science is an art

Leonardo

Science Is an ArtAuthor(s): François Le LionnaisSource: Leonardo, Vol. 2, No. 1 (Jan., 1969), pp. 73-78Published by: The MIT PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1571931 .

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Leonardo, Vol. 2, pp. 73-78. Pergamon Press 1969. Printed in Great Britain

SCIENCE IS AN ART*

Francois Le Lionnaist

I

I would not like the title of this essay to be misin- terpreted. It is definitely not an attempt to claim that the arts are sciences or that art is science. It is quite the opposite idea that I propose to discuss, as the reader will clearly see.

I do not intend, either, to deal with the complex and fascinating relations linking the sciences and the arts, which are irrelevant here. What I intend is to persuade, if not to prove, that science is an art like painting, architecture or music. Indeed, it would be hardly any exaggeration and certainly no jest on my part to maintain that there should be a discipline of the aesthetics of science.

Basic science should not be confused with applied science. (There is almost as much difference between the one and the other as there is between musical composition and violin making.) Science is not concerned with the discovery or creation of beauty; it seeks only the truth. But science, for better or worse, is pursued by men-and the achievement of its ideals, as in all human activity-be it humble, moderate or great-cannot be attained in a climate completely devoid of emotion. The result is that, though science does not in any way aim to become an art, an art it inevitably is. I claim an aesthetics of science to be justifiable and I go so far as to believe that it merits being taken into consideration by aestheticians.

II

Just what circumstances determine the birth of scientific thought ? I see two forces; curiosity, which drives one on toward discovery, and a love of play (gout de jeu) or sheer enjoyment of the game itself, which encourages inventive thought. These two driving forces, neither completely independent one from another, appear to me to function overall in the same manner in the scientist and in the artist. They stimulate the scientific research worker and induce him to work along certain lines. They are not in themselves science, but merely the rustling which attends its coming.

*Based on a talk delivered before the Acad6mie des Beaux Arts, Paris, France on 23 February 1966. Translated by George Agoston and Pauline Bentley-Koffler.

tPresident of the Association of French Science Writers, 23 Route de la Reine, 92 Boulogne sur Seine, France. (Re- ceived 9 March 1968.)

There are few men less blases than scientists in the fields where they excel. Everything interests the scientist and often one does not have to look far to find the sources of his enthusiasm. A scientist finds challenge and food for thought in all the aspects of the human environment, every moment of each day. If we do not respond as he does to these challenges, which surround us all the time in just the same way, it is because we lack the responsiveness which characterizes scientists and artists.

Everyone is continually surrounded by objects and phenomena. For example, there are certain objects which I can touch and others which I cannot reach. Some, like a table, are hard; that is to say, they do not permit easy penetration. Others, such as the atmosphere, are fluid and seem scarcely to exist. Is the subtle air, which envelops man, infinitely light? Why does a pencil, if I lift it a small distance and then release it, fall as far as the table beneath it? And why does it stop there ? Is it not amazing that I can communicate my thoughts to you in this essay? What is sound ? What is light ? What is their precise structure ? I have never turned on a light switch in a darkened room without the sudden flood of light releasing in me an undeniable emotion, the impres- sion almost of having witnessed a miracle.

Suppose I hold a glass in my hand. Why is it transparent? Is not this transparency an extraordinary, baffling mystery ? If the glass is filled with water and a lump of sugar is added, the sugar disappears in a few moments. How is this possible ?

All such phenomena, common place for ordinary mortals, appear extraordinary to scientists. But science does not have a monopoly of this attitude. It characterizes an entire family of works of art: the aesthetics of Carravaggio, of the 'Night Watch' by Rembrandt, and a thousand other masterpieces convey the same feeling of mystery in everyday perceptions that lie at the root of so many scientific discoveries. Sir Humphry Davy (1778-1829), the father of electro-metallurgy, in the following words gave the beginning of a psychological explanation of the role of curiosity in scientific research:

"The appearance of most natural objects is in itself a kind of pleasure for us. The pleasure is even greater when we know the laws which govern it. Thus the study of nature and its various laws must, to a certain extent, always be bound to the love of the beautiful and the sublime."

