Tag Archives: visualization

Laveran’s eye

The military hospital of Constantine, Algeria was a fitting place to view what must have seemed the Devil in microscopic form.

Stages of the malaria parasite drawn by Alphonse Laveran

Visualizing trophic interactions in an urban aquatic mesocosm

Variations in how to display the trophic interactions of an ecosystem—the food web, the regulating pressures between organisms of a particular space—have existed since the roots of the idea in community ecology. Nature—or, in particular, the relationships between organisms—has long been described as a web by many. Take, for example, the now-classic food web of Bear Island, the southernmost island of the Norwegian Svalbard archipelago, by Victor Summerhayes and Charles Elton in their seminal 1923 paper. In their illustration below, organisms are grouped into functional clusters, and arrows depict one organism being consumed by another, outlining a basis from which these systemic illustrations would build upon for decades.

Victor Summerhayes and Charles Elton's 1923 food web of Bear Island, Norway.

But this depiction of life wasn’t quite so scientifically until Charles Darwin published his On the Origin of Species in 1859, in which he wrote,

I am tempted to give one more instance showing how plants and animals remote in the scale of nature, are bound together by a web of complex relations. I shall hereafter have occasion to show that the exotic Lobelia fulgens is never visited in my garden by insects, and consequently, from its peculiar structure, never sets a seed. Nearly all our orchidaceous plants absolutely require the visits of insects to remove their pollen-masses and thus to fertilise them. I find from experiments that humblebees are almost indispensable to the fertilisation of the heartsease (Viola tricolor), for other bees do not visit this flower […] Hence we may infer as highly probable that, if the whole genus of humble-bees became extinct or very rare in England, the heartsease and red clover would become very rare, or wholly disappear. The number of humblebees in any district depends in a great measure upon the number of field mice, which destroy their combs and nests; and Col. Newman, who has long attended to the habits of humble-bees, believes that “more than two-thirds of them are thus destroyed all over England.” Now the number of mice is largely dependent, as every one knows, on the number of cats; and Col. Newman says, “Near villages and small towns I have found the nests of humblebees more numerous than elsewhere, which I attribute to the number of cats that destroy the mice.” Hence it is quite credible that the presence of a feline animal in large numbers in a district might determine, through the intervention first of mice and then of bees, the frequency of certain flowers in that district!

Darwin also described this web of complex relations as an entangled bank, “clothed with many plants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes, with various insects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth,” and he reflected on how each of these forms, different they may be, are dependent on one another in direct and indirect pathways while at the same time producing the kinds of ecological pressures that lead to adaptation and the rise—or elimination—of species.

A species web of a slightly different kind: Charles Darwin's 1837 sketch of an evolutionary tree.

On the Origin of Species and Darwin’s subsequent writings were foremost about natural selection, the non-random process by which biological traits become more or less common in a population. But Darwin’s idea can be, and was, applied the same to how organisms themselves become more or less common in an ecosystem—the question became the following: what are those forces and relationships that allow some species to foster in a particular environment, while others only play a minor role? Community ecologists divide these species into two initial groups: autotrophs, which produce organic matter from inorganic substance to compose the primary level of an ecosystem (the first trophic level), and the heterotrophs (1+ trophic levels), which cannot fix carbon and thus must consume organisms from the initial or subsequent trophic bases. In terms of the relationships between the autotrophs and heterotrophs, food web ecology polarizes the dynamic between which group regulates the other. In bottom-up control, also known as donor control, the autotrophs (i.e., plants and algae) produce the primary resources, thereby maintaing the nutrient availability that organisms at higher trophic levels are dependent upon. Contrasting bottom-up control is the top-down dynamic, also known as a trophic cascade, in which predation and herbivory are the factors that dominate whether a species will thrive in an environment. More typically, however, analyses in community ecology strive for some middle ground between the two.

