This is where the practical story of AI begins. Artificial intelligence is only as useful as the information it can access. If the underlying data is fragmented, inconsistent and buried, the machine will not impose order. It will simply process the confusion more quickly. That is not the same. The old computer saying applies with some real force: “garbage in, garbage out”.

Before automations, before agents, before any of the fashionable language surrounding AI, the gallery first needed to consolidate its information into one structured environment. Every artwork, every artist, every exhibition, every image and related document, every shipping quote, detail and contact all sitting in a single coherent system. One source of truth.

The practical exercise unfolded in a series of straightforward steps. First, we identified every spreadsheet used across the business. Not only the main stock registers, but exhibition sheets, shipping logs, catalogue request spreadsheets, personal sales trackers and various ad hoc documents that had become embedded in day-to-day operations.

Second, we examined how the gallery actually works. How an exhibition is uploaded. How an editioned photograph is recorded for sale. How an artwork moves from an artist to a gallery, to an art fair, to a collector and, finally, to installation. Where images are stored. Where PDF attachments such as consignment agreements and condition reports are kept.

Third, we designed a single database to hold this information in a consistent format.

Fourth, we planned the migration of all existing data under one guiding principle: “capture everything, lose nothing”. Records are cleaned where possible, but nothing of value is discarded. Ambiguous information is flagged for human review.

Fifth, a colleague-friendly web application is built over the database so the team can search, edit and update records through one interface, rather than continually reverting to spreadsheets.

Only after these steps does AI become genuinely useful — to my galleries.

In our case, we interviewed a number of people working in the AI and the automation space before engaging two young developers from Sydney University. Luca and Will were not selected because they offered the grandest vision of artificial intelligence. They were selected because they approached the task in a disciplined and practical manner.
Their proposal was refreshingly straightforward: replace our sprawling spreadsheet-based inventory system with a single structured database and a colleague-facing application that reflected the way the gallery actually operates.

From the outset, clear guardrails were imposed. The engagement was fixed in scope and fixed in price. The objective was to build the underlying data architecture, not to embark on an open-ended and expensive exploration of hypothetical possibilities. All infrastructure, code and documentation were to be owned by the gallery from day one — fully transferable to another developer if required. In short, the gallery retained control.

The implementation was modular. Systems such as Salesforce, Xero, website integrations, shipping workflows and more advanced AI agents were deliberately excluded from the first stage. They can and most definitely will be added later, but only once the core inventory system is stable and functioning. The existing spreadsheets remained the operational system during the build, with colleagues continuing to work as normal until the new platform is fully tested and ready.

The technical team was required to test the application against real workflows and real staff behaviour. The migration principle was clear from the beginning: nothing of value would be lost in the move.
These guardrails were critical. They kept the project grounded and reduced the risk of technology overreach. Most importantly, they ensured that the gallery remained in control of its own systems and data.

This is not an exercise in replacing judgement. It is an exercise in removing friction. A gallery runs on knowledge: where a work is located, where it has been shown, whether it has sold, what price history it carries, which collectors have responded to similar works, and what documentation sits behind it. Historically, that knowledge has often been spread across people, emails, spreadsheets and memory. Once it is structured properly, it becomes available immediately, both to staff and to machines.
That is the inflection point. Artificial intelligence can then interrogate the data directly. It can compare works, trace exhibition histories, surface patterns and answer operational questions in seconds. The inventory register ceases to be a passive archive and becomes a system that allows the business to reason across its own information.

The technology, however, is not the hard part. The discipline is. Duplicated artist names, incomplete records, incorrect stock statuses and years of ad hoc notes become immediately visible. Humans are remarkably good at working around disorder. Machines are not.
Implementation is therefore as much cultural as technical. A badly designed database is simply a new form of friction. If staff find the system cumbersome, they will revert to old habits, and nothing will change. Success depends on testing the system against real behaviour: how exhibitions are uploaded, how stock moves between galleries, how images are attached, and how information is updated in the midst of daily interruptions. The software must adapt to the gallery, not the gallery to the software.
The practical implications are considerable. Exhibition planning becomes more analytical. Client engagement becomes more precise. Administrative tasks that once consumed hours can be reduced to minutes.

Speed is the story. Not speed for its own sake, but speed as the result of clarity. The businesses that organise their information in a form a machine can read will move faster, decide better and serve their clients more effectively. Those that do not will increasingly feel heavy and slow.
The central lesson is straightforward. Before artificial intelligence can be of any practical use, a business must first put its own house in order. One Ring to rule them all.

The Part Two report — on what happened when our underlying information database went live, and what the gallery learned from putting AI to work on top of it — is for the future.

Could you tell us about some of your early creative influences?

As a young boy, around 10 years of age, I became fascinated by the art world. I would find myself escaping the domestic violence of the family home to sit in the local library and pore through books by Tucker, Drysdale, Boyd and Nolan. I remember borrowing the same books again and again and noticed my name was the only name that appeared on the library card envelope pasted on the inside jacket of the book. I was a real dreamer as a child and the Angry Penguins movement sounded like the coolest gang ever.

What led you to pursue painting as a career, and what informed your work during that earlier period? How have those influences, ideas or approaches woven through your work since then?

