A New Way of Seeing – Anne McNevin
Anne McNevin has taken the kind of creative life leap that many of us dream about.
Based in Sydney’s harbourside village of Balmain, on Wangal country, she is a burgeoning designer focused on woodworking. Yet it wasn’t that many years ago that Anne was living in New York and working in academia within the complex world of politics and international relations.
Rerouting her life, she enrolled in a woodworking course in the NSW Southern Highlands and created a workshop in the lower level of her handsome home that dates back to the 1870s.
Surrounded by historic sandstone walls and cool air infused with an earthy, woody fragrance, Anne’s days are now filled with dovetail joints and grain patterns.
She is seeing the world anew through the lens of woodwork.
Read on as Anne shares more about her career pivot and how she is shaping her spaces and mindset for a new season of meaningful creativity.
Woodworking is a relatively new pursuit for you, Anne. How did you arrive here?
Well, it was not a direct line, that’s for sure. I had always made things, mainly my own clothes, since I was a kid. My mum taught me to sew and I loved being around fabrics. I made practical things like lampshades, cushions, curtains, and blinds, a futon base, when I moved out of home, and some brickwork when I needed steps to a shed. I would teach myself, but I’d never done anything in a structured way and it never really occurred to me to take it further until recently.
My main career was as an academic in international relations, and I did that for many years, most recently at the New School for Social Research in New York. The School was attached to Parsons School of Design and I had the chance to work with people from different artistic fields in collaborations that crossed into my world of international relations.
This exposed me to a form of professional creative practice as a set of problem–solving techniques. I liked the way these people thought about the same issues as me, but in a much more speculative, experimental and practical way. Our conversations were more open-ended than I was used to and I liked that exploratory mindset.
I was particularly inspired by two colleagues, Anthony Dunne and Fiona Raby, who pioneered a field called speculative design, which uses designed objects to challenge people’s perceptions of what is possible or impossible.
That, for me, is directly related to what motivates people to work for political change. It works as a method for probing the sense of being stuck with what we’ve got, or the sense that things are so embedded that we can’t change them.
All this opened my eyes to a series of more experiential techniques for challenging our sense of what could become possible over time.
The designers at Parson did that by designing objects for people to play with, experiment with, or live with and then reflect on what changed through the use of this unexpected object that turned up in their lives.
So, that’s a long way of saying that it’s only a recent connection I’ve made between my interest in making things and my more academic interests in social and political change. When I decided to return to Australia from New York, I found myself more interested in pursuing the creative part of that relationship.
You could have taken that in so many directions. Why woodworking?
What clinched it for me was becoming aware of the Sturt School for Wood in Mittagong. Sturt maintains an artisanal approach to teaching, rather than a more production oriented focus, so its educational style appealed to me. The project–based course in fine furniture design and making is rigorous and extremely demanding. You’re exposed to different tutors for each project, highly skilled people with different specialities, approaches and philosophies.
There is a small group intake for the one-year intensive course and several of my classmates were also changing careers, like me. It combined research and design-thinking about furniture and wood objects, as well as woodworking techniques and skills. It suited me at my stage of life. It was wonderful.
When did you do the course, and how did you handle the major career switch?
I did the course in 2024. It was a steep learning curve as I didn’t have any background in wood. But I was being taught by such proficient, creative, smart people.
It was overwhelming at first, to be an absolute beginner again. Perhaps more than anything it was a challenge to my ego, in the way that making a big mid-stream change in your profession can be. Once I got over the shock and a solid dose of imposter syndrome, I started to just enjoy the work itself and the chance to experiment with a creative process.
So I’m building from there and am quite early on in my practice. Being at the start of it, knowing there’s so much more to learn, now feels energising.
When you’re more established in your profession, you can lose that spark because you’ve done the same thing for so long, and you get pretty comfortable with things. I’m finding exposure to things I knew nothing about and being around people who are adept in what’s a new field for me to be so motivating.
Can you start to see your own creative ethos and approach form? Is there something that already shapes your concepts and designs and the plans for the future of your practice?
I hesitate to say I have a fully formed ethos or approach just yet, but some themes are emerging. I think one of them is informed by my exposure to speculative design early on, which is to say that I’m interested in what furniture or wooden objects do.
