tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74640269266605196972024-03-13T16:41:26.970+00:00Celebrating ScienceThoughts about science and writing from author Linda Gillard (Durham University's CELEBRATE SCIENCE Author in Residence 2011) and assorted guests.Linda Gillardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747108591927491742noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-47560430395564841272011-12-28T17:47:00.086+00:002011-12-28T18:23:59.475+00:00THE LAST WORD by Linda Gillard<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7oj6Gpk0BVKZBDUV-8zdTK8grKsPaU8465_p01lD1lCTJ8St7Io7nc_SvDDFnvvJ7XnBVt7-XkNE2dhT0jjvVL7DkTeMWxep-NDHBUFH7ZIGvKjK3drcdaG4y6E3I09cPT7jQus26GG6/s1600/Durham+handle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7oj6Gpk0BVKZBDUV-8zdTK8grKsPaU8465_p01lD1lCTJ8St7Io7nc_SvDDFnvvJ7XnBVt7-XkNE2dhT0jjvVL7DkTeMWxep-NDHBUFH7ZIGvKjK3drcdaG4y6E3I09cPT7jQus26GG6/s200/Durham+handle.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Durham Cathedral door handle</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">As 2011 comes to an end, it’s time to wind up this blog, thank all my guest bloggers and take stock of my CELEBRATE SCIENCE residency.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">It was full of surprises. I had no idea Durham was so small or so beautiful. I would never have guessed that being commissioned to write for money wasn’t the authorial Holy Grail I’d imagined. As an agnostic, I couldn’t have foreseen that interaction with scientists would set me thinking – and writing – about religious faith. When Dr Pete Edwards tried to explain to me the significance of the Higgs Boson, I didn’t know that just a few months later, there would be rumours (unconfirmed as I write) that scientists at </span><span style="font-size: small;">Cern in Switzerland were about to make an </span><span class="ilad" style="font-size: small;">announcement</span><span style="font-size: small;"> that the 40-year search for the predicted sub-atomic particle was finally over. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmfccedfdaneSVWW-wc_VaH1FriRH1SvjBIJOY0pbA7ciCIcgW4uGpPPbynhCQp7rlpFdvEI99GHtKHjZXQSS9S8t27NyG67K5ZFqz9k1C5ApDYpyR3DbC494qjD-wdrD4uMkvQxW2TzA/s1600/Pete+w+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmfccedfdaneSVWW-wc_VaH1FriRH1SvjBIJOY0pbA7ciCIcgW4uGpPPbynhCQp7rlpFdvEI99GHtKHjZXQSS9S8t27NyG67K5ZFqz9k1C5ApDYpyR3DbC494qjD-wdrD4uMkvQxW2TzA/s200/Pete+w+glasses.jpg" width="165" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dr Pete Edwards</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's an interesting time to be celebrating science. As Prof. Brian Greene wrote in an article in the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/15/opinion/waiting-for-the-higgs-particle.html?_r=3&ref=opinion">New York Times</a>, “…</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">even the tentative announcement has rightly fuelled much excitement. Finding the Higgs particle would complete an essential chapter in our quest to understand the basic constituents of the universe.”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">My own quest to understand the basic constituents of the universe was possibly doomed from the outset, thanks to my ageing brain and lack of scientific education (which I wrote about <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/05/science-and-fiction.html%20">here</a>.) In fact I’ve ended my residency feeling more ignorant than when I began, but I suppose it’s a wise woman who knows just how ignorant she is. Fortunately, exposing that ignorance has done nothing to lessen my interest in science or dull my enthusiasm. As the year turns, my writing agenda for 2012 includes research for a novel about a physicist who’s also a musician. I console myself that writing from the point of view of a scientist can’t be any more difficult than writing from the point of view of someone who’s congenitally blind (which is what I did in my novel <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Star-Gazing-ebook/dp/B00550O0S8/ref=pd_sim_kinc_4">STAR GAZING</a>) and it will be much easier to research. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-40jsU_1TnoM/TvtBRdTtanI/AAAAAAAAD_E/tHeHezKmess/s1600/Hay+meadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-40jsU_1TnoM/TvtBRdTtanI/AAAAAAAAD_E/tHeHezKmess/s320/Hay+meadow.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Weardale hay meadow</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">If 2011 was a year of writing and travel (back and forth between home on the Isle of Arran and Durham) then 2012 will, I hope, be a year of sitting down and reading<i> </i>– some of it about science and scientists. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I saw a lot of the landscape of the north-east which was more beautiful than I was expecting. But most of it was seen <i>en route</i> to and from Durham and I wish I’d been able to spend more time <i>in</i> the area rather than passing through. Another time, I’d think harder about the practicalities of long distance travel to and from a residency, how tiring it would be and how long it would take.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s0uLGk_89_s/TvsSSZU2WII/AAAAAAAAD-s/zuizYNtw04k/s1600/The+Word+Factory.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s0uLGk_89_s/TvsSSZU2WII/AAAAAAAAD-s/zuizYNtw04k/s320/The+Word+Factory.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Word Factory on Arran</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small; line-height: 150%;">So… the writing residency. How was it for me? </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The benefits to me as a writer were many. For a start I got off my backside, away from my study on Arran, with its tranquil view of Brodick Bay and Goat Fell and out into the real world. Walking through the portals of the Department of Fundamental Physics took me out of my comfort zone in several ways, but that was all to the good.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I met some exceptionally helpful and enthusiastic scientists. Their patient answers to my questions (“What will the end of the world be like?” "Do any scientists believe in God?”) stimulated yet more questions and I began to see a link between writing fiction and scientific enquiry: asking questions. So it seemed obvious that a unifying theme for our workshops and the writing they produced should be the title, <i>“What if?...”</i> </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Financial remuneration</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"> was another benefit of the residency. It was a luxury, but also something of a two-edged sword. Normally I write for myself, without regard for potential publishers. (This year I e-published two new novels independently on Kindle. I wrote about how and why <a href="http://authorselectric.blogspot.com/2011/08/preparing-for-miracle-by-linda-gillard.html">here.</a>) However when I was writing the commission piece <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/11/six-days-by-linda-gillard.html">SIX DAYS</a>, I found I was all too aware of my potential audience. I was conscious of the obligation to produce something that both celebrated science and was inspired by my visits to Durham and the surrounding area. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvA0sD3U5lpYrp_1pGQqNkz1JJingm5xVOi9wPLN6b8iAG7YtSFyT55OAOziYVrjc5MuxfjWdtrOAvGH4xaUs5CFkn_ysNSBDF0_18s9PRuhmh4pixpNvappam0Dkuv0Fk0Pu9SWergd12/s1600/Durham+Book+Festival+event.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvA0sD3U5lpYrp_1pGQqNkz1JJingm5xVOi9wPLN6b8iAG7YtSFyT55OAOziYVrjc5MuxfjWdtrOAvGH4xaUs5CFkn_ysNSBDF0_18s9PRuhmh4pixpNvappam0Dkuv0Fk0Pu9SWergd12/s320/Durham+Book+Festival+event.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">LG reading at the 2011 Durham Book Festival</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">That wasn’t a difficult goal in itself, but it felt like an artistic <i>constraint</i>. That feeling increased when I discovered I was expected to read some of the piece at the Durham Book Festival. Consideration of an audience began to dominate the writing until Dr. Paula Martin and I agreed we should abandon the idea of an incomplete public reading as it was proving counter-creative. (I felt a bit of a diva, but was hugely relieved.) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The experience of being commissioned to write is one I’m glad to have had, but I’d approach another such commission with caution. Despite working as a freelance journalist for 12 years (or perhaps <i>because </i>I did?), I was ill at ease writing to a specific word length for a particular audience. I prefer my imagination to be completely untrammelled, otherwise I become preoccupied with outcomes when I should be engaged in process. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8lD8lAF2nvUs4j0QDTAhCqqp5QI1HYreg4_HOPFyPz_U6lmJwsGC_XfbC3CkTnaYqdD4OPFJioR2UhwMIz2IIZ3n_xPF_gJk3F_p8iCkiJ3X0e_cL1ecc_FYbVW0rdxSusfo1QephYQqH/s1600/Durham+Millennium+wondow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8lD8lAF2nvUs4j0QDTAhCqqp5QI1HYreg4_HOPFyPz_U6lmJwsGC_XfbC3CkTnaYqdD4OPFJioR2UhwMIz2IIZ3n_xPF_gJk3F_p8iCkiJ3X0e_cL1ecc_FYbVW0rdxSusfo1QephYQqH/s320/Durham+Millennium+wondow.