Even though I achieved great acknowledgement as a young boy for drawing and photography, I never really had the guidance, maturity or confidence to take it on as a career when I left school and I really regret that! Instead I travelled and worked an array of professions to feed myself. Then, when I was 27, I picked up a camera in an effort to connect with a vacant father, who was also a photographer. I spent 16 years as a professional photographer, writing books, working on movies, shooting campaigns for advertising, animal welfare organisations or publications. It was a wonderful career but it wasn’t that young boy’s dreams, and impressing my father lost its meaning. So in 2016 at age 43 I picked up a paintbrush for the first time since high school and I started painting. The last ten years are the most content I’ve ever felt.

How did you develop your approach to painting over time? Are there references, themes, styles, ideas or techniques that you have continually returned to in your work?

Having started painting later in life I felt an urgency to develop as quickly as possible. After achieving success in the photography industry, I lent heavily on the skills I had learnt in the darkroom, lighting, composition, colour balance, values/exposure. I knew I had an advantage with my reference material, so then it was just night after night watching YouTube videos on how to mix paint, what to mix, layering, blending, mediums, paint brands, etc, etc. My photography heavily influenced my portrait painting, and still does. But over time I’ve become less reliant on it, and more confident with the brush.

What have been some of your favourite career experiences or moments of creative breakthrough in your practice?

Achieving recognition for your work is incredibly validating. Winning the People’s Choice Award at the Archibald Prize in 2019, three years after picking up a brush, is a moment that is hard to top. But last year I was commissioned by Parliament House for the Historic Memorials Collection. Only a handful of artists are ever chosen for this and this is a great honour. Knowing my name and my painting will hang in perpetuity in Parliament House is a career highlight. But I’m also confident that there is something greater to come or I’m just delusional.

What was the starting point for your Self Sabotage series? Could you tell us about some of the ideas, influences and approaches that you wanted to explore with this body of work?

In 2023 I had a pivotal moment in life. I was re-introduced to expressionism by my friend Jelha Van Den Berg. He helped me understand its value. I stood in front of a De Kooning and I got it. It felt as though a veil had been lifted. For the better part of my life I had ignorantly ignored abstraction and expressionism. Then it just came flooding in. Self Sabotage is an opportunity to question everything. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink” rings very true for this exhibition. I don’t expect to change people’s minds, I can only be true to myself. I know many people won’t understand why I would sabotage my own practice, but I need to. I’m not seeking validation or approval, I’m pushing my own boundaries and preconceptions. Self Sabotage is my chance to let go, to feel the breeze in my hair, scream at the sky and throw paint at the wall. Like Luke Skywalker on his last run at the Death Star. I can’t explain why, I just have to trust my gut.

What were some of the challenges or questions that you were working through in the creation of your Self Sabotage series?

This exhibition has made me question everything. It’s very easy to believe you’re on the right path. But paths are always intersecting and crossing. I think it’s healthy to question yourself and your actions regularly. I’m not a fan of being boxed in.

How does this series build on your previous work or perhaps offer a new direction in your practice?

Of course many people will see this as a new direction, but I view it more as new influences in my life. Of course I still love traditional portraiture, and I look forward to practising both. You can choose to build a tall skyscraper or lots of little houses everywhere.

Could you tell us about your favourite works from the series?

There are two paintings that best sum up this exhibition for me. The first one is Self-portrait in studio – Homage to De Kooning. This painting allowed me to bridge the two genres, to express my gratitude to a great artist as well as acknowledge my own journey to date. The second painting is Oi Oi Oi. This large-scale work was my freedom piece. Whilst I was painting the commissioned portrait of Bob Katter for Parliament, I found myself wandering over to this painting in the afternoons and just relaxing into a different mindset. I didn’t construct this painting; it just happened before me over time. It’s my most honest portrait to date.

How do you hope visitors will experience your Self Sabotage paintings at Tamworth Regional Gallery?

I really don’t know how visitors will experience this exhibition. I would like to think that they will know a little more about me. Traditional portraits don’t give the artist a lot of opportunity to tell the audience who they are. Self Sabotage is me, in all my mixed-up glory, with nothing to hide.

What other projects are you looking forward to working on in the coming year – perhaps building on the direction opened up by Self Sabotage?

I’m not sure what is next. I have a thousand new ideas every day. I think I’m just going to enjoy the next few weeks as I reflect on the work I’ve just created. Then, when the studio calls me to create, I’ll create. I hope one day I’ll look back on this work with great fondness, because it feels like a moment of freedom. I’m free to explore, and that’s a bloody good feeling.

For years I toyed with the idea of opening Michael Reid Detroit. I have always had a weakness for cities in the act of a new becoming- phoenixes rising out of catastrophe, so to speak.

The idea ended abruptly, however, when Barry Keldoulis — former Director of the art fair Sydney Contemporary — explained just how very cold Detroit can be in winter. So cold, in fact, that a flat-share acquaintance once popped out late at night, inappropriately dressed in pyjamas, to buy cigarettes from the local bodega. Cutting across the park, they tried to jump an iron fence. Their hands froze to the metal. They were found the next morning, quite literally snap-frozen.

So perhaps I would not, after all, be opening an art gallery in Detroit.

That said, Detroit was always on my mind.

Detroit was once well and truly written off — hollowed out by the collapse of automobile manufacturing in the late 20^th century — its streets became shorthand for industrial ruin and vampire movies. Yet what has emerged over the past decade is not a simple comeback, but something far more compelling: a city that rebuilt itself by restoring dignity to the making of beautiful, useful things. Labour became culture again. Craft became the necessary, mother of reinvention. Civic pride returned through making things properly, with machines and by hand.

