Tasmanian maker
Anna Harris, recently inaugurated professor of Anthropology and Medicine, has travelled a long way—from medical training on the other side of the world to research that explores how the senses and material creativity shape medical practice.
“I was reading library books among eucalyptus trees.” Australian Anna Harris grew up on Groningen Road, in a suburb developed by Dutch settlers, just metres from the wild forests of Tasmania. Her childhood home was designed by her father. “It’s very modernist. His parents used to joke that it looked like a squash court.”
Her mother worked as an art teacher’s assistant. “I was always surrounded by art supplies, and we effectively lived in an architecture studio. Both my parents are makers, and that’s something I cultivate to this day. It’s not even a hobby, it’s just what I do.” She points to a knitted uterus hanging on her office wall; testament to how she has managed to integrate crafts into her research, be it as method, topic or pedagogical approach.
A different time and place
At her all-girls Catholic school, Harris enjoyed a good, if somewhat quaint, education. “I wore brown pinstripes and gloves—it was all rather 1950s. When it comes to provincial clichés, Tasmania is the Limburg of Australia.” Taught alongside biology was “wedding class,” intended to prepare girls for life as good Catholic housewives. Lessons included the Billing’s ovulation method for spacing pregnancies.
“I guess it showed me that different ways of thinking about things can coexist,” she smiles. After she graduated, the school science labs were demolished to make way for cooking facilities—not to imply a causal link. For several science subjects, she had to commute to an elite all-boys school.
“I dreaded it. There were many pretentious wannabe doctors in fancy uniforms,” she recalls, “but it was ethnographically interesting.” She developed a lasting aversion to hierarchal thinking. “It’s complex; clear hierarchies are easier to navigate. In Dutch academia, there’s the pretence of flat hierarchies, but reactions do change with your status. It’s something you have to learn to work with.”
From healing to understanding
At school, she enjoyed both science and literature. “I cobbled together a vision from random bits of advice. My neighbours suggested that if I wanted to be a medical researcher, I should study medicine, which sounded reasonable.” She studied in Tasmania, intending to write about medicine rather than practice it. “There were only 50 people in the programme, and it wasn’t very competitive. We all wanted each other to succeed and have fun along the way.”
Which is not to say it was all plain sailing. “I had my doubts, of course. Once you become an intern, you have to make life-or-death decisions, and that wasn’t for me.” Did she ever regret not becoming a doctor? “Well, I do see my former classmates spending their free time in their second homes, while I’m here writing emails …”
Her gateway into anthropology lay in the pleasure she took in interviewing people for medical case histories. She went on to a master’s programme in Melbourne, a decidedly hip metropolis where she initially felt provincial. “Medical Anthropology was a boutique experience: very few people with very diverse backgrounds, from paramedic and nurse to anthropologist and sociologist. We’re still great friends.”
Across disciplines and cultures
Interdisciplinarity runs through her work. “It sounds great on paper, but it’s a lot of work and very confronting at first. I graduated from med school without ever hearing about the difference between quantitative and qualitative research. It took me months to reconfigure my brain … You always need to unpack your assumptions about methodology before entering into interdisciplinary discussions.”
That initial shock and the subsequent learning curve continue to inform her work today, as she brings together ethnography, sensory methods and attention to materials and infrastructure to explore what it means to “sense,” learn and practice medicine.
Leading an interdisciplinary research team is a challenge, she says. “How can I help both the people in my research group and as the project thrive?” One of her key hiring criteria is quirkiness. “I want people who think in unconventional ways, even if they’re very different from me. You have to work harder to create synergies, but it’s worth it.”
Harris follows leadership coaching and asks others for advice. “I don’t have all the answers, but I find it easy to relate; I was quite an unruly postdoc.” She is not overly fond of her abundant managerial duties. “So much of my time is spent on admin, it’s difficult to carve out time to think about research.” Cheerfully, she points to a chair facing away from her desk: “I got this so I can actually read books.”
From red deserts to magical Maastricht
During her PhD in Melbourne, Harris met her husband Thomas on a blind date set up by friends. “It was very much love at first sight. Before leaving for Europe, we went on an incredibly Australian honeymoon with red desert and wide skies.” Thomas is a clinical psychologist. “He tried to get registered for clinical work in the Netherlands, but it was very challenging. Ironically, my PhD was on the obstacles foreign clinicians face when registering in Australia.”