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Durham Cathedral's Millennium window</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;">Free to develop in its own way, SIX DAYS became an exploration of science, faith and art and it furnished me with yet another surprise. Paula had originally asked me to write a short story but I requested a vaguer brief as the short story was not my natural medium. She agreed, so I was then free to say what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it (my personal definition of good writing) but the end product, though actually intended to be an excerpt from a novel, emerged as a short story. So I’d actually stepped outside my comfort zone again, which I saw as another benefit to me as a writer.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">My mind was certainly stretched writing and reading this blog, not to mention grappling with the vagaries of Blogger (which encouraged me to explore colourful new avenues of invective.) I'm particularly grateful for the mind-stretching contributions of Prof. Tom McLeish and Emma-Kate Prout, both of whom have what I referred to in my novel <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/EMOTIONAL-GEOLOGY-ebook/dp/B0055T357G/ref=pd_sim_kinc_2">EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY</a> as a “wide-angle mind”.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Reading the blog entries has been a source of surprise and entertainment over many months. There haven’t been many comments posted which was a little disappointing, but I hope anyone who found the blog was as impressed as I was by its enthusiasm, humour and eclecticism. It was very much a group effort and I’d like to thank all contributors, especially Paula (like me a Blogger novice) who put a lot of work into administering the blog with me.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Paula has written about the writing workshops in her three blogs, <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/12/where-do-good-ideas-come-from-part-1.html">Where do good ideas come from?</a> and you’ve now had a chance to read some of the work they produced. Interesting and wide-ranging as those written contributions are, what pleased me most was the way some participants immediately adopted a method I’d taught them and applied it elsewhere. It’s been gratifying to see the “Timed Writing” process spread like a virus.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">There were many benefits to me as a writer and, in a way, I think it’s still too soon to assess their impact. I think I'll feel “aftershocks” for years. It was certainly a privilege to be invited to participate in the 2011 Durham Book Festival and to be offered a platform alongside the brilliant poet, <a href="http://www.valerielaws.co.uk/">Valerie Laws</a> who has written so movingly about the decaying brain in her anthology, <a href="http://www.valerielaws.co.uk/publications/allthatlives.html">ALL THAT LIVES</a>.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">But there was also a downside to the residency and in the spirit of scientific enquiry, I’d like to record what that was.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">My other work suffered.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"> I discovered I’m not good at concentrating on more than one project at a time, especially if one of them is a novel.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Once I’m halfway through a novel, I prefer to immerse myself in the world of the book until it’s finished, so I decided to set my novel aside to concentrate on the residency. The </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">book I’d expected to finish in the summer dragged on and wasn’t finished until December. It was difficult to resume work on it once I’d done my last trip to Durham and I had a tough period fearing the novel had died of neglect. I managed to resuscitate it, but I’m not sure if it’s the novel it should have been. (Memo to self: don’t accept another writing residency when half-way through a novel!)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Paula and I </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">had too many good ideas and </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">we planned too much, some of which never came to fruition, despite a lot of thought and email discussion. Sadly, I didn’t get to work with primary pupils in rural schools, nor did I see Paula teach a writing workshop, which was disappointing. A planned open forum session on mental health issues, led by me, was shelved because we simply ran out of time.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">But what I struggled with most was my own lack of confidence and expertise. I’m a worrier and I worried – constantly! – about being the “wrong” person for the job. I thoroughly enjoyed the stimulating company of scientists, but frequently felt out of my depth - not because I lack scientific knowledge and qualifications. (Heaven knows I <i>do</i>, but I’m always happy to ask questions and learn something new.) No, the source of my insecurity lay elsewhere. Normally when teaching a writing workshop, I’m besieged by questions about the writing and publishing processes. It’s not difficult to tailor answers and activities to suit participants’ needs because it’s usually clear where my students are coming from. (Writers aren’t always a loquacious breed, but writers in <i>workshops </i>usually are, possibly because they've scraped the funds together to attend and are determined to get every last scrap of useful information out of the tutor!)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhhbNXuJZ7i5tg9fnlb0S31xUxN1aBBt8lkN1aLOQhCOD7M3lJLD2OER_OEOtH2OPrhVEJ-qFMgrOC1sSX15LnOqCcyPFyS30jCW7dZGKUQC8vO0FS3u-3cy2cja8AErsneIuNmfFXB1f/s1600/IMG_0953r.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhhbNXuJZ7i5tg9fnlb0S31xUxN1aBBt8lkN1aLOQhCOD7M3lJLD2OER_OEOtH2OPrhVEJ-qFMgrOC1sSX15LnOqCcyPFyS30jCW7dZGKUQC8vO0FS3u-3cy2cja8AErsneIuNmfFXB1f/s320/IMG_0953r.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">LG teaching a writing workshop</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">My writer-scientists were much less forthcoming – often silent – so I found it difficult to identify their writing needs. I was aware that I was sometimes taking them outside <i>their</i> comfort zone, but it’s difficult in a workshop situation to know whether glazed expressions signify boredom or an attempt to grapple with a new idea.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">So even though a good scientist apparently has a lot in common with a good writer (see Tom McLeish’s post <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/09/what-makes-good-scientist.html">here</a> and<a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/09/what-makes-good-writer-by-linda-gillard.html"> my response</a>), I worried that my workshops might not be appropriate for such a motley group – one that included geology undergraduates, science communicators and professors of physics. (Intimidated - <i>moi?</i>) I didn’t tailor the workshops for scientists. (How could I? I’m not a scientist and haven’t studied science since I was at school.) I decided instead to focus on <i>process</i>, exercises to stimulate creativity and build confidence, because in my view, writers at all levels of experience can use this kind of input.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">But I sensed my student writers were expecting something more structured (or perhaps I mean <i>directed</i>). Certainly some participants seemed ill at ease with Timed Writing, where you produce writing that is of no particular significance in itself, but which shows you how you write, or rather <i>could</i> write, if it weren't for all the inhibitions and preconceptions that get in the way.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTk02ddVjRP6901TU50nxGDCq8NwN8hKqHKLBPxNZmpMdt9_RTkDO_lqB9rJkrwt7i7pDb33z3gSHuztPR2TwvKSg1ETAAseIVmxLv0lKj41lXMHSoT9O9cwCo4TyRgljNVkiRns75s0d1/s1600/Paula_Martin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTk02ddVjRP6901TU50nxGDCq8NwN8hKqHKLBPxNZmpMdt9_RTkDO_lqB9rJkrwt7i7pDb33z3gSHuztPR2TwvKSg1ETAAseIVmxLv0lKj41lXMHSoT9O9cwCo4TyRgljNVkiRns75s0d1/s1600/Paula_Martin.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr Paula Martin</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">So I have mixed feelings about what <i>I</i> achieved with the residency, but positive feelings about its benefits to me as a writer. I’m happy to have lobbed a few stones into the Durham writing pond and I suspect the ripples are still travelling outwards. As for me, I plunged – terrified – into the Durham science pool and floundered around. But I came away less afraid of the water and determined to do more than dog-paddle in future.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I think I speak for all of us involved in the CELEBRATE SCIENCE blog and the writing residency when I say we achieved our main goal, which was to celebrate science in all its diversity. I wish to thank Durham University (especially Dr Paula Martin) for inviting me to take part in the celebration. It’s been demanding, exciting, frustrating and at times joyous. But at every turn the experience has affirmed what we all believed: that science really <i>is</i> worth celebrating.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjneTMvNxszrIOLxYHllephAo-oG-RHkOIqlivUXR6D993OLjjM8_nOAuFmz1nwh51qWz-VBLDNo_AEanDy2MOa3jjmL9LPLFjrYMI35T-qVj576scvVqBwKa8bsx6v96DaL0YooJg95FIv/s1600/Gillard+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjneTMvNxszrIOLxYHllephAo-oG-RHkOIqlivUXR6D993OLjjM8_nOAuFmz1nwh51qWz-VBLDNo_AEanDy2MOa3jjmL9LPLFjrYMI35T-qVj576scvVqBwKa8bsx6v96DaL0YooJg95FIv/s400/Gillard+4.