Reading — 2026 Jan–Apr Recall Set 13

Sydney Opera House is an example of late modern architecture; it is admired internationally and treasured by the people of Australia. In 1966 the Premier of New South Wales, Australia, announced an international competition for the design of an opera house for Sydney. It attracted more than 200 entries from around the world and was won by Jørn Utzon, a relatively little-known architect from Denmark. The story goes that during the judging of the competition, one judge, American architect Eero Saarinen, arrived in Sydney after the other three judges had started assessing the entries. He looked through their rejected entries and stopped at the Utzon design, declaring it to be outstanding. It was Utzon's life and travels that had shaped his design for the Sydney Opera House. Though he had never visited the site, he used his maritime background to study naval charts of Sydney Harbour. His early exposure to shipbuilding provided the inspiration for the design of the roof, which is a series of curved 'shells' that look like the sails of a sailing ship billowing in the wind. From his travels to Mexico, he had the idea of placing his building on a wide horizontal platform. Construction of the platform began in 1959, and throughout the early 1960s Utzon amended his original designs in order to develop a way to build the large 'shells' that cover the two main halls. The construction of the roof brought together some of the world's best engineers and craftsmen, devising innovative techniques to create a major visual impact in accordance with Utzon's vision. The design was one of the first examples of the use of computer-aided design for complex shapes. Although Utzon had spectacular plans for the interior, he was unable to realise them. Cost overruns contributed to criticism of the project and, after a change of government, the Minister of Works began questioning Utzon's schedules and cost estimates. Payments to Utzon were stopped and he was forced to withdraw as chief architect in 1966. Following his resignation, there were protests through the streets led by prominent architect Harry Seidler and others, demanding that Utzon be reinstated as architect. However, Utzon was not reinstated and left Australia in 1966. He never returned, and new architects were appointed to complete the building in his absence. The original cost estimate for the Opera House was $7 million, with the completion date set for 26 January 1963. However, the Opera House was not formally completed until 1973, having cost $102 million. Since its opening in 1973, Sydney Opera House has earned a reputation as a world-class performing arts centre and become a symbol of both Sydney and Australia. Situated at Bennelong Point on Sydney Harbour, it consists of a series of large precast 'shells' made of concrete, each composed of sections of a sphere of 75.2 metres radius, forming the roofs of the structure, set on a monumental platform. The building is 183 metres long and 120 metres wide at its widest point. It is supported on 588 concrete piers, which are sunk approximately 25 metres below sea level. Although the roof structures are commonly referred to as 'shells', they are precast concrete panels supported by concrete ribs. The 'shells' are covered with 1,056,006 white and cream-coloured tiles manufactured in a factory in Sweden that generally produced stoneware tiles for the paper-mill industry. The design solution and construction of the shell structure took eight years to complete, and the development of the special ceramic tiles took over three years. Apart from the tiles covering the 'shells', the building's exterior is mostly clad with granite quarried in Australia. Contrary to its name, Sydney Opera House includes multiple performance venues. It is among the busiest performing-arts centres in the world, holding over 1,500 performances each year. It hosts a large number of performing-arts companies, including the four resident companies: Opera Australia, the Australian Ballet, the Sydney Theatre Company and the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. With its grand setting and cathedral-like atmosphere, the Concert Hall is Sydney Opera House's most prestigious performance space. The largest of all interior venues, it delivers outstanding acoustics thanks to its high ceiling and wood panelling. There is a sizeable outdoor forecourt from which people ascend to the main entrance. The steps, which lead up from the forecourt to the main performance venues, are nearly 100 metres wide. In 1999 Utzon was re-engaged to develop a set of design principles to act as a guide for future changes to the building. All of this design work he did from his base in Europe. These principles help to ensure that the building's architectural integrity is maintained. The first alteration to the exterior was the addition of a new colonnade, which shades nine large glass openings in the previously solid exterior wall. This Utzon-led project, completed in 2006, enabled theatre patrons to see the harbour for the first time from the theatre foyers. The design also incorporates the first public lift and interior escalators to assist less-mobile patrons. Since 2007, the cultural, heritage and architectural importance of Sydney Opera House has been protected by its inclusion on the World Heritage List.