Shinola was born of that conviction.

When the company began producing watches in Detroit in 2011, it was not merely entering the luxury market; it was entering a moral argument — that American manufacturing mattered, that hands-on work could be aspirational, that the objects we carry should hold stories of place, effort, continuity and dignity.

Motor City to Murrurundi. Geographically, they are poles apart. Philosophically, they are kin.

Seemingly, the two places could hardly be further apart geographically. Yet Murrurundi does not trade in trends. It moves to the rhythm of practical tenacity: seasons and farming cycles, drought and cold, horses, cattle, working dogs at your feet, and coffee made properly because it matters. Here, work is not a rural plaything for urban aesthetics; it is the condition of living.

Michael Reid Murrurundi, our evolving art, food and wine campus in the Upper Hunter Valley of New South Wales, was never intended to be simply an art gallery with a shop attached. It is where I live. It is my living system: an art gallery, Concept Store, kiosk, and now an in-the-garden kitchen I call the Pizza Shed. The garden is my slightly-got-away-from-me passion. Art, objects, food, trees, plants and conversation circulate around a shared place.

My opening selection of Shinola watches has been chosen with the same restraint I would apply to curating an art exhibition. The Runwell 41mm in tan leather, with its clear dial and hand-assembled movement, and its Sub Second sibling, are quiet, durable and legible — watches designed to be worn every day. The Canfield C56 and Canfield Sport introduce a more architectural confidence to the mix: stronger cases, sportier profiles, objects that carry the language of engineering as much as style. The Monster GMT, offered in both 40mm and 43mm gift sets, is built for long uncharted roads and longer days — a watch for those who cross time zones, literally or metaphorically. For something lighter, the Duck 3HD delivers modern, hard-wearing utility with the ease of a tool made to be used.

These watches are not fashion accessories. They are working objects. I wear my watch even though I am rarely separated from my iPhone. I can check the time with far greater discretion — and courtesy — than pulling a phone from my pocket mid-conversation. A watch does not throw blue light back at me at night. It tolerates rain, dust, soil and flour without complaint. I garden with my watch; my iPhone is perpetually in the way.

Shinola watches are assembled by people who once built cars. At Michael Reid Murrurundi, we curate exhibitions, make good food, sell proven, well-made products in the Concept Store and pour good coffee. In addition, we now place Shinola watches into the hands of people who understand what it means to carry a well-made and ever-useful object every day.

Shinola watches are not a luxury drifting into the bush. Our choice to offer Shinola is one working town recognising another working city, across hemispheres. Detroit rebuilt its soul by putting work back at the centre of culture. In Murrurundi, we have always done the same.

Michael Reid OAM

This pattern is hardly new. The art world has encountered it repeatedly whenever a new medium emerges. In the nineteenth century, early photography provoked long debates about whether the mechanical capture of an image could ever rise to the level of art, with critics and practitioners often more fascinated by the chemistry and apparatus than by the pictures themselves. A century later, the arrival of video art in the 1970s produced a similar moment: artists and audiences alike were dazzled by the novelty of portable cameras and monitors, sometimes mistaking technical novelty for aesthetic achievement. The digital art boom of the 1990s repeated the cycle once more, with endless discussion of software, pixels and processing power, while the visual outcomes frequently struggled to justify the technological excitement surrounding them.

The hype surrounding NFTs simply repeated this familiar pattern. When new technologies enter the art world, they are often embraced first by those fixated on the mechanism itself. In their obsession with the how, they never truly grapple with the what – the aesthetic or emotional value of the result. The techno-disciples become so entranced by the tools that the final outcome becomes an afterthought, proving once again that a high-tech delivery system can never disguise a complete absence of substance.

The use of Artificial Intelligence in art, however, is an entirely different matter. Almost no artists – and certainly very few artists of real standing – were intricately involved with the construction of NFTs. The techno wizards literally became the NFT artwork. In the brave new world of AI, however, artists are using it as they would a paintbrush or a Hasselblad camera, augmenting their own extraordinary creative abilities with a new visual tool. Great artists can use AI, whereas with NFTs, only the techno wizards could truly operate the machinery.

My colleagues and I are boots and all behind extremely good artists using AI. After many decades of exhibiting artists across the world, Jim Naughten – a British artist – is the first non-ANZA (Australian and New Zealand) artist, so to speak, that the gallery has ever exhibited. In doing so, we have broken our founding rule of exhibiting only Antipodean artists, drawn from a shared culture and visual history that my colleagues and I know and understand. And we have done this for a very good reason.

Naughten’s work explores our complex and fragile relationship with the natural world. Originally trained as a painter – there you go – he now works primarily with photography, digital manipulation and, more recently, photography and Artificial Intelligence.

Naughten is a bridge from the greater classicism of our previous art world to a new visual art world – drawing on a deeply creative, classically trained well of experience to champion the new frontiers of the analogue in photography, commingling with, and being extended by, the creativity of AI, instigated, directed and orchestrated by the deeply capable.

Naughten creates surreal and vivid images – a pink zebra, neon gibbons, crested birds, roving wolves – that play with memory, imagination and anxiety. He unapologetically confronts our ecological crisis, unreservedly, through the shock of the new. His recent projects, Mesozoic (2023) and Biophilia (2025), reflect a growing urgency in his practice as he highlights biodiversity loss and environmental crisis.