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">LG pictured with poet Valerie Laws at the 2011 Durham Book Festival</span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_1636565567" style="font-size: small;"></span><span id="goog_1636565568" style="font-size: small;"></span></div>Linda Gillardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747108591927491742noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-20595677055580797532011-12-20T07:36:00.005+00:002011-12-20T07:54:58.395+00:00What If... (Photographs on the Mantel) by Lynne Hardy<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Lynne Hardy says:<br /><br />The idea for the story came from Linda Gillard's "What If?" writing workshop. One of the pictures in the inspiration pack for an exercise on character development was of an old lady, proudly sitting to attention amidst a collection of brick-a-brack. The mantlepiece was crammed with photographs, all of them very old, except for one of a young boy in school uniform, which stood out because it was so modern compared to all the others. For some reason, that set alarm bells ringing in my mind and I began to wonder what else might not be all that it seemed. From that grew the short story "Photographs On The Mantle", which was written as an extension of the character design activity and to work through some ideas on whether what we perceive is really real or all of our own making.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnz1oZ93UZB_srM6aXdhcNxF8ZBbs6xiPUzO5Sza8xT60j9y6nFlLT3wiTuNabXmeiCSvK06WkCq4W1-9GN4ArsKnuE0MPkAbwjM6fciFs5N3koDWDyz7HkW2SQJQpYEGgMJFexpE6Lw5/s1600/old+lady+small.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPnz1oZ93UZB_srM6aXdhcNxF8ZBbs6xiPUzO5Sza8xT60j9y6nFlLT3wiTuNabXmeiCSvK06WkCq4W1-9GN4ArsKnuE0MPkAbwjM6fciFs5N3koDWDyz7HkW2SQJQpYEGgMJFexpE6Lw5/s400/old+lady+small.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688115458034301970" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What If... (Pictures on the Mantel) by Lynne Hardy</span><br /><br />To look at her now, you would never know; no, never know what a beauty she was, how the men all stopped to stare the moment she entered a room, how the women glared at her with envious eyes as hard as diamond. And always round her neck a string of perfect pearls, a generous gift from a long dead suitor, faded now to match her faded beauty.<br /><br />There is no-one living left to admire her, only the ghosts that watch her with their dead eyes from the mantelpiece, shrouded by glass and dust, forever frozen in that one fleeting moment of time. Unlike her, for whom time strides inexorably on, beating her down, weathering her like rock, until one day there will be nothing left but sand and dust and memory.<br /><br />She will tell you about her glory days, if you let her, her voice crackling with excitement like an old record on a gramophone. She’ll tell you about her ghosts, too, while she fiddles with her pearls, bright and brittle, her dinner slowly heating over the gas fire she can barely afford to run. It is only her stories that truly bring warmth to her bones, a flush to her cheek, a smile to her milky eyes, not these flickering, cold flames.<br /><br />And you would never know, never guess, that none of it was real. The boy on the mantel was someone’s grandson, true, but not hers. Those sepia prints were of someone’s parents, someone’s lovers, someone’s friends, but not her own. All of it make-believe, the fantasies of a lost old woman, clinging to something she never possessed, never wanted, until it was too late and time had stolen its possibilities away from her.<br /><br />The clock does not tick, it cannot; she lost the key years ago. No, not lost – discarded, thrown away to try and stop the miserable passage of time. But now, sitting staring at you as you politely sip your tea and listen and take your photographs, she knows that nothing can stop it, nothing ever could. It seeps away, just as her looks have done, as her life has. And now she waits to join her ghosts, to become the sand in someone else’s hourglass, just another picture on the mantel.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Linda Gillard says:<br /><br />That photo has been inspiring writers for almost 20 years! I used it when I was a primary teacher and I use it all the time in workshops. I suppose the woman is long dead by now, but I like to think of her now being immortalised now on the internet on our blog. I wonder what she'd have made of that?</span></div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-66733626692048201982011-12-19T12:02:00.005+00:002011-12-19T12:16:52.411+00:00What If... by Anne Liddon<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Anne Liddon says:<br /><br />I have written fiction for many years, but I earn my living as a communications professional. For the past five years I have been science communications manager for the Rural Economy and Land Use Programme, a national interdisciplinary research programme that brings together natural and social sciences. This has made me think about how technical progress and human behaviour influence one another in our everyday lives. In an era of environmental change, this interdependence is thrown into ever sharper relief and I think fiction can be a powerful means of examining some potential futures.</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What if… by Anne Liddon</span><br /><br />It’s all getting so complicated that sometimes I even wish I hadn’t said yes when Craig asked me. Mum wants a big do – that’s understandable when there’s just me, I suppose. Maybe in the old days, when people had brothers and sisters, it took the pressure off. Dad does all the calculating of their carbon allowance at home. He keeps tabs on their smartcards and swaps around the entitlements to keep them in the black. Heaven knows how he manages it. Craig and me never make our credits stretch and we’re always having to do without something at the end of the month. But Dad seems to work his magic - I’ve even seen him bring in a pineapple once on Mum’s birthday. She loved that. Sometimes I suspect he buys up a few black market credits so they don’t have to go without. They’ve never even had to switch their electricity off, as far as I know, not ever. I can see Dad’s point – if something like that happened it would just about kill Mum, the shame as much as anything. And he’s a bit of a softy about giving Mum what she wants. I just hope he never gets caught. Somebody at our office went to prison last year for fiddling their carbon allowance.<br /><br />But now, with the wedding, it’s all coming to a head. Mum wants to have the reception at a hotel with proper wine and lots of imported food and me wearing a big white meringue. She was even talking about serving meat to fifty guests at one point. We couldn’t expect Dad to stump up all the credits for that – I feel bad enough about him paying out the cash for everything. But Craig says having money hardly matters any more, and that it’s only your carbon allowance that’s worth anything anyway. <br /><br />Mum says it will be fine. She says they could trade in some of their future credits to pay the carbon costs of the wedding. The trouble is, who knows whether we’ll ever be able to pay them back? There’s a limit to how much black market dealing Dad could get away with. They might end up with no credits for electricity next year, and the last few winters have been terrible with all the snow storms. Nearly a hundred people froze to death in Scotland a couple of years ago and that was mainly older folk who had to turn their heating off. <br /><br />Craig’s got this “live now pay later” attitude too. He thinks the wedding is a great opportunity for a big party. He says we don’t get many of those, so we should make the most of it, and I think Mum feels the same. But I can’t see him wanting to live on turnips from our allotment because we’ve got no credits left for food. <br /><br />We’re lucky to have the allotment at all. I know people who’ve been on waiting lists for years and years. There’s such a shortage of land, what with so much of the world not even being able to grow food any more. Ours is half of Dad’s really and he does a lot of the digging for us. But Craig’s always moaning about the lack of variety, especially in the winter, and wanting to splash out on imported and greenhouse-grown veg. Plus, he’d eat meat and eggs every day of the week if it was an option. It would have helped if the hens hadn’t been eaten by a fox. I only had them for six weeks, but those eggs! Well, I’ve never tasted anything like them! They were completely different from the ones you buy in the shops. I suppose it’s because they get to scratch around outside while all the bought eggs are from intensive farms. Mum says battery cages were made illegal when she was little but the government brought them back in because the free range systems were too carbon-dear. It seems to me everything nice is carbon-dear.<br /><br />Even getting married seems to come at such a price. I can see why people don’t bother. I really do love Craig, and I know he loves me too, but I’m afraid there’s something he wants to do, even though he’s never said it in so many words. It’s the way he looks at the pictures on those websites. And now he’s started to watch films on the internet. <br /><br />He carries one of those new little Graspberries around with him all the time. You know the ones where you can insert your own picture into the action? They say it’s one of the addictions people can get. And he’s started asking me to watch them with him. He says he likes me to watch too so we can imagine we are those people – the ones in the old films, having lovely food and wine and going in amazing cars and on aeroplanes to far-off exotic places. But it doesn’t feel right, seeing my face on those people on the screen, doing those things. I think it would be easier if we just forgot about how it used to be. In those days nobody even knew about the carbon.