.

These pieces I have are just pieces of me. They’re memories of a gypsy past and a hood youth. Narratives derived from an existential perception of my biology through my environment and experiences. For me to confidently communicate the ideas behind the work I had to find out who I really was first for it to be coherent. They aren’t landscapes, they are self-portraits. This work is a process that enables me to get little pieces of myself back that I lost. I had to accept that I was just born a Gypsy baby of New Zealand, and that I don’t want to be forgotten by my great grandchildren. Through this work and on these pieces of paper are the same thing that was in the window to the soul. I’m just a bugly boy that didn’t come from anywhere. I was destined to work in a factory making pieces of paper that only last a minute. But by making these pieces of paper I know the important memories can be seen by the little babies I’ll leave behind. I can just buy new crystals, ones that have my name on them.