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One could ask oneself-have science and art exhausted all the mysteries of everyday life-are there still unexplained phenomena available for the exercise of curiosity in our day to day living? I believe there is no lack of such phenomena. There are scientists who are daring enough to pull away the blindfold that habit puts over our eyes and who are capable of deciphering the hieroglyphics of these phenomena.

Let us consider again the water glass with its so justly intriguing transparency. When I hold it, why does it not slip from my hands and fall to the ground ? "But it is only natural," you exclaim! "You hold the glass between your fingers with sufficient force to prevent it from falling. What could be more simple?" It is actually far less simple and far less natural than this. One only needs to put a little oil on one's fingers to realize that it is very difficult to prevent a smooth glass from slipping and falling from one's hands, even when holding it very tightly. In fact, one can understand this phenomenon, both so commonplace and so mysterious, only by considering forces that chemists call van der Waals' forces. We now have reason to believe that perhaps partly due to these same van der Waals' forces, the cosmic dust making up the surface of the Moon gradually builds up the firm crust that supported the recently landed Moon craft, Luna IX.

III

So much for curiosity. Now let us pass to the love of play of a scientist. The English physicist, Michael Faraday (1791-1867), who to some extent continued Davy's work, was frequently visited in his laboratory by his niece. Faraday loved children and to amuse the child, he would throw small pieces of sodium or potassium into water. Only a few years before, Davy had discovered these two magical metals that set fire to water and then move violently about on its surface. It is my belief that Faraday himself enjoyed this truly amazing game just as much as his niece.

One would be hard put to draw a clear boundary between the sheer love of play and the pure enjoyment in phenomena experienced by children, artists and scientists. Benjamin Franklin (1706- 1790), whose kite led to a better understanding of electro-meteorology, amused himself endlessly with the electrical discharges and sparks provoked by his kite. The same inclination for amusement in scientific thought occurs in this passage by Johannes Kepler (1571-1630), the celebrated astronomer:

"Yesterday, when I was tired of writing and when my mind was stirred up in meditations about atoms, I was called to dinner. My wife, Barbara, brought a salad to the table. 'Do you think,' I said to her, 'that if pewter dishes, lettuce leaves, grains of salt, drops of oil and vinegar, and pieces of hard boiled eggs floated about in space since the time of Creation, sheer chance would ever be able to bring them together to form a salad?'

'Not as good or as well made as mine is,' replied my lovely wife, 'of that you can be sure!' "

How many great works in mathematics began with this simple love of play! How many theorems have been discovered, not because they had practical uses, but only because of the pleasure in juggling with mathematical ideas and of the joy in the surpris- ing results. Recall to mind the magic square which Albrecht Diirer (1471-1528), placed in his famous engraving 'Melancholia'. It shows not only that Diirer liked mathematics but also that he appreciated it for its beauty.

At a higher level, there is a theorem in the theory of numbers that was introduced by Leonhard Euler (1707-1783). Although its demonstration was outlined by Adrien Marie Legendre (1752-1833), its proof is due to one of the greatest of all mathematicians Karl Friederich Gauss (1777-1855). It is the theorem of quadratic reciprocity. Let me reassure you quickly-I do not intend to present either the proof or even the gist of it, but I cannot avoid feeling a sense of regret for not doing so. Gauss considered the theorem a crown jewel of arithmetic. He admired it so much and derived so much pleasure from it that, although he first proved it completely and perfectly in his youth, he sought and found six different proofs during his long life-time.

Consider what this means. Since the first proof was flawless and sufficient, his search for other versions of the proof was, in a way, completely useless. Is not this a convincing demonstration that Gauss was guided by a driving force other than the search for truth or for utility? And what was that driving force, if not the pursuit of artistic satisfac- tion?

