I was lucky. The job was in Wellington and my boss, Charles, the museum director, was something of a maverick, a man who preferred the company of outsiders and artists to that of art-world insiders. It didn’t worry him that I had no previous museum experience. In fact he preferred someone he could mould in his own image. Where his own staff was concerned, he rarely gave credit where it was due, but somehow it didn’t quite matter because working with him was exciting, full of drama, and I respected him.

Apart from art, the thing Charles relished more than anything else was an audience. He rarely indulged in conversation, preferring to stand over people while proclaiming his latest discovery, obsession or pet peeve. He always enunciated slowly in an attempt to disguise his stutter and hesitation over long words. Like many people, Charles had favourite words, words that were touchstones, larger than life and non-negotiable. His most liked were ‘absolutely’, ‘wonderful’, ‘life force’ and ‘aroha’. I got to know these words well because part of my job involved ghostwriting his letters, and I learnt early on that it didn’t matter what I wrote as long as all these words appeared at least once on the page. As I wrote letters to artists, art collectors, museum directors and curators, the sound of his voice would be a constant racket in my ears. He was easy to mimic, and part of the fun was succeeding in making him think that he really had written each letter. His nose, usually pink, would have a way of turning blueberry-purple when he realised he had been tricked.

During my first month on the job, Charles decided to take me on a trip around the North Island to visit the artists he admired. He was a terrible driver. He always started well, moving from first to second gear like anyone else, but once he reached third gear he became deaf to the sound of the engine and would forget to change up. I remember driving along the Desert Road, doing 100k in third gear when, over the sound of the straining engine, he suddenly announced, ‘When I die I want to be reincarnated as a bicycle seat in the Tour de France!’ I had no idea what prompted this but I began to wonder what he had been daydreaming about as we were driving along, and the image of his face looking up from the saddle at the crotch of a Lycraclad cyclist standing up on his pedals suddenly hit me with such force that I actually shuddered.

That introductory trip was one of the most important events in my life. It made me aware of what it meant to be a creator of objects, of artistic process on an everyday, practical level. The imagination, skill and dedication of the artists earnt my deepest respect, but it was the sensory side of the studio visits, the smell of art, that touched me personally.