Naughten’s artworks are meticulously constructed and painterly, shaped over time through layering, editing and digital techniques. His early influences include Diane Arbus and, more recently, Richard Mosse and Patrick Waterhouse. He often collaborates with ecologists and conservationists and has raised funds for the Jane Goodall Institute.

His work has been widely exhibited internationally, including at the Wellcome Collection, the Imperial War Museum, and the Horniman Museum in London, as well as at the Royal Academy of Arts and the National Portrait Gallery. His work is held in major public and private collections, including the Wellcome Collection, the Imperial War Museum, the Horniman Museum, the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, the Honolulu Museum of Art, the Museum of Photographic Arts in San Diego, and the Boca Raton Museum of Art in Florida.

Through striking imagery and cutting-edge visual storytelling, Naughten seeks to reconnect viewers with the natural world – and to remind us of its wonder, its fragility, and our shared responsibility to protect it.

Green Creek has long been a passion project. Herbert Lysaght bought the property, originally the lambing paddock of Harben Vale, as a project for his son, Douglas Royse Lysaght, in 1921. Today it is the home of Felicity and James Street – Royse’s grandson – with 2500 acres and a sprawling single-storey residence from the 1930s wrapped in colonnades and verandahs at the foot of Protection Hill. A gardener’s cottage, schoolhouse, meat house, dairy and tennis court sit among lawns and hundred-year-old trees, while the weatherboard cottage that had originally occupied the site was moved a short distance away, where it now overlooks the namesake creek.

Designed by Sydney architect Kenneth McConnel, the new Green Creek home was a big deal and went on to grace the cover of the 1947 tome, Planning the Australian Homestead. Its celebrity, though, was already long established – and not for its elegant design.

In September 1936, the project had reached lockup stage and James’s grandmother, Margery, was in Sydney selecting fabrics and furniture. On site, a plumber’s blowtorch came into contact with insulation under the eaves and the 26-room home, built chiefly of cypress pine, burnt to the ground.

“PALATIAL NEW HOME DESTROYED BY FIRE”, read one newspaper headline. “So sudden was the conflagration and intense the heat that the workmen who were camping in the building had not time to remove their belongings, and although there was an abundant water supply, nothing could be done to check the fire, and in half an hour the whole of the structure had been reduced to ashes.” Phoenix-like, the house was then rebuilt to the exact specifications. Sympathy goes out to “Mr. Smith of Newcastle”, the contractor who shouldered the cost.

Wanting to raise his family at Green Creek, Royse enjoyed these years of rural life, involved in the local community and particularly active in sporting clubs, playing rugby and co-founding the Murrurundi Golf Club. He was eventually called back to the family firm, Lysaght Steel. A stint in finance at Perpetual followed, later becoming chairman of CBC Bank.

“Green Creek was and still is one of the larger landholdings in the district but there are limitations in regard to the type of land use”, says James. “It’s hilly so not great sheep country, with issues around erosion; while it’s good basalt soil, it needs consistent rain. If you push it too hard, you’re the first into a drought and the last out. Today we have predominantly beef cattle, but surrounded by these hills and wonderful vistas, the true value of this place is in its beauty.”

James, his brother Matt and sisters Sarah and Hattie were raised at Green Creek, much like their mother, Helen Mary Lysaght, one of the four children of Royse and Margery. Felicity, meanwhile, hailed from a large sheep and cattle station near Quilpie in western Queensland before her family moved to central western New South Wales. “I grew up in the dry and arid environment of western Queensland and then at Mumblebone Stud, a property with significance in the wool industry,” says Felicity. “I really love Green Creek – it’s different to what I was used to but much like my father, Jamie and I see ourselves as custodians of the land. It takes a huge amount of effort but we’re maintaining history, and this gives us much joy.”

Which brings us back to the original weatherboard cottage. In the mid 1950s, Patrick ‘Paddy’ Brown came out from Ireland and worked on the construction of Glenbawn Dam, eventually settling in Murrurundi. He took a job as general hand at Green Creek for James’s father, Philip Street, and moved into the cottage, virtually untouched since its relocation in the 1930s. “There was a long drop, a copper boiler, a cast-iron bathtub in the kitchen, a smoking fireplace and not much else,” recalls James. “And Paddy loved it.”

After James commenced primary school in nearby Blandford, Paddy, who had been the welterweight champion back in Ireland, offered to teach him how to box. “A boxing bag was hung from a tree and each afternoon he would meet me straight off the school bus with a big old set of gloves. I was his little mate – we sparred and carried on and had a lot of fun.”

Having completed their studies, the just-married Jamie and Felicity worked in a nickel mine in the Meekatharra Desert in Western Australia and then spent a year travelling in Europe, before taking over the running of Green Creek in 1983. Their first son, Angus, was born the following year, followed by Simon and Amelia. “It was an idyllic place to raise three children and continues to be the heart of the family,” says Felicity. “We now have four grandchildren that also enjoy everything that Green Creek has to offer.”

Birds and possums were the cottage’s main residents after Paddy left in 1972. Many would have seen the structure demolished but Felicity and Jamie, realising its historical significance and potential as a farm stay, took the decision to restore the cottage in 2020, bringing it back to life over the course of a painstaking two-year renovation.