As in all very strong dispositions or feelings, the savouring of true love of play does not recognize limits. It can go so far as to lead a scientist into mortal danger. This is the way Davy, who has already been mentioned, told of his experiments with nitrous oxide more than one and a half centuries ago. He wished to know its physiological properties:

"Having first closed my nostrils and emptied my lungs, I inhaled and exhaled three cubic centi- meters of nitrous oxide contained in a silk bag. The first sensations were similar to those which I felt in the previous experiment. But, in less than half a minute, the respiration being continued, they diminished gradually, and were succeeded by a sensation analogous to a gentle pressure on all the muscles, attended by an highly pleasurable thrilling, particularly in the chest and extremities. The objects around became dazzling and my hearing more acute. Towards the last inspirations, the thrilling increased, the sense of muscular power became greater, and at last an irresistible propensity to action was indulged in. After the second inhalation, I had lost all power of percep- tion of exterior objects. I had no distinct sensation excepting a terrible weight on my chest. During the third exhalation this sensation disappeared. It

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seemed to me that I was sinking into nothingness. I had only enough strength to allow the mouth- piece to fall from my partially opened lips. In returning to myself, I murmured in an indistinct manner: 'I do not believe that I am going to die !"'

Then according to historian J. G. Crowther, he felt his pulse and found it extremely rapid and strained like a vibrating cord. Stumbling, he made for the garden and fell in a faint upon the grass. One is reminded of the experiments which a contemporary artist, the great poet Henri Michaux, made recently with mescaline.

Thus, the love of play constitutes an important and serious underlying factor in scientific research. And, I believe, that there is a difference less in kind than in degree in its comparison with the play of children. There is a sentence which Sir Isaac Newton (1643-1727) wrote in his old age reminding us of this. It has often been quoted, but I cannot resist quoting it again:

"I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me."

IV

Do curiosity and this love of play for itself, which have a principal role in scientific research, operate in the same manner in the arts? I believe so, at least up to a certain point. Compare, for example, the realism of the early Flemish masters. Some of them, certainly not all, seem to me to have been prey to strong feelings of quasi-scientific curiosity.

The care with which van Eyck in the fifteenth century rendered various substances is not essen- tially different from the investigations (at first in alchemy) that led to modern chemistry. I know well where the difference lies. Van Eyck was satisfied when he was able to reproduce an illusion of the material that unleashed his curiosity because as an artist, a representational artist, it was enough for him to recreate sensation. Chemists, on the other hand, are not satisfied with appearances. They wish to penetrate right into interior structures, for they intend to reproduce substances in their reality. But in both I could find the same curiosity at the start; the parting of the ways begins later. When the same van Eyck oriented the four birds in the garden of his 'Virgin and Chancellor Rolin' according to the four cardinal points and when Leonardo da Vinci disposed the hand gestures of his 'Virgin of the Rocks' according to the six directions of space, both these painters seem to me to be in the same initial state of mind as Nicolas Oresme (1323[?]-1382), the father of analytic geometry before Rene Descartes (1596-1650).

This does not mean that there was any clear notion of representing the position of a point in a plane or in space by a system of co-ordinates x, y, z

but there was the feeling of the number of dimen- sions of a plane or of space. Painters had no need to travel farther along the paths of science. The way they arrived at their effects was sufficient for their end-a more harmonious organization in their paintings. I imagine that this aim was instinctive for van Eyck, and probably conscious for da Vinci. On the other hand, mathematicians have to travel farther towards the truth without bothering themselves with the artistic exploitation of their thoughts.

If representational painting seems to me most often based, partially at least, on curiosity, I do believe that abstract painting, architecture and music seem to procede from a sheer love of play. But of course this enjoyment, because it challenges the very foundations of human nature, is transformed for the true scientist as for the true artist from the futile or childish into serious action.

"Man plays only when he is truly man and he is truly man only when he plays",

Schiller wrote, thus giving the wordplay its strongest sense, a sense which is particularly suited to music. This does not deny the continuity between the noble sense and the childish sense. There is a difference in intent and in degree but there is no basic difference between the child who plays with a teddy bear, the adventurer who plays with his life, the artist who plays with images and feelings, and the scientist who plays with ideas and knowledge.

V

Among the paths which thought uses in serving science, I would like to distinguish between works arising from an analytic spirit and others which are creative syntheses. Here again, under a different light, we find the contrasted aspects of curiosity and love of play.

