Portraits | Ilan Wittenberg Photographer

Craig Smyth

“My name is Craig. I’m a 60-year-old Kiwi who spent most of my life in construction. Two years ago, everything changed when I had an accident. While carrying a heavy steel prop with two workmates, they lost their grip. The full 150 kg weight crashed down on my shoulder, leaving me seriously injured. I’ve been on a long road since — surgeries, recovery, and living on ACC [Accident Compensation Corporation]; but also a journey of transformation.

That accident forced me to face my health head-on. At the time, I weighed over 110 kilos, felt constantly tired, and was deeply unhappy. My doctor warned me that if I didn’t change my lifestyle, I was heading for a stroke or heart attack within two years! That hit me hard. I knew it was now or never.

I committed to a complete reset — cleaner eating, daily exercise, and accountability. I switched to a high-protein, low-carb carnivore-style diet, cutting out processed foods and sugar. This is an extremely restrictive, high-fat diet consisting entirely of meat, fish, and animal products: chicken, beef, ham, eggs, sausages etc., eliminating all sugars, fruits, vegetables, grains, nuts, and seeds. It wasn’t easy, but it worked. Bit by bit, the weight came off. The energy came back. The spark returned. This has improved my mental clarity and reduced inflammation with risks of nutrient deficiencies and high cholesterol levels.

Today, I weigh 77 kilos — that’s over 30 kilos lost. My doctor says my body is balanced, my heart is healthy, and I’m within my ideal range. But the real victory is how I feel: strong, focused, and alive again.

Now, I’m channeling that new strength into something bigger than myself. Starting March 1st, I’ll be walking 12 hours a day for seven days around Cornwall Park: a massive journey to raise awareness and donations for Starship public children’s hospital, helping children who are battling illness in Auckland and across New Zealand.

This journey is about more than fitness; it’s about purpose. I was given a second chance at life, and I want to pay it forward.”

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Toya

“My name is Toya. I was born and raised in Hamilton, in the Waikato, on a farm with my mum and dad.

This story is really about my late mother, Julie , and how she shaped who I am today.

Mum grew up on a farm in Harwera. She was really close to her dad and spent most of her childhood and teenage years around him. Sadly, motor neurone disease runs in our family. It took my mum, her dad, her brother, and her sister. Mum battled it for nearly three years, and it was incredibly hard to watch. She had always been such a strong, independent woman, but slowly she became reliant on everyone for everything.

Growing up, Mum was feisty. She didn’t take any nonsense from anyone. She always spoke her mind, said exactly what she felt, and stuck firmly to her opinions. She was stubborn; once she decided something, good luck changing her mind.

She looked after us the way any mother does, but she was like a super mum. Nothing fazed her.

She was a bit of a rebel in her younger days. Mum got expelled in third form for punching the principal; she was a wild child. But she was strong. She made her own way through life, doing whatever she needed to do to get where she wanted to be.

She had my sister when she was about 19 and raised her as a single mum. Then she met my dad when my sister was around four, and he stepped in and raised her as his own.

The qualities I got from her are clear: my strength, my grit, my natural stubbornness. I get that fighting spirit and that nurturing side straight from Mum.

Being pregnant now has been tough, especially not having her here to share it with. But at the same time, I feel like this is my chance to show her, through how I live and how I’ll raise my child, that she taught me well. She prepared me for this.”

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Jay

My name is Jay. I’m 47 years old and work as a project manager.

Looking back, my younger years were filled with rebellion and anger—anger at the world, at life, at basically everyone around me. As a teenager and into my early twenties, that anger surfaced in all the wrong ways: heavy drinking, bad habits, car accidents, fights in clubs, and turning every situation into a mess. I was just being destructive.

Then something clicked. The penny dropped, and I realized there had to be more to life than staying stuck in rebellion and negativity. I decided to channel that anger into something constructive.

I started going to the gym, got physically fit, and poured energy into my studies and work. I focused on becoming more positive. During this transformation, my faith grew stronger too. I discovered a real love for physical activity. The gym became my therapy—far better than any pill or counselor could be. It helped me process and redirect that old anger in a healthy way, and that shift carried me into adulthood.

Along the way, I met my girlfriend, who is now my wife. We fell in love, I found a true sense of completeness with her, we got married, and we built a family together with our kids. That’s where I am today.

Life settled into a good rhythm: physical fitness, meaningful work, a loving family, and a growing faith all came together. I started genuinely enjoying life instead of fighting against it.

