Shifting Gears and Changing Rooms

(Bloggy Note: I recently appeared on the radio show Science Friday. Host Ira Flatow and I spoke about the history of another collaborative artist/engineer effort. This was the Art and Technology Program that the Los Angeles County Museum of Art ran from 1966-1971. After a 50 year hiatus, LACMA has recently rebooted the program. Although very different from the original incarnation, the new program brings artists, engineers, and corporate sponsorship together to jumpstart aesthetic experimentation. This seemed like a good coming out party for a new research project I’m starting…)

Over the past few years, I’ve become increasingly interested in collaborations between artists, engineers, and scientists from the 1960s onward. Regular readers of this blog will have noticed the recent posts about laser art in its various formsDNA origami, and so forth.

I’m planning on exploring the art-technology/artist-engineer nexus further for a new book project. It’s exciting as well as challenging/intimidating. There’s a huge amount of art history to get a handle on. But I think that every so often, it’s good to take one’s research in a brand new direction…and my timing is good. Starting in a few weeks, I have the good fortune to hold the Charles Lindbergh Chair at the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum. This will give me a good opportunity to jump start this project.

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Frank Malina , engineer of space and art.

While serving as the Lindbergh Chair, I want to examine the “art and technology movement” by focusing on the experiences and activities of engineers and scientists. One of the main topics I’ll be researching while in DC are the activities of the American rocket engineer turned artist Frank J. Malina.

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Malina (center) with Theodore von Kármán, 1941

Prior to the U.S. entry into World War Two, Malina helped develop and test nascent rocket technologies in the dry arroyos of Pasadena. After the war, Malina helped get the Jet Propulsion Laboratory off the ground. However, Malina became disenchanted displeased with the pursuit of advanced rocket technologies for military purposes. (M.G. Lord’s super book Astro-Turf highlights the historical hypocrisy of former Nazi Werner von Braun being seen all too often as the “father” of the U.S. space program while home-grown heroes like Malina are neglected.)

Malina left California for France where he joined the Division of Scientific Research for the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. Malina could not, however, escape Cold War allegations of Communist associations and he quit his UNESCO post in 1953. Long interested in art, it was at this point that Malina decided to pursue it as a full-time career.

It is Malina’s career path after this point that especially interests me. After first experimenting with more conventional media, Malina turned to more experimental tools and technologies. Malina’s experiments with kinetic, audio, and electronic art depicted the new landscapes that rapid advances in Cold War science and technology – exemplified by the Bomb, the rocket, the computer – revealed. The launch of the first satellites and then the first people into space profoundly influenced Malina and his art. “Because of man’s first steps in exploring extraterrestrial space,” he wrote in 1966, “we are more conscious of the universe, both intellectually and visually.”

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Malina at work in his Paris studio, c. 1965.

In 1968, with backing from controversial British publishing tycoon, Robert Maxwell, owner of Pergamon, Malina launched the journal Leonardo. It’s still published today.Malina imagined the journal as a forum in which humanists and scientists could communicate and collaborate. Malina made it a point to emphasize that Leonardo was neither about art criticism or aesthetics (he disparaged both often and Leonardo included no advertisements for dealers or galleries).

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Some space-themed covers of Leonardo

Instead, the focus was on the process of creating art. Under Malina’s editorial guidance, the early volumes of Leonardo provided a forum for artists, scientists, and engineers to interact and collaborate. Malina purposely adopted the format of scientific journals and published articles by artists and scientists that described their artistic experiments with digital computers, cybernetics, holography, and lasers.  Malina often approached the creation of art as an experiment that could be amenable to research, something which makes a perspective from a historian of science especially useful.

Looking more broadly, artist-engineer collaborations were seen as experiments in creativity that could benefit the art world as well as industry and university labs. For engineers, subject to vociferous attacks about their complicity in the arms race, environmental destruction, and other global ills, the art and technology movement presented them with an opportunity to humanize technology and re-define their profession, if only on a personal level.

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Artist Robert Whitman (left) with engineer John Forkner, c. 1969, as they collaborated on the Art and Technology Program that the Los Angeles County Museum of Art ran.

I’m hoping this new project shifts the focus from the artists by giving more attention to their under-recognized partners in collaboration – engineers and scientists. Many of the artists these professionals worked with were big names in the modern art world. But art critics largely ignored the technologists who partnered with star artists like Andy Warhol, Robert Rauschenberg, Lucinda Childs, Robert Whitman, or John Cage. These accomplished engineers and scientists from elite institutions like Caltech, MIT, or Bell Labs were typically reduced to “invisible technicians” doing the artists’ bidding. I want to bring the engineers and scientists, who were central to the era’s artistic collaborations, to the foreground.