Today the simple, rustic luxury of Paddy’s Cottage (alongside three bedrooms there are two bathrooms, a proper cook’s kitchen and a charming mix of antiques and modern) stands as a far cry from the long drop and copper of Paddy’s era, although the beauty of the setting remains unchanged. Sitting on the verandah as the sun drops behind Protection Hill, throwing land and sky into a rainbow of colours, close your eyes and the affable Irishman’s presence is felt. Royse and Margery are there too, represented by their well-travelled collection of steamer trunks.

The original woolshed and shearer’s quarters from Royse’s time are visible from the verandah. It was there, in the late 1980s, that Felicity began hosting guests at Green Creek, after converting the shearer’s quarters into student accommodation. With two young children and a third on the way it wasn’t to last, although the experience laid the foundation for Paddy’s Cottage.

“Jamie and I feel incredibly privileged to have lived at Green Creek for the past 40 years and have always felt it had great tourism potential. Paddy’s Cottage is a part of that journey,” she says, “sharing the beauty of this country with our guests, and with the aim of leaving Green Creek in good stead for the next generation.”

@paddyscottage_greencreek

Washington pulses with dominance. The city hums to a constant wail of sirens – every decibel accounted for – with speeding motorcades, rotors, and roadblocks forming the soundtrack of authority on alert.

Power here feels physical — it moves, it breathes, it occupies space. In Australia, power tends to hide behind process and protocol. It’s softened by committees and smoothed over by a middle-class conformity we longingly refer to as egalitarian. In Washington, it wears running shoes and a security detail and jogs with some purpose down the long avenues of massive monuments – and carries a visible do-not-fuck-with-me vibe. In America, power performs. In Australia, it clears its throat.

Founded in 1790, DC was conceived by General George Washington – a reluctant revolutionary: disciplined, reserved, and driven more by duty than ambition, yet destined to embody the very idea of American power. Designed by Pierre Charles L’Enfant, the city was meant to express the ideals of the new republic, with grand avenues radiating from the Capitol and the White House.

The fledgling city struggled through its early years, plagued by swamps, disease and underdevelopment, before being devastated in 1814 when British troops invaded and burned the Capitol, the White House, and much of the city. Rebuilt and expanded, Washington grew into a fortified hub during the Civil War, symbolising the strength of the Union.

In the twentieth century, monumental architecture and national memorials transformed it into a showcase of American power – though racial and political tensions simmered beneath the surface. And still do. Following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968, President Lyndon B. Johnson called in more than 13,000 federal troops to quell riots and restore order.

More than half a century later, in 2025, President Donald Trump again deployed National Guard troops to the capital – around 800 under federal control – declaring a public safety emergency and assuming command of the city’s police amid renewed civil unrest.

Unrest is the word du jour. During the ten days I was in DC, there was an ongoing federal government lockdown, the National Guard visibly out on the streets, and, on the day of our exhibition opening, the millions and millions who attended the No Kings rally.

This unrest is the result of a simple reality: America has become a deeply partisan place. Ever since Donald Trump’s second election in 2024, those once in the know have been forced to confront an uncomfortable truth – perhaps they did not understand America after all. The enlightened liberal class has been grappling with how to comprehend the rural and red-state Americans – those who live across the vast middle of the country, who feel that the economy, and the nation itself, have been passing them by, and who no longer see their lives or values reflected in the experience of the coasts.

The nation is now so divided that men broadcast their affiliations on their lapels. These badges help others know how to approach an upcoming conversation. In Washington, even civility comes forearmed. Once, a man’s sole jewellery signifier was his watch. A Rolex says this – solid, made it, successful. A Patek Philippe whispers – old money and deep wealth. In today’s America, alongside the watch, the lapel announces, before we have spoken, the institutions and organisations central to a man’s identity.

The American flag lapel pin is common. It says, “I am a patriot” – most likely more conservative than some, but the badge moves easily across divides. Then there are the all-important who-am-I badges.

On my first breakfast morning, I sat near two gentlemen – one with clear military bearing, speaking in a professional murmur, with phrases like “Russian sanctions” bubbling to the surface. These men wore a potpourri of badges, to the point of making a dandiest decorative-arts statement. The military man, notably, had a Ukrainian flag pin in the mix.

Around town, other lapel pins told their own stories. The Thin Blue Line flag pin – black and white with a single blue stripe – marked the law-enforcement fraternity. The Gold Star lapel button, a small gold star on a purple background, quietly signified a family’s loss in service. Veteran pins, round or shield-shaped with flags or unit crests, asserted experience and belonging. And then there were the practical laminated security badges – male and female – swinging from retractable cords that spoke even louder: in DC, access is the truest insignia of power.

As for the female insignias of affiliation, I have yet to decode them.

Amid this less-than-calm, my colleague and business partner, Director Toby Meagher, arrived in DC two days before my rather statelier business-class procession touched down. We were there for our month-long exhibition, The Stars Before Us All: Australian First Nations Art, held just a block from the White House. Why Washington? Because, in the footsteps of the good General George, we were shadowing the National Gallery of Victoria’s exhibition, The Stars We Do Not See: Australian Indigenous Art, originally scheduled to premiere at the National Gallery of Art on October 18, 2025 – postponed, as it happened, by a government shutdown. Our lights, however, went on exactly as planned.

We coordinated the Washington exhibition with another in Sydney. Artworks that were either too large or arrived too late for shipping to the US of A were shown in our Chippendale space. Toby and I had been working on this exhibition for a year. Artworks were sourced from Communities and private clients alike. The day before the DC opening, Toby rented a van and collected two paintings from a private client. The artworks quite literally came from everywhere.