<br /><br />And now he keeps saying it’s time we made a real commitment to each other. It’s nice, I’m glad he feels like that. But all the time, I think that there’s one thing he’s not saying. It’s like something floating in the air between us, but never being mentioned. There’s one thing we could trade in and get credits for that wouldn’t just entitle us to a party, it would keep us comfortable for years and years. It would be worth tens of thousands of credits. We would even be able to have meat sometimes and drink tea and coffee more or less every day, and buy fruit all year round. I had thought I didn’t mind Craig feeling like that. I would have agreed. I would have liked all those things too. I know people who’ve done it and they have such nice lives. But I’m afraid. To get the full credit allowance it would have to be both of us. We would both have to agree and sign up to it. Then we would both have to be sterilised. The word sounds so awful. And after that there wouldn’t be any going back.</div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-28036753184230671742011-12-18T07:15:00.011+00:002011-12-18T08:09:20.808+00:00What If... (The Watchmaker and the Magic Magnet) by Charles Donachy<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Charles Donachy says:<br /><br />This story is largely true. When I was a child I was very impressed with everyday science, from magnets making little iron filings line up nose-to-tail, to the magic chemicals in mammy’s cleaning cupboard, and especially the sulphur match-heads that let home-made percussion caps go with such an exciting BANG! So this story is for anyone who was a curious child - or had unkind relatives.</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What If... (The Watchmaker and the Magic Magnet) by Charles Donachy</span><br /> <br />My friendship with my watchmaker Granda froze in time the moment I stopped all his clocks. I was six at the time and had been aware of an affinity with my Granda from my fourth Xmas when he made me my wooden train from Santa. But since the day of the magic magnet "Time has stood still" between my Granda and me...<br /><br />Granda’s "hoose" was a two bedroomed apartment. Then he took early retirement and moved their bedroom from the "big bedroom" to the "living room", using the former as his new workroom.<br />"Hey paw, why hiv ye locked the big room door?" asked Uncle Pat.<br />"Because I don’t want you or anyone else touching or nicking anything."<br />"Bit whit hiv yeh got in there?"<br />"Ach ye know fine well it’s my watch-making workshop."<br /><br />Uncle Pat and his brothers were not happy for although they were all married and living away from Denmark Street they still treated the house as if it was still theirs - and not just when they were on the booze or merely escaping wives and weans. "There’s nae wei we can manage wae only the wee bedroom atween us." said Pat. But for many years they did.<br /><br />I was there one day and Granda was out but the big room door was wide open.<br />"Hie", said Uncle Pat, "the auld man’s furgot tae lock ’is door," and he and Joe went in. A short time later they called me through. "Hie Charlie wid yeh like tae hae a wee look."<br /><br />I went in and my eyes lit up – the room itself was in darkness but there was a large overhead light shining down on a massive desk full of tools. Granda had steel rulers, two iron protractors, dividers and compasses, and a large tray full of pliers of all types, shapes and sizes. Another tray held the biggest collection of small screwdrivers I had ever seen – some were so small you could hardly see the part that screwed. Answering my unasked question - to the right was a small box containing eye-glasses and magnifying glasses.<br /><br />"Look at this Charlie." said Uncle Joe and my eyes turned to orbs as my gaze fell upon the large horseshoe magnet in his hand and suspended from a cord. "Granda left a message asking if you could help him." "Joe," he says: "You know young Charlie’s only six but he’s got eyes like a hawk and a lot of gumption so if you just show him what to do I’m sure he’ll do a grand job." I swelled with pride fit to burst. "Now," he continued, "You must make sure that all these little screws are magnetised and stick to the screwdriver like this," and he showed me. "This makes it much easier for him to screw them back into the watches."<br /><br />It was only then that I noticed that shadowed in the light’s penumbra the whole left of the desk was covered in watches and small alarm clocks and then bigger and bigger clocks all the way to the wall. <br />"Yeh see it’s difficult fur him tae see them proper but he says you’ve got really sharp eyes and will be able tae dae it." said Uncle Pat.<br />"Whit dae a’ dae?" I asked, shaking with excitement.<br /><br />So they left me with the basic instruction to attach any pieces of metal that would stick onto the big heavy magnet. I set to and did this assiduously by first putting each iron protractor onto one of the "feet" of the magnet and then attaching all the loose nails, fly-wheels and main springs. And the magnet, the while, had drawn me into it by its mysterious power just as surely as it attracted all the small screwnails and watch springs, and I was happily lost in a magical wonderland of armies of screwnails faithfully following their screwdriver leaders.<br /><br />BANG! - Reality impinged when a mighty blow hit the back of my head knocking it forward crashing my left eye and nose into the magnet in my left hand and as from a great distance I could hear this strangulated voice:<br />"Fur Chrissakes! What the Hell are you doing."<br />"Bbbut Uncle Joe … Ppat..." <br />My splutter was lost as he dragged me by the collar into the living room where Grandma let out a shriek: "Holy Mother o’ Jesus! Paddy McGhee! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing to that wean - his face is all covered in blood."<br /><br />Sure enough the sharp bottom of the magnet‘s ‘U’ plus screwnails had hit me flush on the nose drawing immediate blood, but worse was my left eye, which had taken the full force of the solid ‘U-bend’ of the magnet. Granda’s frantic rage was such that he just shook himself like a wet dog and harrumphed back to his ruined workshop. Yes, ruined. The delicate balance of all the small flywheels and springs was destroyed by their being magnetised into clinging to each other – or any other bit of metal within range. <br /><br />Meanwhile Grandma cleaned me up as best she could as she tried to coach me on what to say to my parents – well to my Dad, who often failed to see eye to eye with his in-laws at the at the best of times.<br />"So if you just say you were swinging the magnet on its string and when you glanced away it cracked into you."<br />"Naw, naw Grandma – a’ know a better wan. A’ wis bending doon tae pick up a wee screwnail behind the door when Uncle Pat came rushing in and the door handle caught me right in the eye and nose."<br /><br />Grandma found out what had really happened. Uncle Pat had unscrewed the padlock on the workroom door, but pretended it was already open. She insisted on telling a still angry Paddy all this and making him say he was sorry. He hated that almost as much as the damage and Granda and me were never really pals again. He did carve me a nice woggle for my First Communion later, but only because it was already half-done and because Grandma insisted. Apart from that the only things I remember his saying to me were "Wipe your nose!", "Don’t talk with your mouth full!" or "Don’t gabble when you’re eating!"<br /><br />Grandma got hold of Uncles Joe and Pat, “Right you two get in there and apologise to your Da. And when you’ve done that you’re going to get that poor wean something to make it up to him.” And Joe, being Uncle Joe, decided that they would each get me a magnet. They also got me a big pile of little bits of iron as well (I’d never heard of "iron-filings"). Joe taught me "big magic" - how to hide the magnet under paper or cardboard and move the magnet about to get the filings to "march" mysteriously when nobody was touching them. <br /><br />I managed to get the belt twice at school for showing off that trick in class. But "Drawing Class" was one class where my magic magnets really helped me. I wasn’t very good at drawing and never got any praise. Then one day I got two metal protractors and attached a magnet to the back of each one. Then I balanced the magnets on the edge of my desk and put a thin piece of cardboard in front of them. Then I traced an outline of my initials ‘C’ and ‘D’ by feeding iron filings onto my now magnetized protractors. Everybody was impressed and Miss Stevenson said it was very clever.<br /><br />And I liked being popular.</div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-84672478332592498682011-12-16T07:33:00.009+00:002011-12-17T13:33:16.239+00:00What If A Young Boy Made An Important Contribution To Palaeontology? (or Matty's Sea Monster) by Damaris Wade<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Damaris Wade says:<br /><br />As Biology is my subject, I have always enjoyed palaeontology, have taken evening classes to increase my knowledge and designed courses for Years 7-8 whilst I was in teaching. I was therefore delighted when my grandson, Matthew, started to take a real interest, more than the usual “dinosaurs as monsters” approach. There is so much superficial and inaccurate literature around, that I wanted him to have a story which was both scientifically accurate and had himself as the hero. I have aimed the story at 4 – 7 year-olds and was pleased to have had a favourable reception from Matty himself.