While the organization of a food web is inherently more complex—incorporating the movement of energy and mineral nutrients; dividing the heterotrophs into carnivores, herbivores, decomposers; delineating even further between competitor species, generalist consumers, specialist predators, etc—this basic model holds steady. Because this organization is predominantly a visual one—spatial and temporal patterns and variations are a large part of community dynamics in ecological research, as outlined in a recent review by Massol et al.—an interesting aspect of studying trophic interactions lies in the possibilities for visualizing data. The first graphical interpretation of a food web was published in 1880 by Lorenzo Camerano, in a manuscript entitled “On the equilibrium of living beings by means of reciprocal destruction.” Frustrated by his time’s scientific divide over which animals are useful or beneficial to agriculture, Camerano wrote the following.

To have an exact and clear idea, I repeat, of the relations between, for example, insectivorous birds and phytophagous insects, and between these and plants, these groups cannot be studied separately. Rather it is necessary to study each in relation to all other animals to see the general laws governing the equilibrium of animal and plant species.

While Camerano’s reasoning for the paper, published in the Accademia delle Scienze di Torino, was particular and applied towards the practical, his ultimate goal in the article and its resulting visualization was of general and theoretical concern.

Plate 1, Camerano 1880. Theoretical web of plant and animal interactions.

Compare that template of trophic relationships among organism groups—including primary producers, predators, ectoparasites, endoparasites, and carnivores—with a particular illustration of an ecological community of individual species with regard to enemies of a specific phylogenetic order, Coleoptera.

Plate 2, Camerano 1880. Web of interactions between Coleoptera, enemies of Coleoptera, and ecological enemies of those enemies.

In the former, more-theoretical visualization, Camerano sides with the theory of bottom-up control—vegetation is the base layer of the trophic sphere, with interactions between higher trophic levels expanding in outward rings. In the latter, allying with top-down ideas of control, complex relations are derived not from primary production, but rather from multiple pressures of predation, forming direct and indirect influences between heterotrophs. It is the latter depiction—with its emphasis on predator–prey relationships and linear–nonlinear associations between species—that has most influenced how many visualizations of trophic dynamics are drawn. In Summerhayes and Elton’s depiction of Bear Island, the first illustration in this article, the ecologists organized the biota with priority on that relationship between predator and prey—protozoa eat the bacteria, polar bears eat seals. Even where nutrients and zooplankton entered the situation, their connection to the rest of the system was given within the framework of consumption dynamics—bacteria consume nitrogen, worms eat dead plants, algae take in mineral salts.

And nor is this choice of visualization a poor or incorrect one. However, an interesting note lies in the shift between how to organize a food web in the 19th and early 20th centuries  and what kind of information should and can be included in more sophisticated images now. When one adds in the more quantitative turn in food web analysis—such as with ecological pyramids and trophic dynamics, both of which incorporate the second law of thermodynamics to consider how energy is conserved or lost as it passes between organisms—the complexity inherent in the early food webs above exponentially increases in magnitude.

The question in producing a food web is, then, how to produce a visualization of that complexity without overwhelming our perception of reality. Sacrifice quantitative rigor, and the illustration instead appears as illusion, an over-simplification. Introduce too much information, and the traceable dissolves into surplus. Such are the balancing acts Edward Tufte outlines in his 1983 The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. In the book, the statistician argues that good information design reveals the greatest number of ideas in the shortest time, with the least ink, in the smallest amount space, akin to what Italo Calvino described as lightness in literary prose—both must, in the end, tell not only a good story, but a proper one, without sacrificing either extreme of this information equilibrium.

