perspectivesWildly DivergentPhotos+Physics=Meaning By David Strasburger, science facultyIphotograph with a view camera,<strong>the</strong> big old thing with black bellows,where you put your headunder a dark cloth at <strong>the</strong> back tolook at <strong>the</strong> world projected upsidedown on ground glass. Some years I bringit to class when we study optics, as a wayto talk about lenses with my students.I have taught physics at <strong>Noble</strong>s fornearly 20 years. For most of that time,I have also made photographs. Art <strong>and</strong>physics are, at least outwardly, radicallydifferent disciplines. Even if we leavealone <strong>the</strong> subject matter, artists <strong>and</strong>physicists have wildly divergent cultures,speak different languages, <strong>and</strong> have differentrules of discourse. But I want totell you how, for me at least, art <strong>and</strong> physicshave similar roles. I have to get a littleabstract for a moment, but if you bearwith me, I think it will make sense.According to composition <strong>the</strong>oristAnn Berthoff, “writing is thinking.” Shemeans that when we write, we are notmerely recording ideas that were alreadyfully formed inside us before we wrote<strong>the</strong>m. We don’t simply reify thoughtson paper so that o<strong>the</strong>r people can knowwhat we think. The very act of writingconstitutes thinking. In writing wearticulate, we connect, we complete, wecreate. I believe that <strong>the</strong> same principleapplies to o<strong>the</strong>r kinds of expression aswell. When we paint, dance or photograph—orfor that matter calculate, estimate<strong>and</strong> derive—<strong>the</strong>se are not merelyacts of communication.The day after a meteor broke up overChelyabinsk, Russia, I had a lively conversationwith my friend <strong>and</strong> colleagueDominic Manzo. We were as awestruckas everyone else by <strong>the</strong> videos of <strong>the</strong>vapor trail <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong> breaking glass. Wealso wondered how much worse it wouldhave been in <strong>the</strong> case of a ground impactinstead of an airburst. Could we figurethis out on our own? We knew preciousfew details, pretty much just an estimateddiameter of <strong>the</strong> bolide. But <strong>the</strong>reis a strategy physicists often use in <strong>the</strong>sesituations called a “Fermi estimate.” Webreak one big unknown into many smallerunknown but guessable quantities. Aswe talked, we started scribbling numberson a whiteboard. Fifteen minutes <strong>and</strong> alot of ink later, we had guessed that <strong>the</strong>disaster would have been on <strong>the</strong> scale of10 Hiroshima bombs.But why did we write while we talked?It’s a physics thing. In my college physicsbuilding, <strong>the</strong>re were chalkboardseverywhere—in hallways, lounges <strong>and</strong>offices—not just in lecture halls. In <strong>the</strong>acculturation process, I soon learnedthat in physics we write when we talk,<strong>and</strong> we write when we think. Bookkeepingis part of it; writing helps us keeptrack of <strong>the</strong> bits <strong>and</strong> pieces. But <strong>the</strong>reis also this: When we write, we becomeaware of things we hadn’t realizedbefore. When Dom <strong>and</strong> I were donewith our estimate, we didn’t just have aguess about <strong>the</strong> awful (if hypo<strong>the</strong>tical)consequences of a meteor impact, wealso saw how sensitive that outcome is to<strong>the</strong> meteor’s diameter: There is a worldof difference between a 10-meter bolide<strong>and</strong> a 20-meter bolide.In July 2000, a lobster boat droppedme (<strong>and</strong> my crates of photo gear) on asmall isl<strong>and</strong> in Maine’s Penobscot Bay.With <strong>the</strong> support of a professionaldevelopmentgrant from <strong>Noble</strong>s, <strong>and</strong>after encouragement (<strong>and</strong> prodding)from Joanna Swayze, <strong>the</strong>n head of <strong>the</strong><strong>Noble</strong>s visual arts department, I wasat an artists’ retreat with <strong>the</strong> goal ofunderst<strong>and</strong>ing l<strong>and</strong>scape photography.L<strong>and</strong>scapes felt like a puzzle to me. TheSierra Club calendars that I grew up withwere pretty, but why? And does prettymatter? What did photographers see inl<strong>and</strong>scape? What did l<strong>and</strong>scape mean?There were maybe a dozen painters26 <strong>Noble</strong>s spring 2013
“I have read that as humans we are hardwiredfor narrative. We crave <strong>the</strong> coherence <strong>and</strong> closureof characters, conflict <strong>and</strong> resolution. For betteror for worse, stories are how we make sense of<strong>the</strong> world.” —strasburgeron <strong>the</strong> isl<strong>and</strong>, <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong>re was Walter,an accomplished professional photographerwho generously helped me as Ifumbled with <strong>the</strong> elaborate routines ofworking my big camera. He also kickedme out of bed at four in <strong>the</strong> morning. Hesaid it was crucial to start shooting halfan hour before sunrise, <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong>n to quitafter an hour. “The light’s no good <strong>the</strong>rest of <strong>the</strong> day,” he explained. So it wasbecause of him that after a mile’s darkstumble, I was shivering damply in <strong>the</strong>predawn mist on a roughcobble beach with my headunder a black cloth when, tomy surprise, l<strong>and</strong>scape photographystarted to makesense to me.A group of pines clumpedtoge<strong>the</strong>r on a knoll thathumped up out of <strong>the</strong> shinglelike an isl<strong>and</strong> on an isl<strong>and</strong>. Bleachedtrunks tangled where <strong>the</strong>y had been laidlow by winter storms. Yards away, <strong>the</strong>beach became a rocky spit that disappearedinto <strong>the</strong> ocean. Framing <strong>the</strong> viewin sequence—trees, rocks, ocean—<strong>the</strong>l<strong>and</strong>scape suddenly seemed to tell a storywith <strong>the</strong> pines as characters <strong>and</strong> clumpsof dried seaweed as a supporting cast.Even now, more than 10 years later,I mostly make photos that are drivenby some kind of story, real or imagined,decipherable or obscure.I have read that as humans we arehardwired for narrative. We crave <strong>the</strong>coherence <strong>and</strong> closure of characters,conflict <strong>and</strong> resolution. For better or forworse, stories are how we make sense of<strong>the</strong> world. That sense-making has to happentwo separate times: Once for <strong>the</strong> storyteller,<strong>and</strong> again for <strong>the</strong> story’s listener.And this is where <strong>the</strong>se circles start tointersect <strong>and</strong> entangle: In physics class,I often tell stories to help students try toattach meaning to what must sometimesfeel like intellectually spartan fare. At<strong>the</strong> same time, I hope to be giving <strong>the</strong>mlanguage to work out <strong>the</strong> mechanisms of<strong>the</strong> world around <strong>the</strong>m, using physics towrite significance into being. Meanwhile,in my own artistic practice, I use imagemaking to ask <strong>the</strong> kinds of questions forwhich I do not have equations.spring 2013 <strong>Noble</strong>s 27