1 in 100 – My Apprenticeship to Become an Artist

In 2009, I set myself a challenge: to paint one hundred paintings, each one a story from my life. Some stories are real, drawn straight from the dusty corners of my childhood memories. Other stories are fiction, a blend of nostalgia and invention. Together, they form a personal archive — moments of growing up in late 1970s and early 1980s New Zealand. I called the project 1 in 100, and what began as a simple idea has turned into a twenty-year apprenticeship — my journey to become an artist, and perhaps more importantly, a storyteller through paint.

As a child, I was endlessly curious and always building things. I made go-karts from bits of timber and old pram wheels, racing them down “our hill” until the axles broke or someone took a spill. My brother and I built model planes and tanks from Airfix kitsets, carefully painting the details and proudly lining them up for battle. We made rubber band-powered balsa wood aeroplanes that soared briefly before crashing into fences or disappearing into the neighbour’s hedge. Summers meant floating down the Ōtaki River on old tyre tubes, Mum dropping us off at the bridge and trusting that we’d drift our way safely home. We built tree huts high in the Macrocarpas over the back fence, our castles in the sky. These are the scenes that fill my sketchbooks and, later, my canvases — fragments of a world that shaped me.

At what point, though, could I truly call myself an artist? Was it after the first painting, or the tenth? Or would it take the completion of all one hundred to earn that title? I’ve learned that it’s not about the number at all. It’s about the act of showing up — picking up the brushes, returning to the studio, pushing through frustration, and learning from each misstep. Every painting is its own challenge, and despite experience, it never gets easier. Each new canvas demands a new solution, another leap of faith.

My background isn’t in fine arts. I came to painting through design and illustration. My first and only full-time job was as a visualiser at Ted Bates, a Wellington-based advertising agency, back in 1990. There, I learned to think fast and draw faster — quick marker sketches for clients, slick and efficient renderings to sell an idea. That job taught me the value of momentum: get your ideas down, don’t be too precious, keep moving. Those skills have served me well in the studio, where I still begin each concept in a sketchbook — a scribble, a line, sometimes just a title that holds the seed of a story.

My process is having two halves: the head and the hands. The head is where the storytelling happens — where concepts form, where problems are solved. I sketch, revisit old ideas, and rework compositions until I find something that feels true. I rarely work from a single photograph; I prefer to construct an image from multiple sources. I like to flatten perspective, manipulate light, and play with scale until the composition tells the story I want it to mean.

One of my biggest influences in picture-making came from a childhood toy — the 1970s View-Master. Those small reels of layered images fascinated me. Depending on how you held them to the light, the scene shifted subtly, revealing depth and mystery. That simple toy taught me something essential: how to see images in layers, how to build depth through composition. In many ways, every painting I make is a kind of View-Master reel — a layered glimpse into memory, filtered through light and time.

Then comes the hands — the slow, meditative craft of painting itself. I love this stage. The tactile work of mixing colours, laying down glazes, and watching an image emerge from the surface is deeply satisfying—some areas, like water or grass, demand hours of work and patient layering. I don’t rush these parts; detail has become one of the cornerstones of my style. There’s something about the process — the repetition, the focus — that feels like a continuation of childhood play, but with purpose and discipline.

People often ask if there’s a formula for producing a painting, a shortcut or a secret technique. There isn’t. What there is, is persistence. I work long hours. I plan my days, weeks, and months carefully. I set small, achievable goals to move steadily forward. I’ve learned that consistency, not inspiration, is what carries a project like this through the years.

Looking back, 1 in 100 has been much more than a painting project. It’s been a journey of self-discovery, discipline, and patience. Each painting teaches me something new about storytelling, memory, and myself. I may never know precisely when I became an artist — whether it was after my first painting, my fiftieth, or somewhere in between. But I do know this: the apprenticeship never really ends. The real lesson is in the doing — in showing up, brush in hand, ready to tell another story.

1 in 100 isn’t about reaching a destination at all. It’s about the journey itself — one painting, one memory, one story at a time.