That angry, rebellious kid is long gone. Now I’m grateful for the journey and the man I’ve become.

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Allan

My name is Allan, and I’m 66 years old. When I was a small boy, my sister brought me along to Sunday school at our local Anglican church. There, for the first time, the stories of God, Jesus, and the Bible came alive to me.

Years later, while at boarding school in Cambridge, I was confirmed in the faith. Yet it wasn’t long before I noticed the hypocrisy woven through much of organised Christianity. Disillusioned, I turned away completely.

By the age of about 20, life looked good on the outside—strong in school, sports, everything a young man might envy—but inside I felt hollow. In desperation I cried out to God. Then, much like Paul on the Damascus road, a brilliant white light enveloped me, brimming with an overwhelming, indescribable love. In that instant I knew, without question, it was Christ.

Not long afterwards I joined the police force. There I met believers who followed the simplicity of Christ, holding to the Bible alone without religious extras. Through their example, visiting home preachers, and the clear message of the Gospel, I finally heard it in a new way. As a young officer, I surrendered my life to Him.

That police career stretched nearly 15 years. The work itself wasn’t the problem; it was the endless politics, crushing stress, and impossible demands that wore me down until my mental health buckled. I walked away. By then I had two daughters, but soon my world unravelled further. I made choices that clashed sharply with what I believed, and rather than live as a hypocrite—half in the world, half with God—I abandoned faith entirely. The years that followed brought ups and downs, yet true peace and joy remained out of reach.

I married again, divorced again, and life spiralled deeper into chaos: finances crumbling, relationships fracturing, everything slipping away. Looking back, I see now that God was letting my own plans collapse, gently drawing me home like the prodigal son in the parable.

After returning to New Zealand and beginning once more to listen to the Gospel of Christ, I faced terrifying moments I wish on no one. A demon-possessed individual tried to run me down with a bus; I glimpsed pure evil in their eyes and escaped by the narrowest margin. On another occasion, two people attempted to blackmail me. One stared with utterly black eyes and flashed the sign of the devil when I raised my camera. I recognised a fallen angel at work. Those encounters erased every lingering doubt: the spiritual darkness the Bible warns of is utterly real.

Then God began speaking to me unmistakably—rousing me in the night with precise instructions. Each time I obeyed, blessings followed in ways I could never have imagined. I saw myself clothed in filthy rags, yet still deeply loved. I repented fully, surrendered again, and once more the Holy Spirit flooded me with enduring joy and peace. I’ve started the long road of reconciliation with my first wife and our children. She, who remained faithful through it all, extended astonishing kindness; today we share a genuine friendship. Her grace showed me the transforming power of God in a life.

These days my only real fear is failing to do His will. I’ve learned of Hebrew ancestry in my father’s line, stretching back toward Abraham and Sarah, but that heritage holds no spiritual weight on its own—what matters is my personal walk with God. I sense a clear call to return to Israel, to share the truth that has changed me. God has not forgotten His promises to Abraham, nor the hope extended to Gentiles. The season feels close when Israel’s tribes will be gathered home. Whether tomorrow or in a thousand years, no one knows the hour, yet I feel an awakening stirring.

Through everything, God has given me a profound love for souls. The way I see people has shifted entirely. I once considered myself kind enough, but now each person carries new depth in my eyes. And because of the journey I’ve walked, death holds no terror. If tomorrow is my last day, so be it—God holds me, and if He asks me to lay down my life in His service, that’s exactly where I want to be.

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Tatiane

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Woman in uniforms

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Amber

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Jenelle

“To My Husband,

There was a time when I could have opened this document and filled the pages with anger, sadness, and disappointment 1000 times over. There are so many examples of how your drinking has impacted our lives. But surprisingly, to me, I am struggling to find the emotion that should be behind them. I feel empty and detached, having untangled myself from a relationship that was hijacked by alcohol and robbed of all of those foundations that have to be present for two people to thrive: trust, honesty, presence. You never noticed the untangling was happening because you were never sober.

The thing we always had was love. I never doubted how much you loved me. In turn, I think it took you some time to truly believe that I loved you, that you were worth loving, that I was your best friend, your number one supporter, and that you were loved and adored and respected by our kids. But it wasn’t enough.

Why wasn’t it enough?

It should have been enough!