Harris came to UM as a postdoctoral researcher under Professor Sally Wyatt. Serendipitously, because “her preferred candidate had a change of mind.” She first heard about Maastricht when it featured as a case study in a paper on the intangible aspects of place. “There was a picture of a cobble stone street, which I absolutely loved.” This flight of fancy was as auspicious as it was pertinent. “I now live on a street like that!”
She vividly remembers arriving in 2010. “It was a really snowy winter, like we haven’t had since. Maastricht at its most beautiful.” Initially, it was difficult to get to know people, but they are now happy in their picturesque home.
“My neighbour’s grandmother was born in our house. The street is full of traditional Maastreechs families. We invested in the community, and they’ve embraced us.” Recently, she and her husband passed their intermediate Dutch exam—even if her language buddy insists that “your Dutch should be better by now.”
Crafts, medicine and anthropology
About her time as a postdoc, Harris says, “I was very enthusiastic, but never felt fully prepared. Only looking back do you realise what your transferrable skills are.” Among many other things, she learnt to be creative within project constraints. “I felt the faith and trust of my supervisors. I’m always trying to put myself in the shoes of people I supervise now.”
Harris became a full professor in 2025 and embraces the eclectic nature of her career. Crafts, medicine and anthropology all come together in her project The Upcycled Clinic, which investigates how everyday objects and materials in hospitals are repurposed, reused or upcycled to reduce waste, cope with shortages and foster creativity in care.
One example is the first dialysis machine, which was improvised from discarded washing-machine parts, sausage skins and tin cans. “It’s about any spontaneous innovation in mundane settings. Think nurses during the pandemic filling surgical gloves with warm water to raise patients’ temperature, but also to overcome the sense of isolation that comes with quarantine.”
Facilitating creativity
Again, she motions at the knitted uterus. “Introducing non-traditional, non-dominant ideas can facilitate a lot of creativity, and I see a growing need to make things tangible.” Of course, there is also resistance. “There’s a certain dismissiveness about the ‘feminine arts’; you have to choose your setting wisely for innovation in teaching or research.”
Rather than lengthy theoretical explanations, Harris prefers to simply initiate unconventional formats. To her, “making things” means becoming aware of your body and dialling back the hypercritical cognitive part, which is prone to editing and thus stifling creativity. “The lack of constant eye contact also reduces pressure. The making doesn’t necessarily have to be related to the topic at hand.”
Both pondering research ideas and making things extend beyond working hours. “Our dining table has a craft section, much to my husband’s annoyance,” she laughs. Fortuitous timing helped her combine career and family. “When I found out I was pregnant, I was 39 and had already invested a lot of time in research. Fortunately, I’d just received a permanent contract and no longer faced precarity.”
Thomas was able to take parental leave, and their son Bastian, now 9, went to daycare from an early age. “It did him good: he’s fluent in Dutch with a Limburg accent.” He has also adapted to academic settings. During a UM outreach event, he assisted with a stethoscope workshop. “We had matching doctor’s coats—it was adorable! He lost interest in teaching quickly though ...” Bastian recently learned to crochet, and Harris describes his bedroom as half engineering workshop, half art studio. “Yes,” she smiles, “he’s a maker too.”
Text Florian Raith
Photography Hannah Lipowsky
Also read
-
Jolijn: “During the day I study medicine. In the evening, I am on stage singing and dancing”
During the opening of the academic year, Jolijn van Vugt was singing and dancing on stage at Theater aan het Vrijthof. As a performer, to be precise. The 21-year-old medical student manages to combine her studies with singing and dancing at an advanced level. She dances at the Oxygen dance school in...
-
EU Pact on Migration and Asylum: a game changer or bound to fail?
Studio Europa spoke with Lilian Tsourdi, Professor and Jean Monnet Chair in European Migration Law and Governance at the Law Faculty of Maastricht University, about the EU Pact on Migration and Asylum (the Pact).
-
A Lifetime of learning: Wim Gijselaers reflects on four decades at SBE
Professor Wim Gijselaers reflects on 40+ years at Maastricht University's School of Business and Economics, highlighting its rise to international recognition through innovation, problem-based learning and collaboration. As he retires, he celebrates people, lifelong learning and lasting impact.
