Sam Redston
Stranger #3
Sam Redston, President Open House Melbourne
I didn’t know Sam before. When I first met him over Zoom, I immediately felt his incredible energy and enthusiasm. And the moment he joined our conversation wearing a T-shirt of the 90s American indie rock band, The National, my appreciation for him grew instantly. What struck me even more was his openness—his willingness to share not only successes but also challenges and tough times. I found this transparency to be one of his greatest qualities, a true reflection of his personability. Sam has had an incredible journey throughout his career in the arts and culture sector in Australia, shaped by his ability to follow his instincts—a guiding principle that stands out as one of the most compelling pieces of advice I’ve encountered. He embraces chaos as an essential ingredient for unexpected interactions to unfold, constantly questioning himself, the context, and how things could be improved to make everyone feel welcome and actively engaged in the discussion.
How would you introduce yourself?
I’m someone who’s always juggled multiple passions—family, hands-on hobbies like gardening, and a deep commitment to advocacy. For years, I worked non-stop in the non-profit sector, running high-impact events and thriving in fast-paced, high-stakes environments. It was rewarding, but eventually, I realised I needed a better balance. Now, with my kids grown and a home life I truly enjoy, I’ve shifted how I approach advocacy—keeping it separate from my professional life. Getting back into Open House Melbourne, and volunteering with Lifeline has been a great way to stay connected to that purpose, without burning out. And yes, when I introduce myself, I tend to throw out a lot of info fast—sometimes it sparks great conversations, and other times people just think, “What is this guy on about?”
You’re known for producing events and creative projects at all scales, from theatre and event productions to working with organisations like the Naomi Milgrom Foundation, managing projects such as MPavilion, the Living Cities Forum, and Open House Melbourne. How did you get there? What was the starting point?
I started out studying science at uni, thinking it was the “sensible” choice—but it never felt right. What really lit me up was student theatre. I loved performing, but even more, I loved the behind-the-scenes work: organising, problem-solving, and being part of something creative.
That discovery led me into theatre and technical production, then into corporate events, conferences, and large-scale productions. Along the way, I became curious about the business side of things, so I did an MBA and shifted into freelance work, combining creativity with strategy.
Everything came together when I joined MPavilion. Working with a new architect each year, solving complex challenges, and creating something public and meaningful—it was dynamic and incredibly rewarding. Later, I moved to Open House Melbourne, where I continue to align my work with values around advocacy and community.
Leading the Naomi Milgrom Foundation (2017-2023) was also a major turning point. When we wanted something to happen, we just did it. It could be stressful, but there was no question of whether the resources would be there—it was about how best to use it. Being back in the “normal” world now, I realise how rare that is. In most cases, even the best ideas struggle to get off the ground due to funding challenges.
Now, I’m focused on using events and creative projects to inspire collective action around sustainability and inclusivity. If there’s one thread through it all, it’s this: I’ve learned to trust my instincts. “Follow your nose” has been the best career advice I’ve ever lived by.
What has been the greatest challenge you have faced?
One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced was managing the logistics of a high-stakes stunt for King Kong: The Musical on top of Eureka Tower in Melbourne. While it’s not the city’s tallest building, it’s still an incredibly dramatic location. We did it to promote the musical.
I was very nervous about it and I was extremely focused on every detail of the production, from the moment that we were looking at the window cleaning box and deciding to put it in the giant puppet and put the actor playing into the character of King Kong hand. She got into it and we got dangled in front of the top floor so it looked like king kong in the building and she was inside. It was a wild idea, but we could do it and we did it and we managed every step of the process, making sure we met all safety requirements. Despite my nerves, everything was completely under control. On the day of the stunt, I was on the rooftop, feeling terrible with a bad cold, while my colleagues were down below enjoying their champagne. As the stunt unfolded seamlessly, I had the realization that we were 350 meters up in the air and if someone dropped a pen off the edge, it could seriously hurt or kill someone below. Ironically, the biggest actual risk came the next night at the red carpet event on Collins Street. Thousands of people were trying to cross the road at the same time, and we had to stop traffic—it was chaotic and far more dangerous than the controlled stunt on the tower; our detailed crowd control preparations proved essential.
One of the funniest moments of the whole experience came from the media coverage. The first photo that appeared on the front page of The Age wasn’t from the actual stunt, but from our rehearsal. In the daylight, the setup looked surreal—just a giant gorilla hand hanging off the side of the building, with the stunt artist mid-action. Hundreds of people saw it and thought King Kong had taken over Melbourne. That one image instantly grabbed attention, and before the official stunt even happened, we had millions of eyes on it. It was massively successful as a piece of promotion!