Every time you poured a drink, I felt that you were choosing it over me, over us. I am not an addict and I don’t pretend to understand the overwhelming desire you would wake up with every morning to find a drink. But it’s hard to separate my head and heart, and every day that you drank, I felt betrayed that you didn’t fight hard, or at all, that you didn’t fight for us or, even worse, you didn’t fight for you!

I have literally lost count of the number of times I tried to get you help, to go to meetings, to get a sponsor, to talk to a counselor, to go to CADDS, to go to the Dr. But you always managed to convince yourself that you had it under control, that you were different from those others at AA, that you didn’t need help, that you didn’t have a problem, that you were “an island”. For such a smart man, I often wondered how you could be so bloody stupid.

The thing about living with an alcoholic is that when a disaster occurs, you think ‘well perhaps that’s it, perhaps that’s the worst that can happen’. Except it’s not; there is always more to come.

I have used weeks of my own sick leave to stay at home and detox you when all the services turned us away. I’ve fed you soft foods like a baby, showered you, dressed you, put you to bed, held you for hours on end, tended to your wounds when you have fallen and ripped open your head or fallen asleep against the heater. I have refused invitations from our friends for years to the point that we stopped being invited anywhere. I have made up more excuses than I can remember to protect you. I always wondered when people asked how I was, were they really asking about me, or asking about you? I have stopped you killing yourself from carbon monoxide poisoning in our garage whilst our kids were home. I have kept all the car keys hidden for months at a time. I have found you in my emergency room, full of the people I have worked 30 years with, fully clothed and standing in a pool of urine, listened to the story of how you fell through a ranch slider window slicing open your face. I’ve had to ring your boss (a man who has bent over backwards to help and support you) to say his work vehicle has been impounded as you have been caught DIC. I have been woken after nightshift from the sound of you crashing into and wrecking our letterbox, again drunk and again in a brand new company car. I have had to receive the phone call of how you have been drinking at work and have now lost your job. I have had to ask my family to help pay our mortgage. I have had to tell our kids that we have to sell our house, the house they grew up in because I cannot pay all the bills alone. I have had to pack up our house and move into my mother’s house, who is 93 with dementia, with our 19-year-old daughter and two cats and two dogs. I have spent hours searching for your latest hiding place for gin bottles. I have poured thousands of dollars of alcohol down the drain. I have worked hundreds of hours of overtime to support your habit indirectly. I have listened to the vile names you have called me, the accusations that I was having affairs. I have taken calls from our kids saying they were frightened of your behavior. I have been hospitalized with stress-induced gastritis with pain so bad I needed a morphine infusion. I have had to message your mother saying how I feared for your life. I have come home after days sitting with my dying father to find you drunk and incoherent, not able to offer me any level of support. I have had to have you committed to the mental health unit. I have used the people around me as a constant support, my family, our friends, my work colleagues – sharing the latest saga but usually finishing the conversation with my hope that perhaps this time will be different. But it never was. And it never will be for me and you because I choose not to have alcohol impact my life and the life of my children anymore! I am not going to spend any more of my life waiting for the next disaster.

You have to know how much it kills me to say that. I married you, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. I married you, you had me, I was all in, all yours. Because we had something that not everyone finds. We had that connection, that fabulous ability to look at each other and know each other’s thoughts, we had the laughter, we had the tenderness, but I could see your high level of daily distress, that there was something bad and powerful and underlying that was fundamental in how you lived your life, but you could never share that with me so I could never help and for that I am sorry. And now each of us is alone, and it’s such a fucking waste, and I hate that this is where we have ended up.”

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Andrew John Williams

Kia ora! I’m Andrew John Williams, a proud 56-year-old with Māori and Scottish roots, hailing from the Ngāpuhi iwi through my father’s side, the first missionaries in Russell, Bay of Islands. My life’s been quite the journey! At just three weeks old, I faced a life-threatening condition with no oxygen reaching my brain. Back then, heart surgeries were no small feat—no fancy keyhole procedures. I was one of the first babies in New Zealand to undergo this operation, and while two of the five didn’t make it, I was one of the lucky three who pulled through.

Growing up wasn’t without its challenges. My mum battled breast cancer twice, undergoing double mastectomies. It was a tough time for our whānau, but we came out stronger together. As a kid, I had my fair share of mischief—stealing money from my parents’ tin box at ten years old, only to learn my lesson when they threatened a trip to the police! By 13, I was at it again, taking my sister’s car with a mate for a joyride spin. Let’s just say I timed my exit perfectly, I jumped out of the car before he crashed it, but I still had to pay for the damages.