As some of the first illustrations of food webs came from aquatic systems, bodies of water, as simultaneously self-contained microcosms and hubs in ecological networks, are good places to look for growing trends in data visualizations. An interesting and successful  update on the classic food web comes from a paper by Kevin Caillouët et al. in a 2008 paper on enclosed aquatic communities in New Orleans, Louisiana. After Hurricane Katrina flooded 80% of the city in August of 2005, floodwater from Lake Pontchartrain to the north inundated the urban terrain for over three weeks. By completely covering most regions of the city in brackish water, flooding resulted in the production of novel aquatic habitats in lowlands, depressions, and artificial containers, to name a few. Much as a forest fire produces a blank template from which previously occupied niches can be reclaimed and monocultures overthrown, Hurricane Katrina produced a blank template from which new food webs—new trophic interactions, in new magnitudes and organizations—could be drawn. In particular, on the back of research suggesting correlations between flooding and increased mosquito populations, Caillouët et al. sought to examine how these new aquatic communities would work for or against local mosquito populations, and how this in turn could influence the human risk of mosquito-borne diseases such as that caused by West Nile virus. In particular, the team examined the quasi-contained ecosystem of abandoned swimming pools, the largest of artificial containers and one of the most prone habitats to support mosquito larval development.

Caillouët et al. sample a flooded abandoned swimming pool in the Lakeview neighborhood of New Orleans.

By sampling pools in two flooded neighborhoods of New Orleans near the 17th Street Canal levee breach, the researchers were looking at this artificial environment as a mesocosm of sorts. Unlike the simplified microcosm, a controlled, laboratory-based ecosystem used to simulate and predict the behavior of its natural counterpart, a mesocosm instead brings the natural under controlled conditions, providing a link between observational field study and the artificiality of the laboratory. These mesocosms, which were being colonized by various invertebrates, fish, and mosquito species, allowed the team to ask the following questions about the composition of these new and temporary environments: if mosquito larvae were using the pools for development; if fish moved in from Lake Pontchartrain and were able to establish populations; if predatory invertebrates migrated to and colonized pools; and, lastly, if and to what extend these latter organism groups regulated mosquito populations.  To explore how these questions translate into science, Caillouët et al. relied on a conceptual model, the first step in transforming idea into design, the prerequisite for collecting and interpreting data.

Models and interpretations of aquatic community colonization post-Hurricane Katrina. Caillouët et al. 2008.

The conceptual model (A) of Caillouët et al. is not all too different, as a theoretical insight, from the initial plate by Camerano in 1880. Just as Camerano endeavored to clearly illustrate the relationships that draw together insectivorous birds and phytophagous insects, and between these and plants, the modern model food web illustrates the general relations between four main groups of organisms: the top predators, the specialist predators, the competitor species, and the prey. Much as Summerhayes and Elton used arrows in their 1923 depiction of an aquatic food web to illustrate the direction of the relationship between two or more organisms, the above model demonstrates a direct (and negative) effect of one group on another with solid lines, while dotted lines indicate an indirect (and therefore positive) effect. Continue reading

Fictionalizing science writing and “The Distance of the Moon”

Italo Calvino’s Cosmicomics, a collection of short stories of a science-inspired nature, is one of my favorite pieces of literature. Calvino was a fantastically imaginative writer, and his Cosmicomics highlight his ability like no other. The stories in Cosmicomics exemplify what Miroslav Holub implied when he commented that play allows the artist to “avoid the aridities of rationalism”—Calvino’s imaginings are anything but dry. Each takes its origin from some brief, abstract concept drawn from the hard sciences. In the case of the collection’s first story, “The Distance of the Moon,” Calvino opens with the following excerpt:

At one time, according to Sir George H. Darwin, the Moon was very close to the Earth. Then the tides gradually pushed her far away: the tides that the Moon herself causes in the Earth’s waters, where the Earth slowly loses energy.

From this deduction, Calvino injects the statement with life, character, a host of emotions and interactions. He plays with the feminization of the moon, why, from a storyteller’s point of view, She might have been pushed away from the Earth and what effort Earth’s inhabitants might have made to re-reach Her. The tale begins, in effect, to describe Calvino’s greater reinterpreting of how the universe was created, how forms so numerous came into being:

How well I know! — old Qfwfq cried,– the rest of you can’t remember, but I can. We had her on top of us all the time, that enormous Moon: when she was full — nights as bright as day, but with a butter-colored light — it looked as if she were going to crush us; when she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind; and when she was waxing, she came forward with her horns so low she seemed about to stick into the peak of a promontory and get caught there. But the whole business of the Moon’s phases worked in a different way then: because the distances from the Sun were different, and the orbits, and the angle of something or other, I forget what; as for eclipses, with Earth and Moon stuck together the way they were, why, we had eclipses every minute: naturally, those two big monsters managed to put each other in the shade constantly, first one, then the other.