Talbot Park, a housing project in Auckland, New Zealand, was once described as a ghetto, troubled by high rates of crime and vandalism. However, it has just been rebuilt at a cost of $48 million and the project reflects some new thinking about urban design. A The new Talbot Park is immediately eye-catching because the buildings look quite different to other state-housing projects in Auckland. ‘There is no reason why state housing should look cheap in my view,’ says architect Neil Cotton, one of the design team. ‘In fact, I was anticipating a backlash by those who objected to the quality of what is provided with government money.’ The tidy brick and wood apartments and townhouses would not look out of place in some of the city’s most affluent suburbs, and this is a central theme of the Talbot Park philosophy. B Talbot Park is a triangle of government-owned land, which in the early 1960s was developed for state housing built around a linear garden that ran through the middle. Initially, there was a strong sense of neighbourliness. Former residents recall how the garden played a big part in their childhoods — a place where kids came together to play softball, cricket and bullrush. ‘We had respect for our neighbours and addressed them by title — Mr and Mrs so-and-so,’ recalls Georgie Thompson, who grew up there in the 1960s. C Exactly what went wrong with Talbot Park is unclear. The community began to change in the late 1970s as more immigrants moved in. The new arrivals didn’t always integrate with the community and a ‘them and us’ mentality developed. In the process, standards dropped and the neighbourhood began to look shabbier. The buildings themselves were also deteriorating and becoming run-down, petty crime was on the rise and the garden was considered unsafe. In 2002, Housing New Zealand decided the properties needed upgrading. The question was, how to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past? D One controversial aspect of the upgrade is that the new development has actually made the density of housing in Talbot Park greater, putting 52 more homes on the same site. Doing this required a fresh approach that can be summed up as ‘mix and match’. The first priority was to mix up the housing by employing a variety of plans by different architects: some of the accommodation is free-standing houses, some semi-detached, some low-level, multi-apartment blocks. By doing this, the development avoids the uniform appearance of so many state-housing projects, which residents complain denies them any sense of individual identity. The next goal was to prevent overspending by using efficient designs to maximise the sense of space from minimum room sizes. There was also a no-frills, industrial approach to kitchens, bathrooms and flooring, to optimise durability and ensure the project did not go over budget. Architecturally, the buildings are relatively conservative: fairly plain houses standing in a small garden. There’s a slight reflection of the traditional Pacific beach house (a fale) but it’s not over-played. ‘It seems to us that low-cost housing is about getting as much amenity as you can for the money,’ says architect Michael Thompson. Another key aspect of the ‘mix and match’ approach is openness: one that not only lets residents see what is going on but also lets them know they are seen. The plan ensures there are no cul-de-sacs or properties hidden from view, that the gardens are not enclosed by trees and that most boundary fences are see-through — a community contained but without walls. E The population today is cosmopolitan: 50% Pacific Islanders, 20% Māori, 15% Asian, 10% New Zealand European and the rest composed of immigrants from Russia, Ukraine and Iran. ‘It was important that the buildings were sufficiently flexible to cater for the needs of people from a wide variety of cultural backgrounds,’ explains designer James Lundy. F Despite the quality of the buildings, however, there should be no doubt that Talbot Park and its surrounding suburb of Tāmaki are low socio-economic areas. Of the 5,000 houses there, 55% are state houses, 28% privately owned (compared to about 65% nationally) and 17% private rental. The area has a high density of households with incomes in the $5,000 to $15,000 range and very few with an income over $70,000. That’s in sharp contrast to the more affluent suburbs in Auckland. G Another important part of the new development is what Housing New Zealand calls ‘intensive tenancy management’. Opponents of the project call it social control. ‘The focus is on frequent inspections and setting clear guidelines and boundaries regarding the sort of behaviour we expect from tenants,’ says Graham Bodman, Housing New Zealand’s regional manager. The result is a code of sometimes strict rules: no loud parties after 10 pm; no washing hung over balcony rails; and a requirement to mow lawns and keep the property tidy. The Tenancy Manager walks the site every day, knows everyone by name and deals with problems quickly. ‘It’s all based on the intensification,’ says project manager Stuart Bracey. ‘We acknowledge that if you are going to ask people to live in these quite tightly-packed communities, you have to actually help them to get to know each other by organising morning teas and street barbecues.’ So far it seems to be working and many involved in the project believe Talbot Park represents the way forward for state housing.