Life’s taught me resilience, and I’m grateful for the lessons and the good times. Now, I’m on the hunt for a new chapter, looking for a job opportunity in security or customer service. Here’s to embracing the journey and what’s next!
#LifeLessons #Resilience #NewBeginnings

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

The Art Dealer

Silver with Distinction for ‘The Art Dealer’ at the 2025 Australian Prize

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Vincent

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Man and his Dog

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Man and Buoy

In a quirky, retro bedroom, “Man and his Buoy” captures a weathered soul, leaning on a giant buoy, barnacles clinging to its sea-worn surface. His somber gaze meets the camera, set against vibrant ‘60s wallpaper. This Wes Anderson-esque portrait whispers a tale of a man adrift, tethered to his buoyant companion, carrying the ocean’s secrets into the stillness of his eclectic haven.

This as a wry portrait where humour meets tenderness: a man and his improbable companion, that battered orange buoy, set inside a prim, retro room. It hints at memory, collecting, and the odd things we keep close. The matching cabinets and lamps set a formal rhythm, while the buoy’s colour dominates and plays against the green wallpaper. The one‑point perspective pulls our eyes to the centre and holds the scene together against the outrageous texture — the buoy’s crust, the patterned paper, the soft carpet — all give the frame tactile interest.

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Hugh

‘Man and his Art’ Silver at the 2025 Australian Prize

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Sara Bell

My name is Sara Bell. I was born on October 29, 1942. My journey begins on a picturesque farm in Argentina. As a little girl, I was enchanted by the wonders of nature—the vibrant colors around me, flowers swirling in the breeze, birds singing cheerful melodies, playful cats prowling, tiny mice scurrying, and ducks gliding gracefully across serene waters. The sky was my canvas, stretching endlessly and brimming with infinite possibilities. Even before I turned four, I vividly remember how alive the world felt, especially during the haunting time when a swarm of locusts descended upon the fields, leaving behind barren crops. Despite these challenges, my heart always remained rooted in that magical place.

But life took unexpected turns, leading me to Buenos Aires, where I moved in with family. At the tender age of nine, I faced an unimaginable loss—the passing of my beloved mother. This seismic shift plunged me into a darkness of grief that lingered like a shadow. Yet, amid the heartache, destiny intervened when I met Gedalia at sixteen. He became my anchor, the love of my life, my unwavering supporter. With every word of encouragement, he infused me with strength, whispering, “You can do it,” allowing hope to bloom where despair had taken root.

In a beautiful twist of fate, my life transformed. The joy of motherhood wrapped around me like a warm embrace, far surpassing the lessons I learned in university as a social worker and a nanny in kindergarten. Motherhood was breathtaking—it reshaped me into a person I never thought I could become. I owe a deep gratitude to God for the wonderful opportunity to rewrite my life story through love and family.

Yet, fate dealt another cruel hand when I lost my beloved Gedalia. In the wake of that heart-wrenching moment, I found a renewed purpose. I resolved to move forward, to grow, and to embody strength for our children and grandchildren. I immersed myself in music, learning to play the electric keyboard, and rediscovered the joy of drawing. For me, drawing is a spiritual outpouring, an expression that transcends mere technique. Each blank canvas invites excitement; it’s a journey into the unknown, a dance with colors that reflect my deepest emotions.

With every stroke, I strive to convey a powerful message: life is beautiful, filled with goodness and grace, just waiting to be uncovered. My love for nature—flowers, birds, and my fellow human beings—blooms with each passing day. I find it easy to connect with others; I believe people can sense the compassion I hold for them, the love that fuels my spirit. In this vast tapestry of life, I am forever searching for beauty, reminding both myself and the world that it is always within reach.

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Doron

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Outrageous Ryleigh

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Tracey

Tracey Lord

“Tracey, cover your stomach and suck it in!” Women should have flat stomachs.

“Tracey, cover your bosom; they’re too big!”

“Tracey, speak up; you’re mumbling.”

“Tracey, be quiet! Nobody wants to hear that. Children should be seen and not heard.”

“Oh Tracey, your life isn’t that bad. It could be worse.”

“Tracey, if you behaved better, you wouldn’t get hurt. Just be respectful.”

“MUM! You don’t throw babies!”