</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What If A Young Boy Made An Important Contribution To Palaeontology? (or Matty's Sea Monster) by Damaris Wade</span><br /><br />Matty is six years old and lives with his Mum and Dad and his brother who is called Little Dave. Little Dave is not very interesting because he does not know how to walk and talk, but when he is older he will be able to play football in the garden at the back of their house. Matty likes playing football, but what he likes best of all is finding out about creatures which are now extinct. He has books with pictures of what they looked like and where they were found. His favourite extinct animals are the plesiosaurs. They were reptiles, similar to lizards, which lived in the sea about 80 million years ago. They had long necks, short bodies and flippers for swimming, and chasing after the fish they ate.<br /><br />Every year, Matty and his family spend a week at a cottage in Devon. This is an exciting place for hunters, as the rocks are full of fossils. What if Matty could find a really special one this year? As usual, he wanted to search for fossils near the cliffs above the beach. Mum warned him, “Don’t wander too far and keep away from loose rocks.” Matty promised to be careful and set off to see what he could find.<br /><br />Matty is big and strong for his age so he was able to turn over some quite large stones but there was nothing except some smaller stones underneath. He was just about to go back to Mum and Dad when he spotted something which looked too smooth to be a rock. Matty remembered the pictures he had seen in his books, so he knew at once what it was – three large spine bones and a short limb bone. “What a find! I am the greatest fossil-hunter ever!” He cheered and ran over to tell Dad.<br /><br />Dad was not sure about the bones Matty had found, but they seemed to come from a large animal and he took several photos of them on his mobile phone. “There are some fossil experts investigating further along the cliff, perhaps they can tell you what you have found. But don’t be too disappointed if the bones are not very interesting,” Dad warned as he and Matty walked along the cliff path.<br /><br />The professor in charge of the team was very excited by Matty’s discovery and went to look at the fossil immediately. He said he would take the bones to London so that other fossil experts could examine them.<br /><br />After a few weeks, Matty had a letter from the professor; the bones were, as Matty had thought, from a plesiosaur, but one new to science. They had gone back to the place where Matty had found the bones and dug up more of the skeleton, showing that the plesiosaur was larger and had bigger teeth than any found before. Because Matty was the first to find the bones, the naming committee had decided to call the new plesiosaur Matteosaurus. “That means ‘Matty’s lizard’, he told Little Dave, but Little Dave was chewing a crust and was not at all interested.</div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-42423276565894247632011-12-15T14:57:00.031+00:002011-12-16T07:25:20.705+00:00What if... (Seeing the Light) by Judi Steen<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Judi Steen says:<br /><br />I usually write children’s stories. However, given the general heading of Celebrating Science, I decided that this story was one that would be appreciated by adults and really did celebrate science.<br /><br />Eureka moments are the highlight of a teacher’s life and this story is based various incidents at schools both in the North East of England and in Amsterdam. Most characters are composite but one or two are depicted as their own, unique selves under new names.</span><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /><br />What if… (Seeing the Light) by Judi Steen</span><br /><br />They were already here.<br /><br />Struggling to balance two boxes, she juggled keys and heavy bag to reach the lock.<br />“Morning, Mrs Davies.” said Mr Robson, the caretaker, as he relieved her of the overloaded boxes just in time to prevent the contents from cascading to the ground. “I’ll put these in your room. Coffee’s ready in the staffroom and the head wants a meeting at 8.”<br /><br />Twenty minutes later she collapsed into a chair, a steaming mug of coffee clutched in her hand. “Well, that’s it, there’s nothing more I can do. If I’m not ready now I never will be. I’ve got Kazim first period and if an Inspector so much as looks in his direction he’ll be off on a rant about light coming from satellites. Just keep them away from me until second period.”<br /><br />She stared despondently into space hardly hearing the Head as he said. “… remember - it’s a snapshot. I know how well you all teach these children. I also know that the majority of them will be on their best behaviour - enjoy that, it doesn’t happen every day.”<br /><br />He grinned as he quoted his favourite line, from his favourite, vintage TV series, “And remember people, be careful out there.”<br /><br />As Mags left the room he stopped her, “Don’t try anything new today – that’s risky with any group. Stick to what you’ve planned – it’s an exciting lesson and you’ve planned it well. You’ve got all the equipment ready?”<br /><br />She nodded, “You bet. Eight sets, one for each group and two spares. I’ve checked all the batteries this morning and I’ve an extra pack just in case. None of the mirrors are cracked or chipped and I’ve tested all the light boxes.”<br /><br />“The team know that you’re on supply so they probably won’t even watch a whole lesson.” he reassured her, “And I know what a fantastic job you’re doing. You’ll be fine.” He patted her shoulder then turned to greet the Registered Inspector, who was waiting by the office door.<br /><br />Half-an-hour later the children filed into the classroom. They were subdued and quiet; homework was collected and the register taken, almost silently. Apart from a whispered ‘yes miss’, there was none of the usual morning chatter. Looking at all the pale faces watching her every move, she drew a deep breath and smiled at the really very nice class, who had to rely on her now.<br /><br />“It’ll be absolutely fine, it really will.” she promised, echoing the Head’s words.<br />“But Mrs Davies, what if we get things wrong, or we don’t know something? Won’t the inspectors be angry?” asked a number of children, anxiously.<br />“No, they certainly won’t.” she stated, “Don’t think that for one minute. It’s not you they’re here to inspect. It’s the school; it’s me and all the other teachers. They want to make sure that we teach you properly, that we keep all the records we should, prepare our lessons well and all sorts of things like that.”<br /><br />While the children collected the books and files that they would need for the first two lessons of the day, Mags had a quiet word with the classroom assistant.<br />“You’ll be fine.” Alison told her, “They’re a good class - as long as Kazim doesn’t get a bee in his bonnet - and I’ll make sure he stays on task.”<br />“I just keep remembering the OFSTED inspection at my last school. It was an absolute nightmare. I was teaching the third group – electricity, switches, light bulbs, when in walks an inspector half way through the lesson. Naturally he hadn’t bothered to read the notes and he thought it was the high achiever’s group. Fail? That would have been a gold medal compared to what he said.”<br />Alison tried to reassure her, “Well, this time it’s going to be great.”<br /><br />Mrs Davies turned to the waiting children and managed another smile.<br />“Good morning everyone – are you all ready to start? Today will have to be mostly me showing you stuff I’m afraid. There’s hardly enough space to breathe in this room never mind do a practical lesson. So, observations and questions today: tomorrow we’re in the workspace and you’ll all be doing practical, exciting experiments. The plan for today is on the board so could you all…”<br /><br />The door opened, slowly. Her stomach clenched. There was an almost inaudible intake of breath from the children as an inspector edged into the overcrowded classroom.<br /><br />Thirty-two apprehensive faces stared in silence.<br /><br />“Could I have a word, Mrs Davies?” he asked quietly, “Would you mind if I came to watch this lesson, instead of the next one? I’m sorry to have to ask but we’ve had to re-arrange things – it often happens with last minute inspections.”<br /><br />Mags heard him through a long and very narrow tunnel. She smiled confidently back at him. What choice did she have? No - go away? Come and watch the lesson I’ve planned for you. The one you said you’d watch; the all singing, all dancing lesson with prisms and mirrors and light boxes; the one where my brightest children are going to bounce light around corners and measure angles, split light through prisms…<br /><br />Dimly she heard herself say, “That’s - absolutely fine. It’s very crowded in here though – I don’t think we’ve a spare chair anywhere.”<br /><br />Turning back to the class, Mags smiled confidently at the somewhat bewildered faces. She took a very deep breath and began the lesson.