It was an intense challenge—balancing logistics, safety, and the unpredictability of public perception—but I love taking on ambitious projects like this. They remind me that sometimes the things that seem risky are actually well-planned, while the real dangers are the ones you least expect.
The Open House concept aims to raise awareness among a city’s inhabitants about how well-designed cities can enhance their lives by opening examples of architectural excellence to the public. In your opinion, what is a good example of a well-designed city, or cities?
I shamelessly approach this question as someone who isn’t professionally trained in architecture or urban planning—but I’ve learned a lot from the incredible people I’ve met along the way. Their reflections, as well as the way the public engages with architecture, have shaped how I think about what makes a city well-designed.
One example that comes to mind is MPavilion—nine different pavilions built in the same location, each hosting similar programs, yet each generating vastly different responses. Each design subtly reshaped how people moved through the space. That taught me something important: chaos is necessary. A city needs some unpredictability. When spaces are too carefully curated or controlled, they can feel inauthentic. There needs to be room for things to evolve naturally.
That’s often what newly built precincts struggle with—they can feel too rigid, too planned. What really affects how people engage with a place is the landscape, the movement, the atmosphere. Open House has made me more attuned to these subtleties. One of the most eye-opening things I’ve learned is how unintentionally exclusionary design can be. For example, if a building doesn’t offer visibility onto the street, some people might not even notice—but many women will instinctively assess where the exits are. In one conversation, every woman in the room admitted to having that same reaction. I had never considered that before. It made me realise: if half the population is navigating cities with that level of caution—and if we also consider accessibility, which affects all of us at some point—then we need to prioritise these experiences in design.
That’s why Open House excites me. It opens up these conversations. It’s volunteer-led—over 600 people make it happen—and relies on the generosity of building owners who open their doors to the public. The program is curated across different themes and neighbourhoods, but at its heart, it’s driven by the community. And Melbourne really embraces that.
Of course, we don’t always get it right. Some years things get too complicated, but we listen and adapt. Over time, Open House has grown from a single event into a year-round platform: keynote talks, workshops, publications, and ongoing programming focused on public housing, environmental issues, infrastructure, and more. The goal isn’t to tell people what to think—it’s to offer contrasting perspectives so they can engage more critically with how their city is built.
Open House creates space for conversations. It may be a slower path to change, but I believe it’s a more lasting one.
Do you consider Melbourne a good example of a well-designed city?
In general, yes.
Having traveled to many cities, I’ve fallen in love with so many of them, but Melbourne has a unique advantage: it was planned. Melbourne was designed with a grid system, ensuring space for parks and public areas. That foresight has shaped the city into a place that’s not just functional but beautiful to be in. That said, there are still things we need to improve. Certain areas don’t work well. Take the area around Parliament House, for example—it always feels seedy. During COVID, we hosted an MPavilion season in a car park there, and it really struck me: for such a beautiful city, why does the area around Parliament House feel so uninviting?
But despite its flaws, I love this city. I was born here—the youngest of five in a family where my siblings were born in different places (Kampala, London, Perth and Melbourne). As a kid, I used to think being born in my own city was boring. But now, I feel incredibly lucky. I love the world, I love traveling, but I’m very proudly Melbournian. And as we continue to shape the city, we need to get things right—especially on a social level.
Who do you think defines the meaning of public spaces—the councils and communities that use them or the architects and artists who design them?
One of the things I’ve been lucky to observe closely is how each MPavilion provokes a different kind of response. At first, many people weren’t even aware of what it was—but as they became familiar with the program, their engagement grew. A big factor in this was the physicality of each pavilion. Every design was different, and those differences shaped how people interacted with the space.
To answer your question, I see MPavilion as an artistic project where the design can influence how people behave, but it’s just as important to leave room for spontaneity. Councils probably hold the most structural power—they set the regulations and frameworks. While they may not define a space’s meaning, they can certainly enable or limit what’s possible. In my view, the most successful public spaces happen when councils allow space for diverse voices and experiences to shape the outcome.
We need structured ways to think about and plan public space—but also openness to the unexpected. That’s what makes cities exciting: when people feel confident enough to respond creatively, even to things they don’t initially like. Some of the most polished, functionally well-designed pavilions I’ve seen actually felt the least inviting. People would look at them and feel like everything had its place—except for them. That’s why it’s crucial to ask: How do you make something feel inviting? You want people to look at a space and immediately know it’s for them.