I’m super excited to be starting work on this new project. Malina’s papers are at archived at the Library of Congress so I’ll be parked there for many days, slowly making my way through the collection. Per aspera ad astra

The Pipe Dreams of Physicists

“[F]rom all the deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil, Good Lord, deliver us.” (Anglican Book of Common Prayer)

In 1972 London’s Birkbeck College invited British-born physicist Freeman J. Dyson to give the school’s annual Bernal Lecture. The lecture series was named after John Desmond Bernal, an Irish crystallographer and molecular biologist. For his lecture topic, Dyson decided to revisit Bernal’s visionary 1929 book about the future called The World, the Flesh, and the Devil

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Dyson in 1972

Bernal’s book gave a succinct exploration of how radical new technologies could help society confront what he called the “three enemies of the rational soul.” Bernal’s first and foremost foe was the World. To transcend the limits of terrestrial resources and the unpredictability of the planet’s environment, he proposed that people expand into the cosmos. In permanent free-floating settlements, “free communication and voluntary associations of interested persons” would prevail, liberating people from earthly traditions and values. To thrive in these new environments, people would be obliged to “interfere in a highly unnatural manner” with the Flesh. For Bernal, this first meant radical surgery, the replacement of organs and tissues with mechanical substitutes, and then the eventual modification of people’s genetic material. However, the Devil, which Bernal defined as our “desires and fears…imaginations and stupidities,” remained a treacherous foe for people who wanted to actively engineer their future.

Dyson, like Bernal, had a long-standing interest in the technological future. But his reputation as a physicist was based on his theoretical work on the fundamentals of how light and matter interact at the quantum level. After coming to the U.S. in 1947, he studied physics at Cornell, O’Neill’s alma mater. A year later, physicist Robert Oppenheimer recruited Dyson to the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton.

After Sputnik’s launch in 1957, Dyson took a break from theoretical physics to help design Project Orion, an proposed interplanetary spaceship that would be propelled forward by nuclear explosions. As bizarre as such an effort might seem today, military and NASA funding helped the Orion team build a small (non-nuclear) test version of their space exploration machine. However, the signing of the limited test ban treaty in 1963 and dwindling Air Force interest contributed to Orion’s cancellation in 1965 even though Dyson and others had contributed years of serious design and engineering work.1

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Schematic or Orion, the atom-bomb powered spaceship. (Source)

In his 1972 lecture, Dyson gave an assessment of Bernal’s futuristic ideas (the text of his lecture is here.) He concluded Bernal had been largely on target.2 People had gone into space, artificial organ transplants were now possible, molecular biology was an established field, and knowledge about the workings of the human brain had grown greatly. Even when it came to the Devil, Dyson found Bernal on the mark. In 1972, just as in 1929, there was a “highly vocal and well-organized opposition” to the “further growth of technology” as irrational “social prophets” depicted it as a “destructive rather than liberating force.”

In his lecture, Dyson went on to use Bernal’s slim book as a springboard for his own predictions. He suggested that new technologies must be harnessed as allies in the struggle against resource scarcity, overpopulation, and other planetary ills. For example, biological engineering could design novel organisms that could convert “wastes efficiently into usable solids and pure water.” Inorganic “self-reproducing machinery,” analogous to coral and oysters, could collect minerals from the ocean and be another ally in the “attack on Bernal’s three enemies.” Besides ameliorating life on earth, radical bio-engineering could also enable the colonization of space. New life forms such as “Big Trees,” as Dyson called them, could be engineered to grow on comets which had ample amounts of water and nitrogen. The result might be the “greening of the Galaxy” as settlers transformed space into habitable oases.

The success of the Apollo era helped shape Dyson’s thinking about the technological future. So did his experiences as a father. His trials as a parent became public knowledge in 1978 with the appearance of popular book written by Kenneth Brower, son of Sierra Club founder David Brower. The Starship and the Canoe chronicled the tensions between the famous physicist who worked at the intersection of science and the military – Freeman Dyson regularly advised on national security issues – and his rebellious son.

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The book’s narrative eloquently juxtaposed Freeman’s desire to build nuclear-powered spacecraft and live in space with those of his son, George, who was building a giant ocean-going kayak while residing in a towering Douglas fir tree in British Columbia.

Dyson had a kindred spirit in thinking about settlements in space. His neighbor was Princeton University physicist and space colony popularizer Gerard O’Neill. Dyson and O’Neill agreed on the merits of human settlements in space, but they differed as to what this humanization of space might look like. “Your standardized prefab communities have a bureaucratic quality which repels me,” Dyson wrote O’Neill. Although “my pipe dreams are different from yours,” Dyson noted that the planet needs “many dreamers and many dreams” from which “fate will make her choice.” Despite their differing views about how the humanization of space might happen, Dyson recalled that his Princeton neighbor revitalized his interest in space exploration.

Years later, O’Neill was dying from leukemia. But he was still thinking of visionary technologies – in this case a plan for a super-speed train system called VSE (for velocity, silence, and efficiency). When he was too sick to travel to Washington, DC to present it to scientists at the Department of Energy, Dyson literally gave him a hand, taking O’Neill’s plans to the Capital. As he told me an email, “I was desperately sad because I loved both the idea of VSE and Gerry O’Neill, and I knew that both were dying.” O’Neill passed away a few weeks later.