To me, Calvino performed something through these stories—12 in the original collection—that the sphere of science writing, as a general whole, has seemed to have neglected or perhaps even forgotten. Cosmicomics was published in 1965—when the author was 43 years old—and in the decades since, few writers have produced the same form of fictionalized “toying” with scientific fact, making of empirical research something new, what Michel de Certeau conceptualized as reappropriation. In his pivotal The Practice of Everyday Life, de Certeau wrote of the public’s interpretation of information and texts—scientifically based or not—as acts of consumption, and as such, likened to everyday resistance against a top-down dynamic between information producers and consumers. The consumer of information, the theorist wrote, “takes neither the position of the author nor an author’s position. He invents in texts something different from what they intended.” In this case, the information drawn from science, to de Certeau, did not have to be the final frontier—instead, one could formulate fact into new configurations.

Discussing Cosmicomics, Jeanette Winterson described Calvino as an adamant believer that art is a force that can unite various and seemingly disconnected parts of the self and the social body. Science, as one element of this greater unit, should be only the starting point in bringing together strands of thought and creativity. Winterson wrote, “For him [Calvino], literature as a force going forward, postwar, would be a literature that could encompass everything—science, history, politics, fantasy—but would be in thrall to none of these.”

What has become of this encompassing since Calvino’s time? Science writing today is undoubtedly creative, clear, communicative, to name a few characteristics of the craft. Yet foremost as an educative endeavor—to foster scientific literacy, to raise societal awareness, to bridge scientific practice and everyday life—current science writing is, and in some ways, as practiced, must be, thrall to the worldview and positivism of science and its methodology. Any effort to produce scientifically inspired fiction is given the label of “sci-fi,” when in fact is was Calvino who redefined the term to mean something entirely different. Most recently, Verlyn Klinkenborg’s Timothy; or, Notes of an Abject Reptilean imagining of the musings of an 18th-century Turkish female tortoise in Selborne, England—stands out as an example that fulfills this niche of literature. Of the book and its author, The Washington Post Book World writes, Klinkenborg “rescues us from dailynessfrom, as Timothy would say, our terrible speedand makes our world again large and wondrous.”

Calvino’s Cosmicomics is about making our would wondrous, even those elements of that world we typically relegate to laboratories, observatories, and remote field sites instead of being seen as inspirational sources of creativity. Of Cosmicomics, Salman Rushdie wrote that “Perhaps only Calvino could have created a work that combines scientific erudition, wild fantasy and a humane wit that prevents the edifices of these stories from toppling into whimsy.” I would hope, for one, that Rushdie was incorrect in making such a suggestion, that Calvino’s work was only the beginning of a movement in literature, in particular the short story form. The products of Cosmicomics continually inspire my own thoughts on writing and literature, serve as the best kind of example of something to strive for in words. And they do so for others as well, in varied formats and mediums. Take for example, and enjoy, the following short filmby an Israeli visual communications student, dubbed “shulamitsitself a reimagining and reappropriation of Calvino’s “The Distance of the Moon.”

The painted lives of ciliates and schistosomes

Art has always been one way to mediate tensions, tensions such as those between the logic-driven mind of scientific inquiry and the subjective experience of the non-human, what Jakob  von Uexküll called an organism’s umwelt. Thomas Nagel famously argued that we can never know what it is like to be a bat, or any non-human organism, but whether through experimental-minded writings on what the world might be through a tortoise’s point of view  or through watercolor paintings, the artistic hopes to bridge various umwelten more so than a declaration of scientific understanding—the difference lies within the distinction of this is how a starling sees the spectrum of light and thus the world (science) and this is how a starling might see the world (art). Might opens possibilities, a window into creative endeavor.