The essential driving force of what I call analytic talent is skill. Bishop Jacques Benigne Bossuet (1627-1704) wrote,

"Nothing escapes the skill of a mother's observation."

I believe that in this way artists and scientists can very often stand comparison with mothers. Skill, in most cases, consists of knowing how to obtain profit from everything. It ranges from manual dexterity to the most extraordinary intellectual subtleties both in science and in art. There is no lack of aspirants to immortality who fail and attri- bute their failure to the imperfections of their tools, rather than to their inventive sterility.

Authentic scientists are less demanding. When the revelation of isochronism of small oscillations of a pendulum came to Galileo Galilei (1564-1642) in the cathedral at Pisa, he had no chronometer to verify it. He was content to use his pulse as a check for this hypothesis. His discovery eventually led to the construction of clocks. Similarly, Augustin Jean Fresnel (1788-1827) overcame a small budget by substituting drops of honey for lenses in certain experiments in optics. Of course it may well be

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more and more difficult to do this kind of thing in the future. The complexity and the cost of scientific equipment seems to be increasing with the develop- ment of civilization.

Man, since his beginning, has sought to analyse natural phenomena. Why then did he abandon this work for such long periods of time-sometimes for thousands of years ? The reason is that man believed his tools of investigation were inadequate. It took the kind of scientific thinking, such as used by Alexander the Great in the story of his horse's shadow, to see beyond this situation.

How can the principle and the law of universal gravitation and of weight, its terrestrial manifesta- tion be discovered without knowing the mechanism of falling bodies ? But how was this mechanism to be explained except by magic? An object is barely released in the air before it hits the ground. It is not easy to follow its downward motion as a function of time. It was not until Galileo came along in the seventeenth century with the idea of substituting for the very rapid downward motion of a body a slower motion down an inclined plane, that the phenomenon of gravity could be sensibly analysed.

If the determination of the velocity of fall of objects posed so many difficulties for such a long time, how must we consider the velocity of light! Common sense, with its weakness for easy explana- tions, proclaimed for thousands of years that the velocity of light is infinite. The observation of the satellites of Jupiter by the Danish astronomer Olaiis Roemer (1644-1710), the invention of the method of toothed wheels by Hippolite Fizeau(1819-1896) and of the method of revolving mirrors by Jean Bernard Leon Foucault (1819-1868) are all clever ways of measuring what had appeared impossible-clever and, in my opinion, not without the touch of art.

Consider, for example, the admirable way in which G. Folgheraiter (1856-1913) was able to find the direction of the magnetic North Pole that prevailed at the beginning of the Christian era. He analysed pottery made at that time which, because of some accident, had not been removed from the kiln. Folgheraiter found that some of the vessels had been made of a slightly magnetic clay and that the mag- netized particles became fixed in the vessel at the temperature of baking. These silent witnesses were like compasses with fixed needles pointing to the North of some two thousand years ago.

I take now a recent example that has become widely known because it has been discussed even in the newspapers. I refer to the laser. In the laser, excited electrons of atoms vibrate in perfect unison, an ideal that orchestra conductors try to achieve with their musicians. The laser can be considered an orchestra of light, whichplays its score with, I believe, little feeling but with a precision very much better than one millionth of a second. The light from a laser is called coherent or in phase. This property of light has amazing qualities-it can be used to produce three-dimensional photographs! The invention of the laser is the product of a combination of remarkable discoveries and ingenious ideas, each

of which is a work of art. To start with, in 1917 Albert Einstein (1879-1955) discovered the phenomenon of stimulated emission. Then in 1950 Alfred Kastler invented optical pumping-finally masers and lasers were developed which brought to their inventors several Nobel Prizes. These well deserved prizes could just as well have been the Prix de Rome.

In a very different field, that of cytology or cellular biology, the techniques of micro-manipulation perfected in recent years are enough to confound anyone. Microneedles, microspatulas, micropipet- tes, microsyringes, microcauterizers, microburners, microelectrodes, microscalpels, microforceps permit one to grasp or to touch delicate parts of a cell and to manipulate them in spite of their incredibly small size. Marcel Bessis has been able to employ the laser as a microrocket to destroy certain organellae at the interior of a living cell without damaging the neighbouring parts of the cell.