The opening night drew a crowd of eighty to ninety. We were heavy on art museum curators and light on New York collectors. The private buyers had rescheduled after learning of the lockdown. The museum folk, already scheduled and paid to attend the opening of the National Gallery of Art, suddenly had space on their dance cards. A director of an extremely prestigious art museum – taking numerous photos of our exhibition – told me that had the shutdown not occurred, her program would have been too full to visit our exhibition. As it was, she had the time, and that, in itself, was important.

I estimate we lost between twenty and thirty private clients but gained ten to fifteen art museum curators – a loose lockdown dividend. Perhaps a silver lining. The Australian Financial Review ran a good, page-three, Saturday article on the opening – read the online edition here – and The Sydney Morning Herald also covered the show extensively – read here.

On the Monday of the second week, Regina and her niece Joy, nephews Hayden and Brett, Toby and I went by hired bus to the Kluge-Ruhe Museum at the University of Virginia.

Toby left DC the following Tuesday, and I was home alone with the exhibition for the next week. This would generally not be considered wise. Never one to be described as hands-on or practical, I had the keys to the front door – at least until the inevitable moment when I wouldn’t be able to find them. Anywho.

Home alone, the first thing I did was arrange a Zoom meeting with Shinola, the Detroit-based brand known for its watches, leather goods, and homewares. Of course I did. The meeting went extremely well. I learned that Shinola and Filson share the same private parent company — a fortunate connection, given our established partnership with Filson. Once they realised I already sell the Seattle-based outdoor woodsman brand in Australia, the conversation progressed swiftly and positively. We discussed an initial range of twelve watches and selected leather goods for Murrurundi, along with order minimums, display concepts, and logistics such as tax removal and shipping. In the coming weeks, I expect to finalise a dealership agreement making Murrurundi the exclusive Australian representative for Shinola. Bless.

Back to the DC exhibition. I did a number of early-morning private client walkthroughs that week, and my learning here is simple: if an individual requests an out-of-hours appointment, they acquire. Similarly, if visitors come during opening hours and then return, the likelihood of acquisition is far higher than for those who simply turn up for the drinks on opening night. On leaving, I had positioned six paintings to two collectors, from DC and New York. One of these collectors, the gallery had previously never dealt with.

As I head home, my colleague Daniel Soma, Head of Creative and Strategic Direction for the gallery, is coming over. We are extending the exhibition until 9 November, in the hope – and one would say some considerable hope – of being around when the National Gallery of Art in Washington reopens. Fingers crossed. So far so good.

Michael Reid OAM

Together with her studies, first in design and later with a Bachelor of Art Theory at UNSW – as well as her time spent in Berlin, where she thrilled to the blurred creative boundaries of a culture where fashion, food and interiors overlapped as a single expression of cool, lived-in style – Amelia’s early influences have shaped an intuitive approach to collecting and an affinity for design as embedded within the everyday. “I’ve always collected furniture and design pieces for my own home,” says Amelia, whose private passion became Zander & Co when sourcing for herself evolved into sourcing for others.

“I’m constantly drawn to things that speak to me, and I love bringing them into my collection, even if just for a little while. Nothing excites me more than when a customer comes to me with a specific piece they need. I love the challenge of finding just the right thing. Sometimes I’ll even sell something from my private collection if it suits what someone is looking for. I like to live with the furniture first – really fall in love with it before I let it go. I only sell pieces I connect with – things I’d happily keep in my own home.”

With one-year-old and three-year-old at home, Amelia began sourcing, restoring and “flipping” mid-century furniture while teaching herself photography to elevate the online presence of her budding business. Things took off when she moved to a new home in Leichhardt with a small shopfront attached.

“I was blown away by the response and how strong the demand was for vintage furniture,” says Amelia, who spent hours researching, experimenting and learning the art of furniture restoration before, in 2023, demand grew so strong that she engaged artisan and restorations specialist Shawn Supra – now her business partner – to support Zander & Co’s continued expansion. “He had worked for various mid-century furniture businesses in Sydney and the US as a refinisher, and he also had a background in cabinet making. Bringing him on board really lifted our restoration quality and capacity. He’s incredibly meticulous and genuinely loves the challenge that each piece brings.”

After 18 months in Leichhardt, it was time to move again. “We needed somewhere with workshop space, but also somewhere we could live,” says Amelia. “Trying to find something that ticked all those boxes felt nearly impossible. When I visited our space in Annandale, I knew it was the one.” The building, originally a confectionery store built in 1905, had been home to various businesses over the years. “It had been thoughtfully renovated, keeping so many beautiful original details: old timber, brass fittings, antique panelling, high ceilings and even a spiral staircase,” she says. “I immediately knew it would be the perfect backdrop for our furniture. The best part was that it was pretty much ready to go. Aside from some drapery and new ceiling lights, we didn’t have to do much at all. We were just incredibly lucky that it already felt so right.”

In Annandale, Amelia found a space that met the requirements of family life and a growing design business all under one roof. “I have small kids,” she says, “and the house isn’t always as organised as I’d like. Thankfully, the showroom is only open to the public one day a week, and I do my best to make sure it looks nice enough for that one day.” But the honesty of the arrangement is essential to its charm. “Everyone’s life is a bit messy at times, and I think visitors actually enjoy seeing the furniture in a real home. It helps them imagine how the pieces might work in their own lives. There’s something nice about the overlap, letting the furniture be lived with, not just displayed.”

