Ocean and Sand - Daijing Tai:

Before I studied architecture, I had imagined what an architect would look like: Philip Johnson’s round glasses, grey hair, rolled-up sleeves, thumping fist, strong opinions and, importantly, brush always in hand. That was you, Pip, when I first saw you in the university studio two decades ago, waving your arms over a pinned-up drawing. Now I’m an architect, working alongside you, building on lands you once fought on, I am deeply proud and I will need those glasses soon, too.

Pip, you have always carried more weight than others; you’ve lived with that weight, dragging that weight with you wherever you are. Maybe that’s why you are so used to carrying weight in your mind, too; your knowledge allowed you to see, sense and feel things that others may not see. I can tell you see them, because you have so much care to give to the world around you: fighting to make change, making the righteous decisions.

You taught us courage, care and ethics: all part of architecture, as you would say.

The only time you put that weight down is when you are on a surfboard; I guess, travelling amongst waves, pushing you forward, you are completely free.

I love the ocean, too. In the water, I feel the world is equal, naked, back to the beginning of time, in the mother’s womb. On the beach, the waves keep pushing the sand back to my feet, showing me what everything will end up being like — we are all tiny pieces of hot sand, with unstoppable, warm, beating hearts, making our way back into that ocean.

Thank you Pip, for showing me the way.

Surita Manoa:

Last week, a colleague said they had never met someone with such an engine as Pip. I haven’t stopped thinking about that word. Engine. Pip, you were an engine. You had a way of mobilising things: ideas, projects, conversations and, most of all, people.

Pip, you were a leader, a teacher, a mentor, a friend, a conversational sparring partner, an advocate. And, in each of those roles, you were an orbital force, doing so with warmth, wit, generosity and a courageous spirit.

I first met Pip through the Kupe programme, where Pip mentored me in my final year of university. A year later, I joined the studio and, for the past five years, I’ve had the privilege of seeing that engine up close. What has struck so many of us is that Pip didn’t just make architecture – he made architects. He made time. That was one of his quiet superpowers.

Pip would often welcome groups of university students to the studio for presentations and critiques. And he would ask questions — sometimes ones he already knew the answer to – not to show off what he knew but to draw something out of you. To make you see it more clearly yourself.

And, at the end of these critiques, Pip would usher students around the studio, introducing them to each of the team. Pip would enthusiastically wobble the backs of our swivel chairs — a signal to close the Excel door hardware schedules and open something more visually impressive.

I experienced his enthusiasm as a student, too. At one of our first mentoring catch-ups, Pip decided that we’d get a better idea of the site if we climbed over his neighbours’ fence. So, we did — each with a watercolour sketchbook under one arm.

There’s a morning I keep thinking about: the day we moved studios from Hobson Street to Kitchener Street. Everything was boxed up and loaded into trucks. Framed artworks were carefully loaded into Pip’s car.

As I was about to set off and walk the few blocks across town, Pip gestured me towards the passenger seat as if to say that he’d much rather I not carry the ceramic vase on foot — and I took the hint that a milestone relocation like this would be better done with company.

Pip understood that milestones and transitions were better done together. He was always inviting us into the passenger seat of something important. Recently, Pip wrote in an email: “The personal relationships we have, and that we make, are the critical aspect of the work we do and how we do it in the country we are making.”

That was the engine. Relationships. Belief in people. Belief in making something meaningful together. When someone important to us is gone, we feel the absence of the parts of ourselves they brought out. Pip, you were the fire-stoker of those parts — the courage you sparked, the curiosity you nurtured, the confidence you quietly insisted we had.

And so, while we feel your absence, we also feel your surprising presence — in the way we question, the way we mentor, the way we notice, the way we make.

Your engine has set us in motion.