“Tracey, I had it much worse when I was young. Toughen up!”

I don’t remember anything before the age of three when I had a family. My first memories were of physical abuse by a strange man my mother ran away with, leaving my father. She hid my sister and me for six years, never staying in one place for more than six months. I was very protective of my younger sister and often took the abuse from our mother and others for both of us.

I saw my father again at nine years old after years of telepathic communication via music while we were separated. The damage had been done, and we could never repair the maternal bond. I was terrified of men. My father could see that my mother’s behavior patterns were deeply ingrained in me, and I would continue the cycles unknowingly.

I first packed my bag and jumped out a window when I was three years old; I often ran away when I couldn’t control a situation. I was diagnosed with depression and medicated at nine years old. On my fifteenth birthday, my mother’s second husband beat me up. I tried to get help, but he was too well-respected in the community. I then took 160 pills to try and escape the situation. I had a seizure in front of my Nana and sister; the hospital pumped my stomach and referred me to Starship Hospital, where I spent three months undergoing psychological assessments.

I wandered the streets and became a mother by 16. I got pregnant by a 24-year-old man with a heavy alcohol addiction; my mother said I was lucky he would take me on. My second child came 13 months later, and I ran from him two weeks after that. Somehow, I ended up working in a brothel and addicted to meth by 19 years old.

I became pregnant with my third child at twenty and escaped prostitution. At 22, I had my fourth child for a friend I had trauma-bonded with who couldn’t naturally conceive. I became attached to the baby and gave her up against my own will. This caused another suicide attempt, meth use via needles, and a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder.

It woke me up. I saw the light. I realized I needed to save myself and my children from all this trauma, but I didn’t know how. I ran with my children and put orders in place to keep us safe from their alcoholic father. I saw my first therapist in 2013; she helped me save our lives. I got clean from meth at the age of 25 and continued to work with her for 6 years.

My father passed away, and I married a childhood friend of my brother’s, whom I stayed with for 5 years. One day, the government took my children, forcing me to leave the life I had built to fight for them. I got them back 10 months later, but they were very traumatized. We are still healing as a family from the separation. I sent my children away from my hometown to keep them safe, knowing I would follow, and I did.

I have now been completely clean from meth for 10 years, marijuana for one year, and free from domestic violence for 2 years. I spend my time recovering and learning how to live a life of safety and harmony that I could only imagine.

I feel as if I have entered a whole new world as a new person with battle scars. Every day, I am grateful that I kept going and made it here. I understand devotion. I fear absolutely nothing, but I am wary of everything because I have experienced or witnessed it all.

(c) Ilan Wittenberg

Selfie

“I miss you Ilan,” read the WhatsApp message from mom. I was in Mumbai at the time, having just completed a three-week tour in Rajasthan. The plan was to spend another five weeks in India: “1.4 billion Indians cannot make a mistake.” My return flight to Auckland by Air Malaysia had just been rescheduled. Given their reputation for being shot down by ground-to-air rockets over Ukraine or disappearing into the ocean, I opted to cancel the flight without penalty.
I booked a (costly) one-way ticket to Tel Aviv and planned to enjoy my last week in Mumbai (Bombay is more bombastic). Unfortunately, I started sneezing and coughing, so spent the last four days in my half-star hotel room which had no windows. The upside: it was isolated from the non-stop cacophony of the busy street, “in India, if you don’t honk your horn then you don’t exist.” The downside: no fresh air through the air conditioner, whose filters were never cleaned…
I arrived in Israel exhausted. WHO [World Health Organization] is considering an award for spreading a new variant across three continents in less than 12 hours. I was coughing constantly and struggled to breathe. Desperate, I searched for a local health provider with good reviews and arrived at Rambam Medical Centre at 2:30 am, managing to scratch my black rental against a concrete column (in a totally vacant car park).
The emergency room staff looked in disbelief, “Is this the time to come to emergency?” “I can’t inhale.” I said, trying to be dramatic…
After checking my oxygen saturation levels, I was immediately given an inhalation mask and an IV, which is obviously a priceless opportunity for a selfie! I spent the next 30 hours harassing the wonderful staff, 261 members are still following me on Instagram (I think). The prognosis was “some kind of viral infarction.” Apparently, there are numerous types in the world (the doctors were very keen to know if I had spent any time in Indian caves)…
A permanent black marker covered the scratches beautifully!

Memories

Self fulfilling prophecies