It’s a spatial ethos that dovetails with the design qualities that most appeal to the Zander & Co team. “I love that mid-century furniture can be restored to function and look almost exactly as it did when it first left the factory. Some pieces will still show signs of their past life, but I see that as part of their story and authenticity,” says Amelia, whose judicious choice of contemporary upholstery textiles helps transform each piece in ways that are both thoughtful and evocative. “There’s nothing more satisfying than taking a tired, worn-out piece with a dull finish and bringing it back to life – not to make it look brand new, but better than new, because it’s real vintage furniture with a real history, given a fresh new chapter.”

By celebrating the authenticity and time-worn patina of vintage pieces – and presenting them against evocatively layered, live-in scenography – Zander & Co has tapped into a broader appetite for experiencing art and design in a residential context. They eschew the cool, white-cube setting of a typical gallery or retail space in favour of something richly personal, redolent of history, and attuned to the realities of how we live now.

Call it the Milan effect – with the Italian style capital’s annual Design Week inspiring a tilt towards retail spaces that feel like eclectic, idiosyncratic abodes – or a blurring of public and private realms amid social media sharing and the post-Covid reshaping of work/life balance. Or perhaps it’s just our eternal curiosity about how other people live. Today, there is a shift away from viewing art and design at a curatorial remove, towards experiencing objects in settings that tell a story – emotionally resonant, mood-setting spaces that reflect the collecting tastes of the people who might live there.

It’s in this spirit of openness and creative cross-pollination that Amelia has now teamed up with Michael Reid Murrurundi for Pied-à-terre – a collaborative exhibition that will see beautifully restored pieces from the Zander & Co collection paired with a curated selection of new works by some of Australia’s most acclaimed and in-demand contemporary artists – all playing out in a sequence of styled living room vignettes within the gallery walls.

“We were really excited when Daniel Soma from Michael Reid invited us to be part of this exhibition. It felt like a great opportunity to showcase what we do best,” says Amelia. “We’ve included a few pieces that highlight our restoration work – like a beautiful FLER daybed and armchair in Queensland maple, a timber you rarely see – as well as some classic Parker designs. Parker is our best seller, probably because it’s so versatile: the proportions are easy to live with, restoration is straightforward, and the pieces effortlessly reimagine themselves in a contemporary context.”

For Amelia, a favourite aspect of living with her collection is the sense that the maker’s artistic sensibility and intention can be felt in each piece – the trace of the hand bringing a quiet beauty to the everyday. It’s this feeling of artisanship, originality, considered staging, and the mood-setting possibilities of a layered, eclectic space that forms the curatorial thread of Pied-à-terre, which will feature two of Amelia’s personal favourites from her collection: a George Korody traymobile with black vitrolite glass, and a Framac green terrazzo coffee table.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing how it all comes together – the furniture, the art, and the space. I think people will respond with a sense of nostalgia. They usually do,” says Amelia, who sees restoration as a conscious act – a rebuke to throwaway culture in favour of more mindfully chosen, beautiful pieces that have already stood the test of time. “This kind of furniture often reminds people of the homes they grew up in, or their grandparents’ houses. It always sparks conversation, and it’s really special to hear the stories that come out of that.”

Amelia hopes gallery visitors will see the furniture in a new light as it plays out in conversation with a striking contemporary art collection from artists represented in the Michael Reid stable. “When they see [the furniture] restored and reimagined in a contemporary setting, it often shifts their perspective,” she says. “People tell me they regret getting rid of pieces they inherited once they realise how timeless and adaptable they really are. This kind of furniture helps them recreate a feeling — warmth, familiarity, happiness. New furniture can’t offer that same emotional connection.”

Pieces from the Zander & Co. collection will be on view in Pied-à-terre at Michael Reid Murrurundi from 7 August to 21 September. For more, visit zanderandco.com.au

Aleks attended primary school in Exeter and then Moss Vale, and visited his grandparents’ property whenever he was allowed.

“Sid grew up with horses and his family used horse-drawn lorries and wagons in their haulage and scrap metal collection business, based in Flood Street, Leichardt,” says Aleks. “They also used to help muster cattle down Parramatta Road to Homebush sale yards.”

When horses became obsolete, in the business sense, Sid said he was done with horses.

“But a few years later he bought a farm in Putty and it just happened that the bloke next door was a draught horse farmer and somehow got wind of the fact that Sid had a fair bit of horse experience. Sid came home one day and found a pair of grey horses in the yards. Owen, the neighbour, said: ‘You can break them in for me, Sid.’ And that’s how he got hooked back into working with horses again.”

The properties in Putty were small but in those days farmers were allowed to graze their cattle in Wollemi National Park.

“They would muster cattle on horseback through the national park to the sale yards in Singleton. My grandfather had the best memories of that time. He was living the dream.”

When cattle grazing was banned from Wollemi National Park, “farmers could no longer make a living just off the size of their properties so they started leaving and the whole community changed.”

Aleks’ grandmother suggested they look for a new property near Bundanoon, where she used to go on holidays as a child, and Sid and Pat moved Marlie Draught Horse Stud to the current Exeter site in 1983.

Teams of Eight

Berzins’ love of eight-horse plough teams only strengthened during his high school years, when he was a champion rower.

He was a member of The King’s School First Eight that won the GPS Head of the River in 2006 and 2007, and he focused on rowing immediately after school, training at the Australian Institute of Sport and representing Australia at the World Junior Championships in China. Berzins’ coxed four was Australia’s best performing crew at that competition.