<br /><br />As she demonstrated some of the experiments that the children would be doing the next day, she began to relax. The children crowded round the cramped space in front of her desk, so she could show them beams of light in the darkest space she could find. No one over-balanced, no one pushed or shoved or complained about being squashed or not being able to see. Everything worked perfectly. The children she asked to help did so efficiently and no one complained that ‘I didn’t get a go’. Light beams co-operatively reflected and they even managed to measure some of the angles with the huge blackboard protractor.<br /><br />Her trick of using a small ball to show them how light reflected worked too. The children curbed their excitement and the ball stayed within reach. Mags risked a glance in the direction of the inspector. True to his word he had stayed well out of the way perched on the windowsill at the back of the room. “OK,” she said, “any last questions before the bell rings?”<br /><br />Hands shot up all over; curious minds had been intrigued by what they had seen. Most of the questions she referred back to the class and for several minutes they had a lively discussion. Then she heard the one voice she’d hoped would stay quiet.<br /><br />“Yes, but, yes but… Mrs Davies… you got it wrong Miss, cos you aint done the sat’lite. It’s sat’lites send light init.”<br /><br />Her heart hit the floor and went on going.<br /><br />“Kazim, when you watched the light bouncing from the mirrors, where did the light start? Can you remember where you first saw the light?”<br /><br />He nodded.<br /><br />She waited, “Could you tell everyone where that light came from?”<br /><br />“Course, Miss. From that box thing init, with th’hole.”<br /><br />“You’re absolutely right, Kazim, well done…”<br /><br />But Kazim was in full flow; nothing was going to stand in his way. “Yeah, but it was sat’lite sent light into’t box miss.”<br /><br />There were cries of protest:<br />“Oh, Kazim – give it a rest.”<br />“Not again.”<br />“It’s NOT satellites…”<br /><br />At that point, to universal relief, the bell rang. Quietly, children gathered their belongings and went off to their next lesson. The inspector nodded at Mags as he left the room, “That seemed fine.” he said in passing. But his next words were completely unexpected, “Physics isn’t my subject - don’t really like it, don’t really like such young children either. I usually inspect sixth form biology.”<br /><br />Mags and Alison stared at his retreating back in silence.<br /><br />Lesson two went like a dream. Once she had explained everything, Mags almost felt she didn’t need to be there. Even the passage through the workspace of three more inspectors, who had lost their bearings, failed to unsettle her. She missed the other faces watching through the window and hardly noticed the Head stopping by to see how she was doing. The children concentrated on their tasks, there was no chattering, just a quietly excited hum of conversation. Yet none of that seemed to matter. All Mags could focus on was what had happened earlier: another inspector in the wrong place, at the wrong time.<br /><br />The morning finally ended. Exhausted, anxious teachers staggered into the staff room and silently munched on sandwiches or salads, hardly tasting them. There came the sound of running footsteps followed by a thunderous knocking on the door. The unfortunate person sitting in the least popular spot nearest the door lumbered up out of the sagging chair and opened the door a crack.<br /><br />“There is a large notice on the door, and I know you exactly how good you are at reading Jade, so this had better be an emergency.”<br /><br />There was an instant hubbub of excited voices from the crowd of children in the corridor.<br /><br />“Well, no, sir, it’s not reeeally an emergency. Not a Proper Emergency, sir. Well, you don’t need ambulances and such…” Jade was hopping from foot to foot by now, “but we NEED Mrs Davies, we need her now – it’s real important and she needs to come right now, before it’s too late. Oh, Mrs Davies, Mrs Davies,” Jade had spotted her across the room and beckoned frantically, “Please, Miss. We need you to come with us - RIGHT NOW.”<br />“You’ve got to come, Miss.”<br />“There’s light. There’s light travelling in straight lines – it’s all over the sky Miss.”<br /><br />Several other excited voices joined in, urging Miss Davies to ‘come and see’. Everyone in the room was grinning.<br /><br />“I don’t think you can get out of this one, Mrs Davies. Off you go, science teacher par excellence,” said the head as he ushered her out of the door. “Don’t keep Mrs Davies too long you lot. She hasn’t had her lunch yet.”<br /><br />“No, sir.”<br />“We won’t sir.”<br />“Come on Miss. You’ve got to hurry – it might have gone if we don’t hurry.”<br /><br />The excited children hurried Mrs Davies out into the playground, where most of Year Five were waiting. Sure enough, brilliant rays of sunlight lanced across the heavily clouded, grey sky.<br />“See, Miss.”<br />“We told you, Miss, didn’t we.”<br />“We were right, weren’t we, Mrs Davies.”<br />“It’s what you’ve been telling us isn’t it? Light comes from the sun, travels in straight lines and ...”<br /><br />Mrs Davies couldn’t help grinning at the crowd of chattering, excited children who were so delighted that they had persuaded her to come out to see the spectacle. “Yes. Yes, it is what I’ve been teaching you. And you were right to come and get me. It’s brilliant. I love things like this and it’s great that you can see what I’ve been talking about. Isn’t it fantastic – mind, remember - be very careful not to look at the sun.”<br /><br />“Is this doing science, then Miss?” asked Robbie, who often struggled to understand things.<br /><br />Mags nodded and hugged him, “It is indeed ‘doing science’ Robbie. Isn’t it wonderful when it all starts to make sense?” She waved her hand across the gloriously obliging sky where the clouds had parted once again. Rays of light shone like spotlights on the houses parading up the hillside, opposite the playground.<br /><br />“Dah-dah.” crowed a delighted Mags, “Sun. Light. Straight lines.”<br />“But, this not egs-peri-ment?” queried Nadia, who had only been at the school a few weeks.<br />“Is it observation then, Mrs Davies?” asked Jak.<br />Mrs Davies acknowledged a waving hand, “What do you think, Martha?”<br />Martha nodded, as did several other children.<br />“Course it is, Miss.” Martha turned to her classmates, “My dad says ‘observation is the difference between looking and seeing’. He has to observe stuff all the time at work, when he’s looking for clues. ”<br />“That’s just robberies and stuff, init?” demanded Kazim, who had unaccountably joined them.<br />“Obsvashun - is - looking hard?” Nadia wondered.<br />“Not just looking hard, Nadia.” Mrs Davies explained. ‘It’s looking hard and thinking hard about what is happening to what you are seeing. Oh, dear, look, the sun’s rays are starting to disappear – and so must I. See you all later.”<br />“Oh, but Mrs Davies, what about ... Where does… No, HOW does the sun…” Jak began to ask.<br />“Good question. Sorry Jak, got to go – I need my lunch. Remember what you were going to ask and ask me later in class.”<br /><br />The scattered spears of light faded and vanished. Rain began to fall and there was chorus of groans from the disappointed children. Mags headed back to the building but, just as she reached the door, excited voices called out and she turned round.<br /><br />Across the slate grey sky arched the most glorious rainbow.<br />“It’s like magic, init Miss?”<br /><br />Startled, Mags turned to find one of the biggest bullies in Year Eight towering over her, grinning like a child at Christmas. He was pointing at the rainbow, “That’s what you was teachin’ us Miss, yeh? That time me and Carl was real bad. Aam sorry Miss, sorry I messed yuh lesson. Aah won’t do it again.”<br /><br />The eponymous Carl came running across the playground, shouting for his best mate to come back to the football game.<br /><br />“No. I’m doin’ science with Miss.” stated Sean, red freckles standing out vividly against a very white face, defiant for the very first time.<br />“Don’t be daft man Sean. Yoose can’t do science in the yard.”<br />“Look.” was Sean’s response, as he pointed skyward, “There’s light comin’ from the sun. In straight lines. Just like what Miss said. It’s goin’ through the raindrops and makin’ a rainbow.”<br />Miss was grinning, too. He’d got it. She had despaired of ever teaching him anything, but Sean had finally got it.<br /><br />Then a familiar voice interrupted; “Yeah, but sat’lites send light…”<br />“Kazim, yoose should listen to Miss.” Sean pronounced very seriously<br /><br />Three days later Mags was grinning like a child at Christmas herself. The Head had just finished debriefing the staff about the OFSTED inspection report. Apparently she had ‘...made a boring subject interesting.’ Boring? How could light ever be boring when you had children to teach who thought it was - Magic?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Judi Steen says:<br />Children want to find out and understand more or less everything. My job, in this instance teaching science to Year 5 at a middle school, was to give them enough information and the relevant tools to grasp the concept of light traveling from a source. It is relatively easy to explain in simple terms that light travels in straight lines but the experience of being with a large group of very excited children who had just had their own eureka moments will live with me forever.<br /><br />I don’t think anyone will ever be able to disabuse Kazim of his belief that light comes from satellites. Kazim is not Einstein and this fervent conviction stems from a cartoon depicting a lightning bolt zapping towards a planet from – yes, a satellite.