By that, I mean not just being nice things to look at or having a practical use, but things that make you feel a certain way or change something by virtue of interacting with them.
I think that kind of sensibility is common in architecture. It’s not just a building that looks good; it’s about what happens to people as they move through that building. It’s about how the organisation of interiors and exteriors influences what becomes possible in those spaces. But I think it’s rare to hear that kind of approach in relation to furniture and so I’m curious about that.
I made a dustpan and broom for a woodbending project we did at Sturt. I’ve always hated those cheap plastic things we all buy – they’re ugly, and you hide them away in a cupboard.
It seemed counterintuitive to put so much effort into designing and crafting something beautiful that we usually associate with disposability and the kind of ugly work that no one volunteers to do. A stupid amount of labour, design and effort went into those dustpans, but they did turn out surprisingly well.
Behind it was a set of questions for me, like what happens if you suddenly change how you do a mundane task because you are using a beautiful object to do it with? Does that change how you sweep up the floor? Do you do it with more reverence or hesitation? Or is there an awkwardness or discomfort in using a beautiful object to do dirty work, and what changes as a result of that? Does it change who does the work? I don’t have the answers, but these are the sorts of things I am thinking about.
I’m interested in making objects and pieces that prompt reflection on things you otherwise do by habit.
You’re in such an exciting stage of experimenting, learning, and working out what techniques and materials can solve your defined design problems. What techniques and timbers are gelling with you so far?
I’ve made a few things now out of European beech and wenge, an African wood. They just look beautiful together. The beech is very pale and quite soft. It’s lovely to work with, it planes easily and doesn’t splinter.
The wenge is the opposite – it’s brittle, splinters horribly and tears out easily. But it’s a dark, rich brown with a spectacular grain. I made two chairs that contrasted the timbers’ colours and patterning. I also steam-bent the wenge for the back rest, which took quite a bit of experimentation to get the angle of the bend right. Incredibly time consuming but satisfying too.
I’m also using a whole bunch of scrap timber, the stuff tradies throw out when they finish construction jobs, so it’s really nice to use timber that would otherwise end up as landfill. I like finding old nail holes or discovering a strange carved detail, and trying to feature those things in the design. I like the idea of the timber’s history showing through in a new piece of furniture that might look quite polished in one sense but also reveals a messier past.
Tell me a little bit about your workshop at home and how it’s all coming together.
I live with my partner, Andrew, in a cottage in Balmain. It sits on a slope on a sandstone foundation and underneath the main part of the house is a storage area that was probably the original scullery.
We’ve spent the last 18 months fitting out that area to be a workshop.
The sandstone had been painted over, which is the worst thing to do to sandstone, as it traps water. We worked with a stonemason to peel back the paint, make repairs, and treat the stone for rising damp. Andrew did most of this while I was in Mittagong.
We pulled apart the original windows, had new frames built and put them back together with new sills. I built a workbench in my last few weeks at Sturt, and I’ve been fitting out the workshop with shelves and storage just to practise my carpentry skills.
It’s now set up for handwork but you need a lot of machinery for fine woodworking too so I visit a great workshop in Abbotsford (the NSW woodworkers association) where all that machinery is available. It’s nice to have separate spaces to work in. Machining is loud and agitating, while the handwork can be quite meditative, depending on the task.
When I’m working, I like an orderly space. I like to have my things around me, whether it was books in my previous profession or tools in this one.
Having things in their place feels like a baseline requirement for sitting down to think, plan and do the actual work. I’ve never been someone who can pick up and drop into a new place and work easily right away. I need to be in my space, with my own rhythms and with the prospect of a chunk of time ahead of me.
How did you approach making the home your own, in terms of decorating and positioning your bits and pieces. What was important to you when you were creating and layering your spaces?
We looked for a house for a long time, and we wanted something with plenty of character, whether old or new. This house is pretty much original. It’s got two old fireplaces that still work and some lovely 19th-century timber that’s very dark, but beautiful in its own way. At some point in the 20th century, a kitchen was added to the back.
I like living with colour, texture and warmth. I’ve added curtains, lampshades and things I’ve made. I’ve got a thing for taxidermy, so there’s that, too.
