Chris Bosse (CB): I’m fascinated by the Indigenous belief that everything is alive—geometries, ecosystems, the structure of a leaf, the functioning of the Great Barrier Reef, and even the language of AI. All these are alive and brimming with lessons if we take the time to observe them. This understanding can inspire the creation of art, buildings, precincts, and entire cities. Our connection with nature, art, and systems is deep and innate. We share this worldview, don’t we?

Janet Laurence (JL): We do. My work in art and yours in architecture are about alchemy. Mine, in particular, explores states of matter and the memory of matter, which I see as our relationship with nature. The first time I designed a "plant hospital," I invented a space where visitors could enter and observe attendants in white coats caring for sick plants, trying to bring them back to life. The plants were placed in wards that resembled hospital rooms, which created an environment where viewers could connect with the emergency state that the plants were in and cultivate empathy for the plant world. The people caring for the plants truly loved their caretaking roles.

I’ve witnessed similar emotional awakenings in both participants and audiences with other works, such as when I had trees on life support, tended to by caretakers. For the Artists 4 Climate Exhibition in Paris, I created an intensive care ward for the Great Barrier Reef. Interestingly, the response to that work was different. It was less emotionally connective for the audience, which brought me to think more deeply about the mechanisms of anthropomorphism and our practice, as humans, of selective empathy. Marine creatures are more foreign to humans. I discovered that it’s much harder to foster empathy for sea creatures than for plants. We’re not afraid of plants; they have an aesthetic appeal, and we’re familiar with them. Sea creatures, by contrast, are distant and unfamiliar.

CB: How do you believe immersing humans in spaces that inspire compassion for aspects of nature leads to the development of that emotion? Is a form of psychological transference taking place? Have you observed tangible shifts in individuals or cultures exposed to art that emotionally engages with the healing realms of plants and animals?

JL: Time is an important aspect. I make slow works that one does spend time in. Inhabiting these requires that audiences make an effort to acknowledge what is happening and engage with the aesthetic and sensory materials I’ve used to convey the ideas. This enables the art viewers to begin to feel and register an emotional response. When creating art, I feel deeply connected to the subject I’m working with. I intentionally project my emotions onto it, embracing a degree of anthropomorphism to ensure the art communicates and conveys those feelings to viewers. Many people have shared that they feel transformed by the work—an impact that I hope is lasting. The critical aspect for me is creating empathy as a way into this process, and believing that enacting care generates compassion within us. How did you come to this idea of empathy for other life forms?

CB: Like you, I extract elements from nature and place them in a new context to allow engagement with them in a ‘safe place’ that fosters a different relationship with other life forms. Art and architecture make collaborating with the natural world more approachable and relatable. Designing an artificial space where elements of the environment are able to speak in new ways, activates powerful metaphors.

This approach challenges the Darwinian perspective of humans as ‘top of the food chain.’ In architecture, design that respects the intelligence of natural systems encourages us to see ourselves not as dominant figures but as collaborative participants in a larger, interconnected world. Like your art, this becomes a medium to shift human perspective— from a hierarchical mindset to one of symbiosis, where we both learn from and contribute to the environment we inhabit. It’s a future for architecture where shelter doesn’t just contain life; it becomes part of it and shapes a more balanced, integrated relationship between humans and our ecologies.

JL: I’m heartened by the fact that the postcolonial debate has been very present in our cultures in recent years. Indigenous and post-slavery cultures are moving more prominently into the dominant discourse, bringing their holistic gaze to collective consciousness and inspiring a greater awareness of culture’s relationship to nature, to Country [the Australian Indigenous word for living landscapes]. This has been happening in art for a while. The strong presence of diverse cultural lenses is currently moving into architecture, as well. It’s compulsory to have Indigenous consultants on public buildings in Australia now, isn’t it?

CB: Yes. Since moving to Australia from Europe, my understanding of architecture has deepened in ways I didn’t anticipate. Working with local cultures and Indigenous advisors has expanded my perspective, shifting it beyond conventional design toward a more integrated and relational approach. Each project now feels like a partnership with the land itself—an opportunity to honor Country, where nature, culture, and people are interwoven rather than distinct.

JL: I lived in Europe for a while and noticed how differently culture and nature relate.

CB: Architecture is increasingly seeking deeper meaning, a more profound message, and a stronger connection. A few years ago, we collaborated with Indigenous artists on a project called Nomads Palace. It was a pavilion designed for Indigenous art and cultural groups to travel across the country and perform. We contemplated how to best represent this function through form and decided to use geometric representations of Country. The result was molecule-shaped pavilions. Indigenous artists contributed their perspectives, and incorporated secret frequencies that created straight patterns and geometric interpretations of natural phenomena. By returning to the most fundamental building block of the universe—the molecule—it felt as though our collaboration bridged both worlds, coming close to an ultimate design.

When living and working with a forest right outside your door, wildlife is inevitably also generated within. In both the design and the psyche, it’s important to consider how that life will enter the space—how we want to collaborate and coexist as life forms. I’m drawn to the idea of using plants and algae to create walls that not only cool the structure and regulate temperature but also add an aesthetic dimension to the space. I want to think about caring for Earth and the world on a very basic level in living with it symbiotically and harmoniously. What would your ultimate design be?

CB: The forest would be a good starting point for me, too. I’m envisioning an enchanted place, similar to what we experienced in Avatar, where the Indigenous population has a profound understanding of the land, its surroundings, and every species within the ecosystem. They also possess advanced technologies that make all of this visible. Everything begins to glow and interact, and this dimension can be transformed into energy. To me, this feels like the meeting of the distant future and distant past, where nature and technology come into symbiosis.

I’m drawn to your concept of "the forest coming in." In architecture, this involves rethinking structures as symbiotic elements of the natural ecosystem by blurring the line between the built and natural environments. By leveraging AI, big data, and new biophilic materials, we can create structures that don’t just sit alongside nature—they integrate with it, responding to and interacting with natural systems in real time. Imagine walls embedded with mycelium networks that relay subtle tones, communicating a grounding presence much like a forest floor, or floors that mimic the soil’s microbiome, enhancing air quality and fostering a healthy indoor ecosystem.

CB: Seeing the world this way represents a shift that aligns with symbiotic design, where architecture adapts, responds, and breathes with its environment. It’s about crafting spaces that honor thousands of years of heritage and culture while embracing futuristic materials and biomimetic forms. This transforms architecture from something merely structural to something deeply connected. It’s about creating places that don’t just exist in a landscape, but truly belong to it.

CB: Looking ahead, I see this approach evolving toward sentient spaces, where architecture doesn’t just house humans but coexists with other forms of intelligence—whether animal, plant, or AI-driven. I envision spaces where building skins respond to environmental changes and support habitats that evolve to accommodate a variety of species while engaging with the world. In an ultimate design, I imagine structures that are not only geometrically optimized but also sensitive, sustainable, and deeply connected to the natural intelligence around them—much like how your art fosters tactile, emotional connections across species. I hope this approach reflects our evolving role within the ecology and our transformed approach to creating built environments that promote inclusivity, sustainability, and a symbiotic relationship with all life forms, where humans play a humbler, more integrated part.

JL: I agree and feel an urgency to work more rigorously with like-minded artists, designers and architects in influencing social change. Our work is political. I believe that emotional forces and economies of care are tools of activism. When these are linked to elements of the natural world through their representation in art and space design, they foster shifts in the heart that provoke cultural and social transformations. Ones that I hope will redress our planetary crises.

Special thanks to Caia Hagel for conducting and writing this interview on behalf of LAVA.