<br /><br />Sadly, these OFSTED inspectors are based very closely on specific characters and the comments are genuine. However, there are, I know, some very good, very sympathetic inspectors around who do an excellent job.<br /><br />For anyone who would like to see images illustrating the science in this story, I recommend Engineering Interact's sections on <a href="http://www.engineeringinteract.org/resources/alienattack/flash/concepts/reflectionmirrors.htm">reflection and mirrors</a> and <a href="http://www.engineeringinteract.org/resources/alienattack/flash/concepts/sourcesandrays.htm">light sources and rays</a></span><br /><br /></div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-62765515440881953372011-12-15T10:35:00.015+00:002011-12-15T12:23:55.975+00:00What If Everything Was Forgotten? by Zoe McAuley<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Zoe McAuley says:<br /><br />I study archaeology and archaeology isn't, strictly speaking, a science. That made celebrating science through a subject that isn't really a science rather tricky. So what could archaeology do for the sciences, I wondered. In what 'what if' scenario could archaeology really shine? When lost things need to be found and when lost science needs to be recovered. So I wrote about archaeology serving as memory for the sciences.<br /><br />That, and I like a good post-apocalypse with crazy collecting bag-ladies.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What If Everything Was Forgotten? by Zoe McAuley</span><br /><br />They call her mad, the Rock Whisperer, but they still send their children to her to learn. No one else cares so much for letters as the Rock Whisperer. No one else has the patience to press words into the children’s brains, nor numbers and sums into their skulls. Mara's turn came when she was entering her seventh summer and big enough to cross the two deep-wooded valleys alone. She was given little warning. She brought in the basket of eggs one morning, as she did every other, and found her mother and aunt bickering over their millstones.<br /><br />"Take a look at her," her shrewish aunt tutted. "She's far and away old enough to make it. My Tam was smaller than her when he started and twice as easily lost."<br />Her mother snorted, "What's the use of it though? I never had no lessons with a crazy stranger. You just come to know these things."<br />"Really? Mara dear, how many eggs are in that basket?"<br />Mara looked puzzled, "There's lots, I looked really hard. I even got the ones the speckled one hides under the trough."<br />"Yes, very good, but what number?"<br />"More than yesterday?"<br /><br />It was decided that she should visit the Rock Whisperer the next day, once the eggs were in. Two other children in the village had the trip to make and jabbered as they walked, distracting her as she tried to learn the route.<br /><br />"You'd better be careful what you say," said the smaller one gleefully, a boy two years her senior. "If you say a word she doesn't like, she'll grind you up with her seed chewer. She'll says it's for herb-grinding, but don't believe it. And she hates lots of words, like all the words she says they didn't have before the Winter. Dunno how they can have not had words, but she says they didn't."<br />"It's called a language," said the older girl, a cousin recently stretched by growth spurts. She was clever, everyone said it. She'd been learning letters with the Rock Whisperer. Some muttered that she'd been learning spells too. "A language is having the wrong words for things, but those words still mean the same as normal ones."<br />"See? Don't listen too much or you'll turn out like that. I only go when my folks want me to count up the sheep again, but she wants me to learn tricky stuff, about fracting and splitting the herds into little herds or something. She's mad."<br />"She's not completely mad," the girl said. "Her ideas usually work."<br />"What about all that junk she has?"<br />"Alright, that doesn't work."<br /><br />Mara gaped when she saw the house for the first time. It was not one of her village's roundhouses, all posts and thatch. It was stolen from an alien world. Lumps of orange stone, each an almost perfect block, hung together in a neat pattern, stuck with thick grey mud. The edges met in sharp corners, the walls straight as blades. The shape wandered, boxes cutting into boxes. The roof was pointed too, and lapped with stone scales. Mara's world had been rough-hewn from nature, surfaces seldom finished or smoothed. She crept forward to stroke the strange rocks.<br /><br />"You like it?" a bright-voiced figure stepped out of the doorway. "I built it myself. Took ages to find bricks that weren't too worn, had to take down a few whole walls. They were nearly fallen over anyway. Then lugging them over here and putting them back up again. Still, it was worth it. They work so well, these Autumn houses. It's all from the Ruins, you know, every brick and tile. It's how houses used to look, you see, before the Great Winter. The books told me so, I'll have to show you the books. And the ruins too, they told me. The stones told me how they got there. Well, in their own way. You've come for lessons, I take it? I was wondering when you would turn up. Mara, isn't it? Anita's littlest one? It'll be good to have a new face, see what you make of it all. That's the best bit, seeing what you make of it all."<br /><br />Mara stared up at the Rock Whisperer for the first time. She was lean and sun-beaten, not some dark-lurking invalid like her great-uncle, like she had expected. Her great-uncle, long ago lamed by a horse, was the only person she knew with books and he spent all the time sitting and reading his four books again and again. No, the Rock Whisperer was built like a mink, her eyes just as quick and bright. She wasn't as old as Mara had expected either, old enough to lose track of her years but not so old that it was killing her. Her clothes were as peculiar as her house. Where Mara worn home-woven woollen, the Rock Whisperer wore a tunic of a strange sheen cloth covered in hundreds of tiny circles, its colours swaying between pink and purple as she moved, and faded blue loose leggings with a fine weave and thick seams. Both were patched and twisted from repairs, but their oddness made them grand. About her neck hung a dozen tarnished trinkets: a little bear without all its limbs, letters and numbers, a handful of hearts in all sizes and styles.<br /><br />Mara said nothing, her little dark eyes bulging. The Rock Whisperer smiled.<br />"Terribly exciting, isn't it? Let me show you the rest."<br /><br />The Rock Whisperer's house was a den of wonders and a monument of madness. It was clogged and cluttered beyond all hope of comfort. Furniture was jammed into every space just large enough to take it. There were great upright boxes which stood from floor to ceiling and had lids that opened like doors, made of some substance patterned like wood but with the smoothness of ice. There were tables, broader and flatter than any conveniently cut log, the legs wastefully braced with metal. There were great iron chests, with wire shelves inside and an odd pattern of four metal wheels laid flat on top. And over each of the large treasures were a thousand smaller ones: shaped scraps of metal, the sheets of wire-studded card and the splinters of pressed wood.<br /><br />More sinister was the ruin-bone, lying about as if it were no more than wood shavings. It took all manner of forms: boxes, cups, bottles, tiny people, ropes and endless other forms with no clear purpose. Its smooth, warm surface and elegant curving shapes invited the inquiring hands of the braver children and the Rock Whisperer showed nothing but love for it. Most people would not have it in their homes, calling it cursed. Ruin-bone came only from the Ruins, where it was as common as dirt. There was no creature that yielded it, no trees from which it could be cut, no ore that melted into it. It came from nowhere but the past and most people were keen for it to stay there. Not the Rock Whisperer though. She gathered it up like a harvest of falling fruit and fussed over each piece like it were a newborn baby. Sometimes the villages would ask her why she kept it, why she risked bad luck for useless relics. "Because it lets me speak to the dead," was always her glee-filled answer. They seldom asked her anything after that.<br /><br />Of all the things that overwhelmed Mara as she stepped into the house, it was the books that startled her the most. Before that moment, she had seen a total of nine books: her great-uncle's four, the blacksmith's two, a tiny one with gilded edges that they kept but never opened for the story was that it was somehow holy, and the two village tomes, the great chronicle of happenings and the tally of harvests. But around most of the Rock Whisperer's rooms, balanced on reconstructed crushed-wood shelves, was a layer of books. Most were damaged, some unreadable, some peeled open with careful hands. Blended in with them were reams of ancient brittle paper, now covered in notes, translations from a dozen ancient languages into more modern squiggles. Mara peered into an open volume and gasped at the faint but perfect picture of a woodland, just as if she were looking at real trees. The Rock Whisperer grinned again. She always seemed to be smiling.<br /><br />"It's called a fotograf. The Autumn people could catch sight onto paper somehow - haven't quite figured it out yet, I'm afraid. Still, they're beautiful. I have hundreds, of all manner of things, I don't even know what some of them are."