The paintings of Emilie Clark might be one answer to Nagel. Clark, a painter based on Brooklyn, NY, has worked on a series of projects involved in life on a microscopic scale. In a 2004 gallery showingPondering the Marvelous, Clark responds to the writings of Mary Ward, a 19th-century Irish natural historian and painter, specifically Ward’s A World of Wonders Revealed by the Microscope. In imagining Ward’s writings as personal letters to the artist, Clark produced two series of her own watercolors—the first based on Ward’s description of Ireland’s microscopic landscape, and the second on Clark’s own collection.

Untitled MW-#50. Painting by and courtesy of Emilie Clark.

Untitled MW-#12. Painting by and courtesy of Emilie Clark.

The paintings are not meant in their entirety to be illustrations of these organisms’ umwelten, and nor do they achieve this ideal. But these paintings play with the possibility of “what if?” And it is this play that creates an opening in our imagining of the umwelt of other species. Perhaps best said by the poet–immunologist Miroslav Holub, the act of play allows us, simply, to “avoid the aridities of rationalism.” Yet this is not Clark’s first foray into toying with the lifeworld of other microorganisms.

In a previous post, I briefly touched on the topic of cover art for scientific journals—in this case, a watercolor of a stag beetle by Albrecht Dürer for a 2005 issue of Emerging Infectious Diseases. One of Emilie Clark’s projects, which one can find on her webpage, is likewise producing watercolor medical illustrations, many of which have found their way onto the covers of The Journal of Experimental Medicine. The JEM, since its beginnings in 1896, publishes original research on the physiological, pathological, and molecular mechanisms that are encountered by or reactions of the host in response to disease. In the case of a November 2005 issue of the journal, the target pathogenic organism of Clark’s illustration was Schistosoma mansoni, one of three causative agents of human schistosomiasis.

From the cover caption of JEM 2005; 202 (10). Emilie Clark's watercolor of S. mansoni eggs. The eggs secrete a chemokine binding protein, thereby suppressing the inflammatory response.

Schistosomes are blood flukes (trematodes) that belong to the genus Schistosoma. In addition to S. mansoni, the other two members of this genus that cause disease in humans are S. hematobium and S. japonicum. The disease itself, caused by human contact with water home to schistosome cercaria, is a definitive chronic condition whereby the mature schistosomes, after reaching the final stage of their life cycle, migrate to the mesenteric or rectal veins and begin to mate, thereby producing up to 300 eggs per day for the rest of their reproductive lives—which can be as long as 4–20 years. A proportion of these eggs will become lodged in the target veins, where they mature and secrete antigens that elicit an intense immune response in the host. It is this immunological reaction, which can continue as long as the mating worms and the eggs continue to exist in the body, that characterizes schistosomiasis. It was the point of the primary research communication by Philip Smith et al., the inspiration for the choice of Clark’s watercolor, to demonstrate one way in which S. mansoni modifies the human host to tolerate decades-long chronic infection without causing death. In particular, the researchers demonstrated that S. mansoni eggs secrete a protein into host tissues that binds certain chemokines—proteins that induce directed chemotaxis, how certain cells direct their movements according to particular chemicals in their environment, in nearby responsive cells—and inhibits their interaction with host chemokine receptors and their biological activity.

Now, compare Clark’s interpretation of the organisms and this phenomenon with a direct realistic representation through a microscope. Continue reading

The umwelt of a paramecium

On days when it rains and I am stuck inside at a desk, I often find my thoughts return to a single thematic idea: how does a single-celled organism perceive the world? Having recently read Devin Johnston’s Creaturely and Other Essays, I was struck by the author’s same general thought with regard to the higher vertebrates—in this case, the starling: “As science discovers the spectral sensitivities of birds, their sensory world proves alien to ours, their consciousness recessed from us.” Unlike that of humans, the eye of the starling does not filter out the ultraviolet spectrum of light. The organism sees the world with a fourth dimension attached—its world is, in essence, unknowable to us.

