There’s a quiet after an exhibition closes. A kind of hush that settles in when the walls are empty again, and the energy that filled the space begins to retreat. I’ve come to recognize this moment not as an ending, but as a necessary breath — a chance to take stock of what the work became once it was no longer just mine.

De Rerum Natura was born from a long-held curiosity about the parallels between the inner workings of the body and the broader, intricate systems of nature. It was a project that began in fragments — a gesture here, a texture there — and slowly grew into a language of its own. A language that pulled from my medical background, yes, but also from memory, displacement, and the desire to make sense of the invisible forces that move us.

Exhibiting this series at Lane Cove Gallery was a gift. The space itself held the work with grace, and the people — from the team behind the scenes to the many visitors who came through the doors — brought it to life in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. I had the privilege of leading public and private tours, and each conversation revealed new ways of seeing the work. Some responded to the visual rhythm and mark-making, others to the feeling of resonance between body and land. A few shared deeply personal reflections — stories of grief, birth, migration, and healing. Those moments are etched into my memory, and I carry them forward with deep gratitude.

One of the most moving aspects of this show was witnessing how art can become a meeting point — not just between artist and viewer, but between strangers finding common language through imagery. For me, De Rerum Natura became less about the paintings themselves and more about the conversations they sparked: about being human, being fragile, being connected.

Now that the works have returned to the studio (and some to new homes), I’m sitting with a renewed sense of clarity — and a reminder that while art begins alone, it doesn’t end that way. It continues through those who witness it, question it, and carry it with them.

And now, I return to the studio — quieter, more attuned, and ready for whatever shape the next question will take.

“No single thing abides, but all things flow…” — Lucretius