I don’t like a crowded space, but I like plenty of things to look at. It’s important to me that it feels like home, like a respite from the world out there.
I’m not into places that are over-styled or aim to impress or wow. I want something that is welcoming and approachable, where people feel comfortable being there, even if they’re not sure why. In my experience, warm, cosy spaces foster better conversations. I find myself shutting down in stiff, or minimalist, or brightly lit homes where you aren’t sure where to place your coffee cup in case it makes a mark.
I’m a bit of a homebody, truth be told. I like being around my things, and it does matter to me how it all gets put together. But I try to find a balance between being thoughtful and not overly prescriptive or uptight. That’s aspirational – I may not always pull it off.
I guess what we’re talking about is forging a connection to your home by creating spaces that truly reflect who you are. I wonder if you have daily rituals or habits that connect you even more deeply with your home and neighbourhood?
I really am a creature of habit, quite routined and definitely a morning person. I get up early and try to do an hour of yoga each morning. I’ve been doing yoga for most of my life and I notice the day is better when I start that way. I’m calmer and more focused. After coffee and breakfast and a scan of the news, I jump straight into my work.
One of the things I love about living in Sydney is the warm weather rhythms. The heat and the light gets people up earlier. The houses in Balmain are densely packed, so you see and hear people out walking from first light, and you can’t help but run into your neighbours all the time.
What about gardening? How does that factor into your daily life?
Gardening for me is not unlike woodworking – I can totally zone out for a day in the garden. I can find myself sitting and staring at the plants while they grow and forgetting the world for a time.
We’re working on a native garden here. Before my time in New York, we were living in Melbourne, where it feels like nothing grows unless it’s native to the area. I learnt how colourful natives can be and love the birds they attract. I love the contrast of native grasses, rocks, and wildflowers.
I like gardens with rooms – little pokey corners and pathways that lead you to separate areas. We’ll try to do a miniature version of that in the backyard, which my workshop overlooks. We’ve got old chunks of sandstone which we’ll pepper around to delineate areas and create seats. If the garden attracts birds, I’ll be thrilled.
What about the fragrances of the garden, your home and workshop overall? How would you describe that sensory aspect of your spaces?
My preference is for earthy, organic fragrances rather than anything too floral and strong. For instance, I like Southern Sky by Southern Wild Co because it has a natural smokiness.
As soon as you said earthy, organic fragrances, I thought of the sandstone in your workshop, and all that timber.
Yes. I even love the smell of dirt and mulch. It’s a woodiness. There’s a timber called camphaloral that I’m currently using for drawer bases. The tree is a weed in many parts of Australia, but the timber smells sensational, holds its scent over time, and keeps the bugs away. It has gorgeous colours too.
Who or what are your design inspirations?
My answer to that is connected to what we’ve just been talking about. One artist I’m inspired by is the Japanese sculptor Isamu Noguchi. He lived in New York for most of his life and there’s a museum in Queens devoted to his work. He made large stone and wood sculptures that are really chunky and richly textured and I just find them beautiful. I visited the museum a lot over the years I lived in New York and would look at his pieces for such a long time. It’s interesting to think about the stone and wood now, and how in my workshop I am surrounded by those same materials.
One of the things I’ve really enjoyed since being at wood school and learning about the process of design is that I now have a greater sense of purpose when I go to a gallery or see an exhibition or even just walk through the bush. I’m taking photos, examining details and looking at textures and the arrangements of shapes in ways I wouldn’t have previously. That storehouse of ideas in my head can then filter through into possibilities for something I might make. I like this indirect flow of inspiration – it opens up a new way of observing the world.
So I’m conscious that making this change in my life has reanimated my curiosity about the world. That’s a great feeling. The trick for me now is to take that energy and figure out how to direct it. Beyond making nice furniture, I want to create with purpose and meaning for these times we’re in. I’m not yet sure what that will look like, but I feel more and more convinced of the link between aesthetics and politics and I’m trusting that things will germinate.
Anne’s furniture and wooden objects can be viewed on instagram @annemcnevinstudio. Major pieces are available for sale on twodesignlovers.com. For custom orders or more information, message Anne directly or email anne.m.mcnevin@gmail.com
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