  1. George Dyson, Project Orion: The Atomic Spaceship, 1957-1965 (New York: Allen Lane Science, 2002). []
  2. Dyson’s lecture was published as Freeman J. Dyson, “The World, the Flesh and the Devil,” in Communication with Extraterrestrial Intelligence, edited by Carl Sagan (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1972), 370-89. []

Worldly Devils

“NO MORE SEX!” London’s Daily Herald brought this unexpected news to readers in February 1929. Those intrigued or alarmed enough to continue reading found yet more startling news – “MEN WITH EARS UNDER LUNGS” and “WHAT HUMANS MAY BE LIKE ANOTHER DAY.” All of this was revealed by John Desmond Bernal, a young Irish scientist who had taken a “PEEP INTO THE FUTURE” with his new daring book, The World, The Flesh, and the Devil.

I composed the above paragraph back in 2008 when I started to write The Visioneers. I was living in Cassis, a lovely seaside town near Marseille as a fellow at the Camargo Foundation. In the end, I discarded this opening gambit for something else. But after a student visited me yesterday to talk about The Future, I thought about Bernal’s visions again…

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J.D. Bernal, scientist and futurist

Familiar to the denizens of Cambridge and Bloomsbury for his piercing eyes and rolling gait, J.D. Bernal was an Irish crystallographer and molecular biologist who counted H.G Wells, Julian and Aldous Huxley, and C.P. Snow among his colleagues. At least three of his protégées won Nobel prizes. A committed Marxist, Bernal believed in the power of rational thought and radical new technologies to help society confront – as the subtitle of his book says – the “three enemies of the rational soul.” (The full text of Bernal’s slight classic is here.)

The first and foremost foe was the World. To transcend the limits of terrestrial resources and the sheer unpredictability of the planet’s environment, he proposed that people leave the planet with its “massive, unintelligent forces of nature, heat and cold, winds, rivers, matter and energy” and expand into the cosmos. After building “space sailing” vessels – yes, Bernal predicted solar sailing –  these people would go forth to explore the solar system. Screen Shot 2015-01-27 at 11.04.16 AM

There, they would establish permanent free-floating spherical settlements where “free communication and voluntary associations of interested persons” would prevail, freeing people from the traditions of earthly politics and societal mores. (Bernal himself championed “open marriage.)

Building these new space structures and vehicles would require novel materials fashioned with a precise and deliberate “molecular architecture.” Light, strong, and manufactured via solar power, future engineers would restructure the physical world with their “new molecular materials” and take humanity out into space and to its destiny.

It’s hard not to read Bernal’s predictions and think of Richard Feynman’s own prognostications, made in a 1959 speech, about how scientists would eventually acquire the power to manipulate the material world at the molecular level.

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Feynman’s vision in Popular Science, 1960

Such predictions acquired greater currency in the 1980s as futurist Eric Drexler popularized nanotechnology (and brought Feynman’s predictions back into the limelight).

Back to Bernal…To thrive in their new environments, people would “interfere in a highly unnatural manner” with their own “germ plasm” – the Flesh. For Bernal, this meant radical surgery, the replacement of organs and tissues by mechanical substitutes, and the eventual modification of humanity’s genetic code. Eventually, these new cybernetic creatures would seek a form of immortality by preserving their ideas and memories with the electronics and machines they were now conjoined with. Four decades after Bernal’s book appeared, molecular biologists took the first steps toward genetic engineering. Today, scientists treat DNA not just as an information containing molecule – code – but also as something to build with.

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However, the Devil – our “desires and fears…imaginations and stupidities” – remained a treacherous foe. Could people someday overcome their own psychology and create the world they wanted with their new technologies, Bernal asked? Between “the humanizers and the mechanizers,” Bernal optimistically sided with the latter.

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Bernal’s book was part of a British series called “Today and Tomorrow” that included offerings from J.B.S. Haldane and Bertrand Russell. All three British intellectuals speculated on the future of science and technology. When their books appeared, these rational forces appeared ascendant. Stories about genetics, quantum mechanics, understanding the human mind, and even the expansion of the universe itself filled newspapers and magazines. The hyperbolic headlines Bernal’s book generated typified media coverage of radical new technological ideas (as they still do today).

Since the founding of the Republic, Americans had flung themselves into a technological torrent with enthusiasm bordering on faith. Technology enabled the rise of the United States as an economic, military, and cultural power and helped create Americans’ faith in the future, what H.G. Well’s once termed their “optimistic fatalism.” However, the technocratic elimination of entire populations, mushrooming radioactive clouds over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and apocalyptic fears generated by the Cold War eroded this technological optimism.

As the Vietnam War ground on and environmental concerns mounted, public enthusiasm in the United States for massive new technological undertakings reached a nadir. Doubt, ambivalence, and apprehension about the future took hold instead. Jump ahead to today – an anti-science Congress, anti-vaxxers, religious fundamentalists, and just plain, old-fashioned stubbornness and irrationality. While scientists and engineers have mastered the World and even dared to improve the Flesh, the Devil has refused to surrender the whip hand.