Season: organic/plant motifs and structures of microorganisms. Print by Yellena James (www.yellena.com)

As a sensory experience of one’s environment, this seeing is subjective, what the German biologist Jakob von Uexküll called each organism’s umwelt—what in German literally means “environment,” but which is typically taken as “subjective universe.” The term stands against a typical assumption of modern ecology that all organisms in an ecosystem share the same environment. Instead, von Uexküll argued that the subjective perception of organisms drives ecological interactions—parasitism, mutualism, etc. The entomologist/molecular biologist Alexei A. Sharov, who himself moved from ecology into the emerging field of biosemiotics, contextualizes the theory best with an example from plant ecology:

Uexküll thought that organisms may have different umwelts even if they live in the same place. A stem of a blooming flower is perceived differently by an ant, cicada-larva, cow, and human. Umwelt is not an ecological niche because niches are assumed to be objective units of an ecosystem which can be quantified using external measuring devices. On the contrary, umwelt is subjective and is not accessible for direct measurement for the same reason that we have no direct access to perceptions of other people.

Pistil. Photograph by author.

von Uexküll argued we cannot know the precise, quantified experience of the ant, cicada, or cow, just as Johnston struggles against studies of animal behavior that claim to have understood the way a starling sees. Each organism’s umwelt exists in a reciprocal exchange between phenomenological experience and the biophysical world—one of von Uexküll’s main ideas from the umwelt theory is that each component of this subjective universe has functional meaning to the agent. The stem of a blooming flower may be food, shelter, landmark, etc, depending on the species and context of the interaction. Each organism actively participates in the production of umwelt through these repeated interactions. In Sharov’s words,  the organism “simultaneously observes the world and changes it; the phenomenon which Uexküll called a functional circle.” Because these interactions are tied up with functional use and subjective experience, von Uexküll’s approach to animal behavior could not separate subjective (experience) from objective (biophysical matter), as modern-day approaches to the subject commonly insist—mind makes the world meaningful, a staple of cultural anthropology. In the related field of the philosophy of science, Sharov allies von Uexküll with pragmatism, the school of thought that argues how objects cannot be separated from interpreters.

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Visualizing Plasmodium

Many say the human malaria parasites, five species of the genus Plasmodium, are host to an inherently complex and complicated life cycle. When reading a description of the various stages of the protozoan’s life, this would certainly appear the truth—each form is visually different; home to detailed mechanisms of transformation; subject to alien terminologies, words ending in –cyte, processes like schizogony.

Merozoites of Plasmodium infecting red blood cells. Image courtesy of National Geographic.

As an example, find below a description of the lives of Plasmodium, found in a 2010 review focusing on the history of how the parasite, its transmission via the mosquito vector, and its pathogenesis were discovered.

Infection begins when (1) sporozoites, the infective stages, are injected by a mosquito and are carried around the body until they invade liver hepatocytes where (2) they undergo a phase of asexual multiplication (exoerythrocytic schizogony) resulting in the production of many uninucleate merozoites. These merozoites flood out into the blood and invade red blood cells where (3) they initiate a second phase of asexual multiplication (erythrocytic schizogony) resulting in the production of about 8-16 merozoites which invade new red blood cells. This process is repeated almost indefinitely and is responsible for the disease, malaria. As the infection progresses, some young merozoites develop into male and female gametocytes that circulate in the peripheral blood until they are (4) taken up by a female anopheline mosquito when it feeds. Within the mosquito (5) the gametocytes mature into male and female gametes, fertilization occurs and a motile zygote (ookinete) is formed within the lumen of the mosquito gut, the beginning of a process known as sporogony. The ookinete penetrates the gut wall and becomes a conspicuous oocyst within which another phase of multiplication occurs resulting in the formation of sporozoites that migrate to the salivary glands of a mosquito and are injected when the mosquito feeds on a new host.