I have not hesitated to discuss analytical talent. However the use of the word 'talent' in denoting the love ofplay aspect of scientific creation lacks vigour. The correct term, and I think not too strong a one, is the genius for synthesis. Scientific creativity can attain such a high artistic intensity that there are times when I cannot distinguish between artistic pleasures which I draw from science and those I am accustomed to demand from works of art. I wish, however, to point out that one should appreciate the contrast between science, the domain of the general, and art, the realm of the specific. It is not necessary to exaggerate the importance of this contrast, at least at the level which concerns us. From the psychological point of view, the scientist recognizes the generalities that he discovers, when he discovers or invents them, with the same relish and in a manner just as poignant as that of the artist under the emotional impact of the specific. That which is general can be as moving as that which is specific.

One of the strongest emotional forces of certain works of art emerges from an unexpected juxta- position presented to the viewer. Sodoma repre- sents in the same picture the Virgin Mary holding the Infant Jesus on one knee and the cadaver of Christ on the other. Poussin wrote in 1642 to his friend Chantelou:

"The beautiful girls you have seen at Nimes, I promise you, will have given you no less visual aesthetic pleasure than the beautiful columns of the Maison Carree, for after all the latter are only old copies of the former."

In its most intense moments science also knows how to startle one with unexpected comparisons. Such comparisons, until made by a genius, would have remained unimaginable. Newton, for example, when he subordinated to a single sovereignty two phenomena as unlike as the movement of the Moon and the fall of an apple. From this union he arrived at the law of awe-inspiring universality that governs not only the movement of the most distant stars, the

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mechanism of the tides but even the agitation of atoms and electrons in the point of a pin. It was Antoine Laurent Lavoisier (1743-1794) who, while considering simultaneously a rusting nail, a breath- ing bird and a piece of burning coal, perceived three aspects of the same unique phenomenon: oxidation. Then James Clerk Maxwell (1831-1879), who by combining in a single equation the behaviour of a transparent body through which light is transmitted and the effects of conduction of an electrical current, laid the foundation of one of the most splendid creations of physics in the nineteenth century, electro-optics, which gave rise later to the discovery of Hertzian waves and then to the develop- ment of radio communication. Felix Klein (1849- 1925), the German mathematician, elucidated the solution of the fifth degree algebraic equation from considerations of the rotation of a simple geometric figure, the regular icosahedron, which painters know well.

I doubt that I can convey fully the tremendously exciting aspects of these thrilling climaxes in the course of rational thought. One can lose oneself in a chorale of Bach or in a canvas of Bruegel, and become intoxicated, as by a drug, even to the point of losing consciousness. Exactly the same kind of fascination, intellectual frenzy and exhilaration, a feeling of having become more than oneself, can be evoked by the performance of a genius of synthesis in science. Sometimes one is tempted to cry out like Charles Hermite (1822-1901), when in 1896 he received the first edition of the Geometry of Numbers by Hermann Minkowsky (1864-1909): "I have beheld the Promised Land". And I think also of the sentence written by Ludwig Boltzmann (1844-1906) in the margin of Maxwell's treatise on electro- magnetism: "Who wrote this? A man or a god?"

The main virtue of the great scientists of nature consists in many cases of a radical non-conformism. This is so obvious that no intelligent person would contradict it. The trouble is that it is easier to accept paradox and audacity when the scientists concerned belong to a completely accepted past or when their victory can hardly be contested any longer. That the Earth is not flat, but spherical; that it is not motionless, but in motion; that there are people at the other side of the Earth who walk, relative to us, with their heads down and feet up; that verticals are not parallel but converge-all this is incontestably true because of the work of Aristoxenus, Copernicus and Columbus.

