2004 has been a gratifying year for me. Solo international exhibitions in Dubai and Hong Kong; group shows in Australia and overseas; some interesting architectural commissions; and, some proposals for major international projects accepted. A piece acquired by the Ebeltoft Museum of Contemporary Glass in Denmark and another presented by the Governor of New South Wales, Marie Bashir, to the President of China; even a prize in a Queensland fine arts competition. A gratifying year for a glass artist, indeed, but an unusual year for a doctor. How did all this happen?

My life began with 20 unbroken years of full-time institutional education, culminating in 1976 with graduation from the University of New South Wales (MB BS). I had chosen to study Medicine with what I now see as probably typical teenage arrogance and ignorance — when faced with an application form for the “rest of my life”, I ticked the boxes for Medicine, Law and Arts, without any real understanding of what any of those choices might entail. I pronounced that I sought a career where I could help people, continue learning and work anywhere in the world.

Once begun, Medicine became my life. My choice was unquestioned; I proceeded with no thought of any alternatives. I loved it! In third year, I married Barbara, a fellow medical student. Not having to pursue the dating game, we had plenty of time and energy to devote to Medicine. For the next three years we spent much of our “spare time” in casualty departments and outpatient clinics, improving our clinical and practical skills.

A major teaching hospital was the setting for my intern year, but I found myself craving a smaller, more personal environment, and moved on to a district hospital where junior doctors were expected to perform more procedures and accept greater responsibilities. A couple of years later I was lured into an entrepreneurial general practice partnership and lasted three months before accepting that this style of practice was anathema to me.

Next came the toughest 18 months of my life. I established a general practice from scratch. I did it the hard way — forgoing all offers (including office equipment, an ECG machine, a nurse for one day a week and having my surgery painted) from pharmaceutical companies, pathology services and the like. I set up a no-frills, old-fashioned practice. One day, sitting at my desk, looking at the wall, I thought: “Well, here I am. I’ve made this practice viable. In 40 years, I can still be sitting here looking at the same wall.”

That night I told Barbara that I wanted to sell up and travel. She took about three seconds to agree (even though she was in the middle of a paediatric intensive care term). That night I jumped off the merry-go-round. Although I didn’t know it, I would not get back on.

I had dabbled in various arts and crafts over the years of my childhood and even university. I tried many media (including painting, drawing, pottery, leatherwork, copper enamelling and basic printmaking), but none held my interest once I had reached a level of basic competency. When I commenced general practice, I enrolled in a stained glass course at TAFE. The initial class was an epiphany. The moment I picked up a glasscutter and scored my first piece of glass, I knew something important had happened. It was akin to falling in love.

I became obsessed with glass and spent any quiet hours between seeing patients drawing designs for windows. When the practice bell rang, I would reluctantly gather up my coloured pencils and be a doctor again. I filled our house with windows and started making them for friends and family.

I found that I had an aptitude for the medium and was able to visualise the completed image in glass to begin with. I seemed to be able to “think in glass” (Box 1).

I began to fantasise about running a little leadlight shop (instead of a general practice) and becoming a craftsman. This may have been sublimation for a frustrated earlier plan to become an orthopaedic surgeon. Orthopaedics had attracted me because of the variety of problems faced and the innovation and manual ingenuity it demanded.

However, I found I could not accept either the requirement that I work overseas to qualify to work in my own country or, what seemed a necessity, to “step on the heads” of friends and colleagues to attain any one of the few available positions.

Just before that defining moment when I had literally seen my future on the practice wall, I had faced mortality. I had the tragic misfortune to be involved in an unsuccessful attempt to save the life of my closest friend at that time. He had been stabbed and died, despite my best efforts as part of the resuscitation team. The wall that we construct in order to do the job that emergency medicine demands was breached. I suddenly knew how quickly life could be over.

I began to dwell upon the things that I wanted to do but had not yet done and decided that it was time to stop postponing my gratification. So, I sold my practice and we went to Germany, bought a big motorbike and rode off on a great adventure. On our return, I decided to give glass a try.

That was 22 years ago. My self-understanding and my feelings about that decision have evolved over the subsequent years. At the time, I talked it over with peers and mentors and received differing opinions. My colleagues told me I was mad to throw away all those years of study. How things change! At our last reunion dinner, I was awarded a prize for “best career choice”. My mentors, who were of my father’s generation, had a very different perspective. Most had a regret: the unwritten novel, unfinished canvases, missed opportunities. One observation was pivotal: “You have a choice. Before you tie yourself down with a mortgage, kids at private schools, the pool and a Volvo, give it [glass art] a try. If It works — wonderful. If it doesn’t, you don’t have to go to your grave regretting what might have been. So, get it out of your system.” The concept that my trial was to be temporary was paramount to my being able to consider it. Practical and emotional support from my parents, and particularly my wife, made it possible. As one of the few people on the planet to have choices, I also felt a genuine responsibility not to waste the opportunity.

Becoming a glass artist was a long, difficult journey. I started at the bottom (again) and travelled alone. Going back to college to complete a visual arts degree would have been an easier, quicker path to a new career, but I was tired of institutional learning.

I worked briefly as a glassblower, took courses in colour and design, life drawing and various technical methods and set up that small leadlight studio I had fantasised about (Box 2).

I soon discovered that there was much more to the medium of glass art than tulip-pattern front doors and was launched onto a steep learning curve. Invitations to master classes in Germany and the USA led to dramatic improvements in my skills. Gradually, over 20 years, I evolved into a glass artist in my own right (Box 3 and Box 4).

Every day, working away in my leadlight studio, two thoughts recurred. The first was that, eventually, I would be discovered to be having too much fun and it would have to stop. The old adage “If you find a job you love, you will never work another day of your life” turned out to be absolutely true. The second was that I agonised over leaving Medicine. I felt guilty about having had the benefit of a free university education, and wondered whether the time I had put in had in any way repaid my debt to society. I worried that my medical skills were waning and about how difficult it might be to regain them. I feared that I had failed my family’s expectations. Although working with glass gave me a level of satisfaction that practising medicine had not, my internal debate continued as these thoughts recurred for years, often on a daily basis. It helped that I was able to bring medicine into my work in a variety of ways: a privileged body of knowledge, much of the visual imagery that appears subconsciously in my work and the capacity to research what I do not yet know. And, instead of ministering to the body, I like to think that my work provides succour for the soul (Box 5).

Simultaneously, in those early years, I experienced great difficulty in defining myself. I needed to call myself something. I knew I wasn’t an artist, although I didn’t really know yet what makes an artist. I also knew that it would be impertinent to call myself a craftsman, given my beginner’s skills. My dilemma was not aided by the stained glass fraternity, who labelled me a dilettante and a “blow in”. In time, these attitudes changed and some time later I was elected President of the Australian Association of Glass Artists.

Recently, all these old, resolved identity problems came rushing back to me when I was compelled to join the non-practising medical register. Twenty years on since stopping work as a doctor and charting another course in life, I finally feel relaxed about calling myself an artist. (I know I am an artist — because I am receiving more critical acclaim and making less money than ever!) However, all this time, I have had in the back of my mind that I am still a doctor and had chosen to maintain full registration. I was surprised by how much this change in registration status bothered me. Although I no longer seriously entertain the idea of returning to clinical practice, I felt something stirring within when the door back (which remained ajar despite having receded further and further away) seemed to have closed on me. Even now, I rationalise that, if I really needed to, I could requalify. So, it would appear that I still have not abandoned the idea, as unlikely as it is. Medicine is a tough habit to shake!