They stand tall and still, their vast grey frames etched against the Auckland sky, monumental and precise. These cranes dominate the waterfront, their scale undeniable, their presence constant. Painted in cool industrial greys, they catch the last light of the day as the sun brushes their surfaces with gold. The yellow is not pigment but illumination, a fleeting warmth that softens their hard geometry. In this moment, the cranes appear almost benevolent, transformed by light into the gentle giants of the harbour.
Positioned on Auckland’s waterfront, they form one of the city’s most recognisable silhouettes. For many, this is the first view of New Zealand’s largest city, a working edge where land meets sea. The cranes are vital to Auckland’s identity as a port city, lifting, loading, and sustaining trade and movement. They are essential, purposeful, and quietly impressive. Yet they are also a barrier, standing between the city and the Hauraki Gulf beyond, between daily life and open water.
Behind them lies the promise of the gulf: islands scattered like stepping stones, light dancing on the sea, a sense of space and escape. In front of them, the city waits, pressed up against fences and containers. While many international cities celebrate their harbours as shared public spaces, Auckland’s most prominent stretch of waterfront has long remained inaccessible. The port occupies the very place where city and sea should meet, and in doing so, denies citizens full access to their own horizon.
This tension has always reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s “The Selfish Giant”. In Wilde’s story, the Giant returns from years away to find children playing in his beautiful garden. Angered, he builds a wall and posts a warning, forcing the children onto a hard, dusty road. As a consequence, Spring, Summer, and Autumn abandon the garden, leaving it trapped in Winter. The garden survives, but without warmth, joy, or life.
The cranes echo this parable. They are not villains, yet they stand like sentries, enforcing a boundary. The grey steel structures form a modern wall, polite and functional, but no less divisive. The sunlight that falls across them hints at what could be: warmth, openness, connection. Still, the barrier remains. The garden, like the harbour, is visible but not fully shared.
There is movement now, slow but hopeful. Parts of the waterfront are opening, walkways appearing, people edging closer to the water. Change is underway, and with it, a cautious optimism. Yet the most symbolic space, directly in front of the city, remains a container port. The giant fence has shifted, but it has not disappeared.
In this painting, the cranes are rendered with restraint and respect. Their grey forms are solid and calm, their scale balanced by the softness of cloud and sea. Bathed in sunlight, they appear momentarily kind, almost forgiving. But the question lingers: when will the city and harbour truly meet? Until then, these gentle giants stand quietly between what is and what might one day be.
Oil on fine portrait linen: 95 x 125 cm; 37.4 x 49.21 in (Sold)
38 Gentle Giants