The process becomes somewhat clearer with the aid of the following simple cyclical diagram.

Life cycle of the Plasmodium parasite

But even then, there’s still mystique to the organism. We now know that sporozoites are the infective stage of Plasmodium, that they are injected into the human body by the mosquito’s proboscis, and that they become merozoites through exoerythrocytic schizogony in the liver, specifically in the hepatocyte cells.  We now know that these same merozoites invade red blood cells, the erythrocytes, and undergo another process of multiplication known as erythrocytic schizogony. We now know that the replication of merozoites continues in the erythrocytes, and that some of these develop into male and female gametocytes. We now know that these move throughout the bloodstream until they are taken up by another feeding mosquito, and that within the vector the gametocytes develop again into gametes, fertilize, and undergo sporogony, the process of ookinete development and the eventual production of new sporozoites, completing the circle.  But words like exoerythrocytic, ookinete, and schizogony are rather abstract—much in like the anthropological critique of popular reliance on statistics, the abstraction often obscures rather than illuminates form. As statistics seem to hide the individual, a voice, a face, a story, the technical description of Plasmodium‘s journey and fate leaves our imagination empty as to what a sporozoite actually looks like, if merozoites are larger or smaller than their life-history precursor, how the gametocytes move in the blood. In short, we can’t really picture Plasmodium. And if we can’t picture the organism, then all these processes, which are so detailed and meticulous in containing the What’s of each stage, become rather shallow. If we are told how photosynthesis works, but haven’t seen a leaf much less a chloroplast, knowing the process isn’t of much use. Even without considering this protozoa, it isn’t hard to imagine the conundrum of how this visualizing and understanding applies to microorganisms.

Luckily, we have researchers not only hard at work, but also committed to—in contrast to the popular saying—seeing the trees, not just the forest. The following video comes from DNAtube, a fantastic scientific video site, where you can find detailed visuals in motion of a range of biological processes and phenomena. Although the narrator of the video comments that the life cycle of Plasmodium is “very complex,” the visualization  asserts the opposite: the life of the organism is not inherently simple—it is complex is nature—but it can be displayed and explained in simple form, perhaps even in ways that exhibit beauty of sorts.

A gallery and a drawing

A recent gallery review in the New York Times asked the following question: are killer viruses, rendered in glass, also things of beauty? The exhibit, by Britain’s Luke Jerram, is showing in Manhattan from June 4th to July 31st, 2010. In it, Jerram has produced several infectious microbes out of glass, a step that the reviewer, the science journalist Donald G. McNeil Jr., questions and feels troubled by. As someone who reports on the global impact of infectious diseases, McNeil Jr. and his review both find troublesome depicting death as art and attempt to reconcile this bias. From the view of the artist, Jerram’s work attempts to reconcile the arts and the sciences, to illuminate cultural biases in biology and medicine’s depiction of pathogens, and to showcase his own agenda and position. I found the exhibit a success. But to get there, I need to stop, reflect, and return to the work of Ernst Haeckel and others if I wish to problematize McNeil Jr.’s critique.

Can art and science meet? Robert Hooke’s Micrographia serves as one example of this merger, and I can think of no better progression of the kind of polymath Robert Hooke embodied than in Ernst Haeckel. If Hooke had begun bridging the arts (drawings and sketches) with scientific rigor (microscopy), then it was Haeckel who took this task to another level. His Kunstformen der Natur, images of which were shown in an earlier post, not only was popular, but also embodied what Haeckel saw as scientific truths. If anything else, the prints of various organisms embody Haeckel’s scientific beliefs, his view of the world, which was often contested by the wider scientific community. In line with other mergers of art and science in 16th to 19th century Europe, Haeckel’s prints are about symmetry, about perfection, about order. Much like Robert Hooke’s Micrographia, in Kunstformen der Natur, something Platonic, some higher ideal, perhaps unobtainable by humans, existed in the natural world.
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