Contemporary science abounds in sometimes comparable daring and temerity. The theory of rela- tivity proposes to replace absolute time by local time, leading to the most disconcerting conse- quences. A well known example is the imaginary voyage, or imaginary for the moment anyway, by the space ship of Paul Langevin (1872-1946). Returning to Earth after an absence during which the voyagers would have aged two years, they would find everything two hundred years older, all their con- temporaries long disappeared and only the grandchildren of their grandchildren to welcome them.

But perhaps the discipline which offers the most extraordinary and hair-raising possibilities is Mathe- matics, the realm where the mind can roam the most freely, and which is the one without any doubt, the closest to the fine arts. It is difficult, however, to find in mathematics good elementary examples but there is one which occurs to me, a very short one. It took uncommon intellectual fortitude for Jean Victor Poncelet (1788-1867) to grasp, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the circular points of a plane and the astonishing straight, isotropic lines, each of which has the rather unusual property of being perpendicular to itself while being straight and for which the distance between any two points is always zero. It would be very difficult to represent this idea in a painting.

One of the most impressive examples of daring, taken this time from experimental physics, consists, according to Euler, in the willingness to place more confidence in a calculation than in one's own judgment. An example is the anecdote about the dispute which occurred at the beginning of the last century between Fresnel and Simeon Denis Poisson (1781-1840). Poisson, an excellent mathematician and physicist, was an exceptional calculator. In opposition to Fresnel, who correctly supported the wave theory of light, he remained faithful to the corpuscular theory of Newton, which we now know to be false. Poisson, in holding to Newton's idea, denied the possibility of the phenomena of light diffraction and interference. Having submitted Fresnel's theory to a rigid mathematical test, he deduced that if one interposed a small opaque disk between a luminous source and a large screen within a darkened room, the shadow projected by the disk on the screen ought to contain a luminous point at its centre. That the centre of a shadow could be luminous appeared to him to be so unlikely as to refute the wave theory of Fresnel. Poisson made a reference to his calculation at a meeting of the French Academy of Sciences. Fresnel replied simply that if the calculation of a mathematician, as quali- fied as Poisson, would lead to this conclusion, then experiment would confirm it. The experiment was performed and, to Poisson's surprise, the luminous point appeared at the centre of the shadow! It is an experiment which one can repeat any day in the most elementary physics laboratory.

VI

One might think that scientific work loses all its original artistic nature at its birth when the umbilical cord connecting it to its creator is cut and it is put before the public. That essential characteristics of truth and utility are now going to remain its only function and that the artistic force was, in fact, only a means and not an end. This is not so, for various reasons. Not only does the emotional impact of his work profoundly affect the scientist himself but also part of his emotion is communicated to the layman. It is precisely after the moment a work of science is detached from the scientist and when it penetrates

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into society that it impinges on artists, as well as on others, to offer them new visions, new ways of feeling and a new aesthetics.

Those who are well acquainted with scientists know that many of them possess a general culture which extends far beyond their own discipline. They appreciate either Irish miniatures, or 'Don Giovanni' by Mozart, or Ottonian architecture, or Chinese poetry and sometimes, all of these forms of art at the same time. There is no conflict, on the contrary, between being a scientist and having a passion for poetry or for art. But, of course, we know that a scientist does not become an artist because he delights in masterpieces of art. On the contrary, he is an artist when he practices science.

There is no question that the artistic character of science results only from the fact that it is a human activity. Nevertheless the artistic character of scientific research is of prime importance from the historical and social points of view, for its study helps one to understand an essential aspect of science-its

effect upon the evolution of societies and its in- fluence on the history of humanity.

This is explained by the fact that scientific research, in aiding the personality of societies to develop, brings to those employed in it an intense aesthetic pleasure. It is this that accounts for the dedication of the best of their efforts to science, often at the cost of great personal sacrifice. They are content with a monetary compensation, which is sometimes ade- quate, but frequently is very much inferior to the economic value of their contributions.

If one sees in science one of the most powerful forces of human evolution, then one must recognize that its vitality springs from its artistic savour. If science were not an art, society would have to resign itself to progress without scientists. And, if from the beginning of history up to the present day, the human adventure, this amazing human adventure, has been what we all know it to be, for better or worse, it is due not only to science as science but also to the fact that science is an art.

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