The Arts Precinct in Melbourne is working toward this idea—connecting multiple spaces in a way that encourages a sense of belonging. If done well, it will express Melbourne’s identity through how people move through and use the space. Programs like MPavilion, Open House, and White Night show how much richer things become when you open up participation and make room for a genuine conversation.
In the end, people should be at the center of public space design. Councils have a critical role—because they’re accountable to the communities they serve—but meaning ultimately comes from how people choose to inhabit and shape a space over time.
Inclusivity and accessibility are central to your work—take MPavilion, an open and free space in Queen Victoria Gardens. In your experience, who is its main audience?
I ask because, despite efforts to make culture accessible, many people outside the worlds of art, architecture, and design still feel unwelcome in cultural spaces. What’s your take on this? How can the creative industries become more inclusive and accessible while preserving their value and meaning?
That’s such an important issue. I’ve only seen part of it, but even that has shown me how many incredible ideas and solutions already exist—we just need to share them more actively.
Creative Victoria, for example, talks about how communities decide they need a theatre or a pavilion in a park, and what’s required to make that happen—curtains, lights, projectors, and so on. But often, these decisions are made without really engaging with the people who'll use the space. So, the final design doesn’t always reflect how people actually interact with their surroundings, and in the end, the community might choose to gather somewhere else entirely.
A great counterexample is the Geelong Arts Centre by ARM Architecture. One performance space was built in the traditional model, but the second was designed through community consultation. It has a huge wall that opens onto the street and space for a food truck—it’s flexible, welcoming, and blurs the boundary between street and stage. It’s about meeting people where they are, not expecting them to adjust to old norms. And that goes for heritage forms too—like opera or ballet. People assume these forms are fixed in time, but they’ve always evolved. It’s often the audience’s expectations that freeze them. When we allow them to shift, to reflect contemporary life, something really special can happen.
Inclusivity starts with asking: who’s missing? And how do we reach them?
For the MPavilion 2018 season, I introduced an open expression of interest so that anyone could apply. But the challenge was reaching the people who didn’t see themselves reflected in that opportunity. We partnered with Multicultural Arts Victoria (MAV), who had deep community connections and helped us bridge that gap. In the same year Jen Zielinska joined the team as creative director, an amazing curator who realised we had no participants under 25. So, she created a youth curatorship program, pairing young people with mentors and giving them real decision-making power. It worked—and many of them ended up with jobs the following year.
One of our events with communities of recent immigrants from non-English speaking backgrounds involved reading children’s books at MPavilion. Working with Community Hubs and the Scanlon Foundation we provided free books and morning tea so parents could connect. We thought it would be small—but hundreds of people showed up. The next year, they told us, “We don’t need more storytelling. We just want a space to gather.” That really stuck with me. Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is make it clear that everyone belongs in a space. It’s surprisingly easy to make people feel like they don’t.
A priority for all of the programs I’ve been involved in is connecting with and including First Nations communities. Formal expressions of interest can be alienating, for many reasons including the practicalities of the process itself. True engagement takes time. It’s about conversations, building trust, and respecting that people will participate in their own way—even if that pushes the usual boundaries. When you open the doors, things get better. When that openness comes from leadership, and when diversity is embraced across the board, the outcomes are stronger.
It’s not always easy—you might disagree, you might not fully understand—but that’s the work. That’s where the opportunity lies. And we should enjoy it, because when inclusivity is real, it doesn’t just feel good—it makes everything better.
Based on your experience, how do people engage with public spaces in the post-pandemic scenario?
There was a real hunger for connection after the pandemic—people were eager to come together and experience things that only happen in shared physical spaces. I recently went to a music festival with thousands of others, and even though we didn’t know each other, we were united by the same energy. When it works, it’s the best of what it means to be human.
Of course, some people are still cautious, shaped by different views on science and media. But overall, public spaces are thriving. In many ways, they’ve become part of the solution—places where people can rebuild a sense of belonging.
What I find fascinating is how cities are still waiting for office workers to come back. The need to be physically present at work is being rightly challenged. I do believe some in-person time is valuable—especially for collaboration and decision-making—but it doesn’t need to be constant. Events are a great example: planning can happen remotely, but when it’s live, you want to be on the ground, together, supporting each other.
That’s why the “return to the office” debate feels outdated to me. The issue isn’t public space—it’s the shift in how we live and work. In Melbourne, for instance, the “entertainment economy” is replacing the “office economy.” People used to leave the city for leisure; now they come into the city for events—footy, theatre, culture. The city has become a destination for shared experiences, not just work.
