Square Trees and Lilliputian Architects

Trees at the Nelson A. Rockefeller Empire State Plaza in Albany are trimmed so that they mirror the monolithic architecture of New York State's government complex.

This spring, I've watched a particular cubic tree leaf from one of the few windows near my lab. I suppose that some might think it "cruel" to shape a tree this way; if so, you should see what artist Natalie Jeremijenko has done to her trees at Mass MoCA, or simply think of what every bonsai goes through.

Getting back to the plaza, I wonder if the "tree foraminifera" that we study would build similar monoliths if offered bricks and blocks? This is a serious scientific question: I've long held the notion that we could "train" cells to construct tiny devices. (The alternative concept that most engineers have adopted, i.e., self-assembly of components, is one of the bottlenecks, if not fallicies, of nanotechnology.) Tree foraminifera are magnificant sculptors and build micro-scale shells for a living. Why not teach them how to assemble our miniaturized goodies?

Notodendrodes antarctikos - a "tree foram" from Explorers Cove, Antarctica (photo courtesy Shawn Harper)

Since this post considers the concept of scale, we should be cautious when thinking about working at the level of foraminifera. These single-celled giants are voraceous carnivores; given the chance, they would probably trim our body parts so that we conform to their arborescent aesthetic.

And then eat us!

Bleeding Hearts (iii)

Irradiate bleeding hearts with simulated sunlight ...

... capture their shadows ...

... add primary colors ...

... relive 1971

Bleeding Hearts (ii)

An insect in flight encounters a string of bleeding hearts.


Upon approach, it finds company...

Bleeding Hearts (i)

Flowers mean springtime and summertime, love and loss.

A solitary bleeding heart has appeared in the garden, which has me thinking about the single-minded pursuit required for success in science. Long nights spent alone in the lab, peering through the lens of a microscope; frozen hours under Antarctic ice, encased in scuba gear. So caught up in the passion for knowledge that we forget to play; forget to tell loved ones how important they are...

Even in the company of others, bleeding hearts lack comfort. I wonder what insects see in them?

Albany bloemen

My brother's family is living in Holland for the next few months. Today we share a little color, as Albany celebrates its Dutch heritage with 200,000 tulips.

Boys, Girls, Art & Science

I've been giving science talks to school kids for over 20 years. I tell them stories about working and living in Antarctica, and weave in some bits of knowledge about marine ecosystems, animal behavior, and climate. After spending 45 minutes with 20 bubbly students, I'll wink a smile at the teacher and leave the classroom feeling confident that our world is being left in good hands.

As part of their learning experience, the younger children are usually tasked to compose "thank you" notes or drawings, which teachers then send to me. These tokens of gratitude are treasure.

It's always fun to see which stories the kids focus on. Toilets, diving, dynamite, pycnogonids, and penguins top the list. When viewing the subjects of their art, one thing that I can predict with >95% accuracy is the gender of the child.

I bet you can, too...

Seeing Red, Feeling Warmth ... and Healing

Winter is over - finally! Along with the swarming of ants and the arrival of robins, a red peppering on the deciduous forest helps announce spring in Upstate New York. 

Sadly, though, last winter's ice storm left gaping wounds on most trees, especially the maples. Their red patina seems like a bloody stain on the forest's black skeleton. 

Maple tree flowers are not simply red. Put your nose to them and you'll see a mix of colors that code their structural complexity. Subtle yellow and green pistils are crowned by a burst of pale filaments, each of which is punctuated by a slate-blue anther. For fun, I'll explore the hidden hues of their pollen grains using a microscope. Dan Mazia, celebrated microscopist of the last 

century once wrote, "... think with the eyes and see with the brain. Deep revelations into the nature of living things continue to travel on beams of light."

In the lab, thinking and seeing are best done alone, and in silence. In the forest, I trust that beams of light will warm the trees and help heal the wounds of winter.

InterfaCE IV(b)

Some images from opening night of InterfaCE IV.

Many thanks to Lynn Palumbo, Director of the Washington Art Gallery, for the invitation to show our work. I am personally indebted to DebS for her help setting up the installation, and to Wendy Bohlinger (a.k.a. Wendella) - photographer, friend, and advocate since our days studying invertebrate zoology at UAlbany.

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The scuba mantra "plan your dive and dive your plan" also works for setting up an art installation

Final touchup...

A view of the opening reception

"a place to rest the eye"

Wendy caught the light to transform graphite into ice

Thank you Wendella!

InterfaCE was supported in part by NSF grant ANT0440769 awarded to S.S. Bowser. Any opinions, findings, and conclusions or recommendations expressed in this material are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the The National Science Foundation. Nor any other life form/entity.