In a career spanning some fifty years, Margaret Mahy has come to occupy a unique place in New Zealand writing with innovative fiction and original characterisation. In our solidly realist tradition, the linguistic fireworks of Mahy’s children’s fiction and the explorations of human behaviour at the heart of her supernatural teenage fiction stand gloriously alone. Mahy’s clearest heir, I have always thought, is Elizabeth Knox — and maybe the true inheritance there is sheer singularity. Just as there is no one else like Knox in New Zealand writing, Mahy, too, has ventured into imaginative territory unknown to other local writers. So it was with great pleasure that I visited Mahy recently at her Governor’s Bay home to talk about her new book. As with all journalists, she is generous to a fault with her time and attention; and, as always — despite her careful consideration of questions and thoughtful answers — I’m reminded she isn’t truly comfortable making herself or her life the heart of any conversation. Certainly, any consideration of the style of Mahy’s novels and picture books throws up some irresistible theories. As a writer committed to supporting herself through her art, she has seldom had the time for formal research. Rather, it has been a matter of going out and finding inspiration from her immediate environment: the writing on the side of a bus; a spelling mistake in a note to herself; the similarity between a cat and a fur hat. But despite these sometimes mundane origins, the settings for her stories are delightfully varied, as these books celebrate the dramatic plot twists and unpredictability of adventures on the high seas or in Antarctica, and also in quite unassuming places like the library or even down the back of a chair at home. Mahy has a lifelong affection for characters who are agents of upheaval and disturbance. Her junior and picture books are peppered with pirates, robbers and lions, though they appear alongside librarians, mothers and children, working against comfortable stereotype. Her fictions often have at their heart a young adult burdened with special powers, such as the ability to cast spells in order to transform their world in supernatural and fantastical ways. Another common feature is that, while the conclusions of her tales are usually predictable, they leave the reader feeling absolutely complete, the moral questions resulting from our hero’s powers having been resolved. Many of these themes can be found in her new novel, The Magician of Hoad. The book was begun more than 15 years ago and envisioned as an ‘entire’ fantasy — one set in a fully imagined world with detailed history and complex tribal inter-relationships, a classical hero quest at its heart. The story ballooned at one point to 800 pages and has been through at least two substantial rewrites. Now half its original size, it is a fascinating read — an adventure, a romance, and a gold mine of Mahy literary preoccupations. The other splendid Mahy publication this year is a re-issue of Bubble Trouble in a now-illustrated edition. This tongue-twister tale first appeared in 1991, was included in 100 New Zealand Poems (1993) and has been recited by Mahy at countless private and public functions. Perhaps more than any other work, Bubble Trouble is the Mahy that New Zealand children and their parents know so well, the rollicking story of a clown who serves up a joyous torrent of word-play and unexpected rhyme. Those connections are four or five deep now. I read The Lion in the Meadow in the School Journal in the late 1960s; my step-daughter listened to The Boy Who Was Followed Home over and over in the 1970s; my own children sat very still mouthing The Great White Man-Eating Shark in the 80s and 90s; now, in the 21st century, my grandchildren have heard Down the Dragon’s Tongue, A Summery Saturday Morning and Dashing Dog many times. Of course, readers are important to any working writer, but Mahy’s espousal of the act of reading goes beyond that: a book is not properly finished, she has often said, until it has been read, because a reader brings something important to the book. So, doubtless out of need to build a market — she’s not ignorant of her popularity — but also out of genuine care for that other dynamic part of the author-reader relationship, Mahy has, until recently, kept up a punishing schedule of public appearances. Private conversation with Mahy has always been a wild ride — marvellous, in the true sense of the word, the product of a hungry head and an infinite capacity to be astonished. She races away at one stage to consult an encyclopaedia for L. M. Montgomery’s date of death, and speculates about the ‘real’ Montgomery, creator of the ever-popular Anne of Green Gables. Although I’d come to talk about her new book, I couldn’t help but be captivated by her infectious curiosity. A few years ago, the writer David Hill told a funny story. Though his writing was, he conceded, very different from Mahy’s, he had been affected by her peculiarly alert way of looking at the world, particularly the mad, slippery life of language. Once, Hill said, in a motel room, a sign on a door caught his eye: ‘This door is alarmed.’ Mahy would like that, thought Hill. She would enjoy the comedy just below the surface of the formal warning; she would leap immediately to the possibilities for story and language play: ‘Yes, and this window is concerned, this light fitting is irritated.’ His story was a wonderful comment on Mahy’s vision.