So do we need to be in the office? Not necessarily. The real challenge for managers isn’t about presence—it’s about outcomes, and knowing how to measure them. In this context, public spaces have become more cherished than ever. They’re essential to how we shape a more flexible, connected way of life.
When people interact with public spaces, anything can happen. What’s the most unexpected outcome or scene you've witnessed from those interactions?
When I think about the unexpected, my mind goes straight to disasters. I’ve worked as a risk manager for large events, and in that role, you spend a lot of time imagining the unexpected. So when something does happen, it’s not necessarily surprising anymore.
For example, managing large crowds during events like White Night or New Year’s Eve in the city, where we have hundreds of thousands of people, changes the whole approach. You can’t micromanage every detail, instead, you have to create conditions where the space manages itself. You look at the entire system and watch as different dynamics start unfolding.
One of the most unexpected incidents I’ve dealt with was on New Year’s Eve, just after the fireworks. A massive water main broke, at exactly 12:30 am sending water five meters into the air, right in the middle of everything. Suddenly, we had to decide what do we fix? what do we contain? where do we just let people find their own way out? It was like watching a living organism react to a stimulus, with thousands of individuals making their own decisions but forming a collective response. Another time Fed Square, during what was supposed to be a family-friendly event over a long weekend, became the site of a massive security issue when groups of young people started a night fight. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t expected, but suddenly, the entire nature of the space changed.
But unexpected moments aren’t always disasters—sometimes, they’re creative and joyful. That’s what I love about street art. One example that stands out is the work of the street artist Pam. He’s been painting these large, happy-looking birds on freeway signs all across Victoria, from Geelong to Bairnsdale. His most infamous piece was on the clock face of Flinders Street Station. My kids thought that was too much because it’s a heritage building, and, well, the authorities agreed—it was considered a million dollars’ worth of damage, and he got arrested. But when you actually see it, it brings a smile to your face. It’s playful, it’s unexpected, and it adds a sense of joy to the city.
Is there a dream project you have always wanted to realise but haven’t had the chance to work on yet? If so, what is it?
There are a few, but the one I really want to share with you is about activating public spaces—specifically, parks in Victoria. I’d love to develop a community program where people can come together for free and engage with their local environment.
I reckon there are many abandoned parks, especially in smaller towns, that have these little pavilions and shelters—some of them quite beautiful, others really weird. Some were built for practical reasons, while others carry deep historical significance. I think it would be very fun to create a program that moves between these spaces, bringing music, talks, and local engagement. Imagine touring through Victoria, stopping in country towns with these hidden gems—like a pavilion made of river stone built by a local craftsman in the 1940s, or a shelter erected after the war when a community, mourning their loss, planted an avenue of trees alongside it. There are so many places like this, each with a unique materiality, an obscure story, or an unusual design. I reckon there could be hundreds of them across Victoria, just waiting to be reactivated. Taking what we did in those fancy pavilions in the city and bringing that same energy and programming to these forgotten community structures. It would be a way to foster local connection in places where not much else is happening and create a sense of shared experience across different towns.
That’s my dream project. I’d love to make it happen.
Name a person that inspires you or that you admire.
The person I’d like to name is Genevieve Timmons. I met her about five years ago, and she’s been a source of inspiration ever since. She started out working with small community organisations and eventually took on leadership roles in philanthropy, managing large trusts and working on major projects, particularly in regional Australia with First Nations communities. What makes her so inspiring is the way she connects with people, truly sees the value in their work, and actively removes the barriers that typically stand in the way of funding and support. She doesn’t just follow the rules—she finds ways to make real, lasting change happen. The reason she inspires me is because she’s taken her own challenges in life, learnt so much about them, and shared a little bit of what she had learned with people. Personally speaking, the advice she gave me didn’t necessarily make things easier, but it helped things make more sense. That clarity lifted me, and I still think about her words to this day. She’s a very wise woman!
“Dear Genevieve
Over the years we have known each other and worked together, your kind wisdom and gentle, pragmatic perspective have encouraged and inspired me.
Focus on what matters, meet people where they are, be open and honest in all things and don’t forget to smell the roses. Principles that can quietly and holistically guide strategy and decisions, big or small.
Knowing you work tirelessly as an advocate for new approaches to contemporary philanthropy, as a writer, educator and leader, I count myself very lucky to have sat with you and a pot of tea as we discussed the ins and outs of governance, social impact and more.
Looking forward to checking in with you, hearing how others are going and where we can boost each other along in our collective effort to create a sustainable, equitable and inclusive world.
with love and the deepest respect”