Concept of Scale

Collaborations between artists and scientists have yielded many intriguing projects over the past 20-plus years, as documented on the ASCI website. Having engaged in a fruitful art/science collaboration with Claire Beynon from 2005-8, the next step for our outreach program was to share this experience with elementary, middle, and high-school students. Enter the Capital Region Center for Arts in Education (CRCAE).

Based on our collaboration, artists Chris Moran and Pavlos Mayakis, together with poet Cara Benson, ran a CRCAE-sponsored art/science workshop for teachers last summer. This outreach project was recently put to the test: a classroom of bubbly bright 7th- and 8th-grade students in Holly May's English class at New Lebanon Junior/Senior High School were engaged in an art/science experience that explored the concept of scale. Expository writing was an essential ingredient of the program, providing another link between diverse curricula. Details will follow at the artscience alliance website; below are a few images to set the stage:

Thinking about Claire Beynon's interpretive artwork

Writing observations

Dr. B, artist Chris Moran, and writing instructor Holly May

Earth Hour, from one home in New York

Today marks Earth Hour, and I'll watch evening fall with a swarm of ants that emerge from our walkway each year.

Faithful as the equinox, these ants help mark springtime. Their emergence is, of course, a manifestation of their life cycle. Courtship, mating, new life, all timed to the start of this season.

I try to step over them while walking, working, and wondering.

In six hours our lights will extinguish; together with many other New Yorkers we add our voices (er, our absence of photons) in making a statement to world leaders about curbing climate change.

The ants are unaware of this, though. They are busy moving about, wandering between the pavers. Watching their bustle makes me itch. Or perhaps some of them have made their way up my pants.

It's 8:30, and the house is dark. The ants are barely moving, and I lay down next to the swarm. The night air is crisp and refreshing, but only a few stars poke through the clouds to light the sky.

Speaking of stars, I'll never forget my first evening wearing glasses: I was five years old, and couldn't wait to look at the Milky Way wearing them. (Being a product of the Space Age, I was a HUGE fan of astronomy.) But that first glimpse of the night sky with corrected vision remains one of the darkest moments of my life. Those warm fuzzy balls that painted nighttime since birth were really cold, lonely pinpricks of light.

The universe still seems much friendlier without glasses, so I take them off and share the night sky with the ants. Their eyes lack visual acuity as well - one of the many things we have in common.

It is now 9:30, and Earth Hour passes West to the next time zone. The ants are motionless. I think I'll leave the lights off, and join them in sleep.

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P.S. Earth Hour +12

As predicted by meteorologists, rain has come. The swarm of ants is now a dispersion of corpses. I don't think the rain killed them; more likely, their life cycle was complete as nighttime fell.

Nevertheless, one takes pause.

InterfaCE IV(a)

Next week, InterfaCE IV will be installed in the Mildred I. Washington art gallery at Dutchess Community College, Poughkeepsie, New York. This version of InterfaCE will be placed on a 4x8-ft piece of canvas. I've been prepping the canvas these last few nights, enjoying the feel of gesso slipping off of a brush.

I ran down the canvas applying gesso, like wind skirts along the ice surface carrying streams of snow. The gesso texture will be barely perceptible when it dries, and will be further obscured by beakers and disks of photographs, micrographs, and paintings. Nevertheless, memories of wind-blown snow are at the forefront of this man's mind.

Tonight I made long, wispy strokes while applying the final layer, thinking about how the wind blows snow across the ice. It's so beautiful to watch, and to sit in. I've spent hours relishing its impact, and sometimes felt guilty about being in its way. But then I realize that millions of snowflakes were rescued by letting them coalesce into shapes on my parka and wind pants.

One day those shapes might reappear as InterfaCE V -- or perhaps they already have in the countless dreams that I don't remember.

Immersion in the Sublime

Work often takes me to extreme places, such as the outer space-like vacuum of an electron microscope or the frozen seascape of McMurdo Sound. Such places harbor limitless riches in sight, sound, and experience. They should be the domains of dreamers, poets, and artists.

When slipping through the thick sea ice and descending to its underside, a profound loneliness always  chills my heart. The thought that there is no other person in the entire Southern Ocean at that moment, compounded by the indescribable beauty of the icy aquatic space, defines the sublime to this man. Life sustained by a thin tube delivering air on demand. Life enabled by sophisticated under- and outerwear. Life viewed by a privileged scientist - a linear, analytical thinker, seeking a way to express this moment to others. A faithful rationalist who, for two decades, has extended his cold, wet hand toward the warmth of artists.

The Underside of Sea Ice

still frame of a Shawn Harper video

Glimpses of such underwater moments are portrayed in Werner Herzog's recent documentary, brilliantly captured by Henry Kaiser's lens. But the feeling I am trying to describe here is much more haunting. It is an isolation and a beauty like no other. I know intuitively that it is profound, even though I don't know what it is.

One day I hope to find an artist who understands this feeling and will help me express it. An artist who will help me share it with the world.