Despite the demands of elite rowing training, Aleks would visit and stay with his grandfather as often as possible. He was offered a rowing scholarship by both Princeton and Harvard universities but couldn’t bear the thought of not spending time with his grandfather.

“My pop was my best friend,” he explains. “It was more than just a grandfather-grandson relationship. He was the bees’ knees and my best mate – and he was best man at our wedding.”

Aleks and Karina

When Aleks met Karina, he invited her to his grandparents’ property as soon as possible.

“We had just met and he said let’s have a trip to the farm,” Karina recalls. “I remember getting here and thinking: ‘No one knows where I am, no one knows who Aleks is and the property backs on to the State Forest – this could be dangerous!’”

Karina grew up near Wollongong, was a keen surfer, and studied commerce and science at university.

The couple bought a property in Marulan a decade ago, when they were both still based in Sydney, however they didn’t spend much time there.

“It used to bug Karina, because we’d bought our first house but I refused to stay in it when we came down because I wanted to stay with Pop and work horses,” Aleks says with a grin.

Soon afterwards, Sid started having health problems and asked Aleks if he would be interested in continuing the tradition of breeding and working draught horses. After thinking it over for about a year, Aleks and Karina decided to take the plunge.

Aleks had been working for a plumber since he finished school and when he moved out of Sydney he started his own business, Exeter Plumbing, while Karina found work with Holcim, which operates a quarry in Marulan.

Aleks loved the move south for many reasons. Karina discovered he would eat the breakfast she cooked for him and then he would visit his grandmother next door and enjoy a second cooked breakfast.

On the other hand, drought hit the area just as they moved in.

“Any money we could get our hands on was spent buying hay to keep the horses alive,” Aleks recalls. “I would finish work and then get into a 1986 truck with no air conditioning on Friday night and drive 13 or 14 hours to Victoria to buy hay. I would drive back the next day and unload the hay and then I’d go to work for the week and do the same the next weekend.”

Labour of Love

Breeding and maintaining 50 draught horses, and preserving traditional ploughing practices, is expensive.

Asked if it is a labour of love, Karina describes it as “a money pit”.
But the couple clearly love what they do.

“It’s such an instant society we live in,” Karina says. “Everyone wants everything done now. Stepping back with the slower pace of the horses is so therapeutic. It helps you switch off.”

For Aleks, it also provides a window into history.
“I’ll see an old plough or harvester that might be 100 years old and, because I met so many people from my grandfather’s era who would talk about getting that machine off the train when it was new and how it changed their farming operation, I can see it when it was new and I can appreciate how it was life-changing for them.”

The Berzins own hundreds of horse-drawn machines, including a 10-tonne Bennett Wagon that was built in 1913 by renowned craftsman James Bennett. Each Bennett Wagon had its own name painted on the side, and the one owned by the Berzins is named All The Go.

“The craftsmanship, for something that was really just a truck, is amazing,” Aleks says. “They were the Rolls Royce of their day and they made sure they did a 10 out of 10 job. I love the beauty of forgotten trades.”

In the future, Aleks and Karina dream of building a living museum on their property to showcase their comprehensive collection of horse-drawn farm machinery and allow visitors to watch their horses plough their paddocks.

Turning Point

Aleks participates in the arcane world of single furrow ploughing – indeed he won last year’s Golden Plough, the most prestigious competition in Australia – but for many years he was happy to stay at home rather than go on the road to show off his horses and skills at country shows. This was partly because of the significant costs involved, including spending time away from his plumbing business.

Things changed in 2022, however, when he was invited to drive eight of his draught horses for 14 kilometres down Parramatta Road to Sydney Olympic Park as part of a parade to celebrate the Sydney Royal Easter Show’s 200th anniversary.

Aleks also joined up with two other stud owners to create a 20-horse team that pulled a wool wagon around the main stadium.

“It turned into a small business from there,” Aleks says. “We started saying ‘yes’ to more shows and demonstrating ploughing and cutting chaff with horses – and that led to more invitations.”

The demand for Marlie Stud’s draught horses is growing because, sadly, many of those who had expertise in horse-drawn farm work have died or are now too old to demonstrate their skills. They are about to visit several regional shows in Queensland.

“People just love seeing 11 horses hooked up to a wagon, they find it mesmerising,” Aleks says.
“And it’s great hearing all the stories,” adds Karina. “People come and tell us what they used to do or what their grandfather did – they love talking to you and reminiscing.”

A Family Operation

Aleks and Karina have extremely busy lives, juggling Exeter Plumbing and Marlie Draught Horse Stud while raising their three daughters, aged between five and ten. The stud is very much a family operation, with the girls already heavily involved.

“The kids finish school and head straight to the yards to feed horses and check water,” Karina says. “And they fix fences and do other jobs on weekends.”

“We are lucky because we are here together as a family and we love doing what we are doing,” adds Aleks.

The Berzins would save money by not travelling with their horses and machinery to regional shows, but that’s not what it’s about.

Last year, they participated in a reenactment of Cobb & Co’s final coach run from Surat to Yuleba in Queensland, sharing the journey with families who operate camel and bullock teams.

“We made bugger all out of it,” says Aleks, “but as an experience for the family, spending a week and a bit on the road in Queensland with our team of horses and going down trails I had never been down – you can’t put a price on that.”

For more information visit: marliedraughthorsestud.com