<br />"These ones are trees," said Mara softly.<br />"Oh, I'm well aware of trees, my dear girl, but what about this?" the Rock Whisperer spun and plucked a book from a shelf like a heron spearing a fish. Just as deftly she flicked open the crinkled pages and slapped the book down in front of Mara. This picture was senseless - all multi-coloured blobs within blobs. Mara frowned.<br />"I haven't a clue either, and the text isn't the usual Autumn script. Another piece for the project, I suppose. Oh, I can't have told you about the project!"<br /><br />Everyone knew about the Rock Whisperer's project. Or rather, everyone knew that the Rock Whisperer had a project. Understanding the project was somewhat rarer.<br /><br />"The project! Yes, I'm trying to translate the writings from before the Great Winter. Some of it is like ours, but the words are different and there's so many more of them. And so many things I don't know the meanings of, but so many things it can tell us. How the world was..."She meet Mara's blinking eyes. "I'll show you." She swirled again, grabbing another book and snapping it open. "See," she jabbed a finger at a faint grey picture of curving rooftops, "it tells me about a building-maker and shows me how his buildings looked. They might be ruined, but the book can tell me."<br />"Is that what the Ruins look like?" Mara asked. She had always imagined them to be more swampy, with insects scuttling everywhere.<br />The Rock Whisperer shook her head fiercely, dislodging some of the old metal clips snapped into her hair. "No! Nononono! This is somewhere else, somewhere far away. I've been looking at maps, I think I've found it on some of them, but I'm not sure where we are, been trying to work that out for years. You see, if I cross-reference these two maps...," she stopped suddenly, her hand halfway to another shelf. "I'm meant to be teaching you to read, aren't I?"<br />"Numbers please."<br />"Ah yes, numbers. Numbers, then letters, then advanced theoretical geography. It'll make more sense that way."<br /><br /><br />She was not born to their village, like almost all of them. One morning they had awoken to her yelling at the gate of their fenced-off little fortress, with a voice cracked and dusty.<br /><br />"Hey! Hey, anyone living in there? I can see the smoke, there must be someone in there! Can you open up? I just want a chat! It's been so long."<br /><br />They muttered among themselves for a while. She wasn't from the nearest villages, for they were kin and familiar. She wasn't a trader, though she did carry a bulky pack, for traders always boasted of what they were selling as soon as they could. She wasn't a raider for she was weedy and carried no weapon. And she was no raiders' spy, said some, for no one would send someone so oddly dressed, in bright pattern in an unknown fabric, to do anything subtle. They let her in eventually. She was gratefully and gabbling, engaging anyone who dared to look for too long.<br /><br />"Hello! Who are you? Hmmm, smells like you deal with the pigs, am I right? No no, I didn't mean to be cruel, I've just learnt to trust my nose. That's a very nice weave, for handmade stuff, I mean...Well, there's other sorts as well, oh never mind, shouldn't have mentioned it. Had a good harvest? Good to hear it. Always a good conversation starter, asking about the harvest and I thought ours might be about to flounder. My village? Oh I haven't got one...I've been travelling. You don't see many people travelling... Oh, it's not as dangerous as all that. People really overstate the dangers. I've been travelling about for years without being murdered. Or murdering anybody else, just so that's clear. There are really many people at all in the...wider world, so I'd thought I find some and I found you. So how many of you are there? That's a very large hut..."<br /><br />She was happy to chatter for hours, over the simplest and the most bizarre topics in the same breath. Some pulled their children from the fireside as the holes in her story deepened, some got bored of her babbling and wandered off to their daily work. A few drew closer, curious at what would slip out next. She talked until the evening, when the rough cauldron was rolled out of the night's stew.<br /><br />"Oh never mind about all that, the dinner should be on me tonight. You've spoken to me for so long. It was nice to hear all our words, all your voices." she skipped to her pack, a shadowy bundle abandoned to a corner, and began to pull out metal logs, each cut to a hand span in length, with a thin bark of white-faded paper. Then came a strange wheel of fangs on a handle, with which she pierced and gutted the logs with long-practised ease. Inside, with honey in a hive, was soup, thick with vegetables, all out of season. Soon a dozen of these had been emptied into the pot and rested on the fire. "Oh, they're something I picked up. I live off them most of the time actually, they get a bit dull after a while. It's like wrapping cheeses in wax, but for anything. Oh no, I don't make them. I find them. Where? Well... oh look, it's done. Bowls anyone? This one, I think, is called Scotch Broth. There's a lot of it around." Only the brave ate that night. <br /><br />It wasn't poisoned, of course, and she spent a happy night curled up in human company. But in the morning she shouldered her pack again. "I'm sure you're all kind enough that if I were to ask to stay, you'd have me, but I'm not going to ask that kindness of you. I think I've been on my own too long to be able to not be on my own for long, if you follow, although," she said brightly, "I might visit."<br /><br />She did drop by from time to time, bringing food-cans and trinkets. Then one spring she appeared with a strange cart filled with strange rocks. "I need a home," she told them whenever she sheltered in the compound for the evening, "I've found so many things, they need to be put somewhere. I'll be just two hilltops over, I can see you from there."<br /><br />They could see her too and watched with baffled wonder as her 'brick' house rose slowly. She laboured alone, turning away the few villagers who offered a hand. They had their work, she told them, and she would not pull them away from it for her benefit. "If I want to live in an ancient clay rockery, I don't see why anyone else should suffer for it."<br /><br /><br />Mara wandered home late that afternoon, her head tumbling with numbers. The Rock Whisperer had poured out a great bucket of fist-sized ruin-bone objects, triangular with three spikes protruding from one side. "These are rather common, attached to lots of things. They don't seem to do anything but they make good counters," explained the Rock Whisperer, before taking Mara through the basics on putting things in groups. She thought she got the gist of it.<br /><br />Mara came back three days later, alone this time, as the others were busy at chores and her mother was content that Mara knew the path. As she reached the Rock Whisperer's door, she paused. There was whispering inside. Peering through the open doorway, she could see the strange woman gripping some trinket, turning it over and over, running fingers over it, staring at its plain surfaces, whispering all the while.<br /><br />"Some scratches on the outer casing, nothing serious, the owner a little careless so not a terribly precious item. But not for heavy duty use either. Screw holes in each corner... might come apart. Brightly coloured paper pictures on the casing, probably for children then, right style of child-centric art of that period... Hinges still working well. Differently coloured, slightly mobile parts set in dips in the case...probably attached inside somehow. Probably an example of 'but-tons'. Moves a little when pokes but nothing else...ah, I didn't hear you coming in!"<br /><br />Mara jumped as she was spotted. "Didn't mean to earwig," she murmured. "Didn't know if you were busy."<br />"Oh no no, just going through a bag I'd forgotten about," she snapped shut the little device and offered it out. "Do you like it?"<br />Timidly Mara took the mysterious, possibly cursed object. She had pondered the matter for the past three days and concluded that if ruin-bone was reliably cursed, then the Rock Whisperer would have caught plague, burst into flames and had her house fall on her all at once. As she seemed to be in good health, it couldn't be that dangerous. "Is that picture a duck?" she asked.<br /><br />What if the Rock Whisperer had special spells to keep off the curses, the thought invaded Mara's head. She dropped the device as if it were red-hot. The Rock Whisperer sighed and picked up her toy, "Bit you, did it? Never mind. Back to numbers?"<br /><br /><br />The smell of her home was always welcoming whenever she returned from one of her expeditions. As dusk dulled the landscape, she would climb to the hilltop. Her bag of treasures would weigh on her as it had for miles that day and miles more in the days before. Almost giddy with the knowledge the weight would soon be lifted, she would stagger to the doorway and slump against the wall as she finished out her key. It had taken weeks to find a door with a lock that still worked and a key nearby, but she had to have one. It was such an elegant idea. The sound of the tiny metal parts in motion was music to her. Her neighbours thought it magic, a spell tied to a token, but then her neighbours thought everything she did to be magic. The door unlocked, she would tumble inside, letting her bag finally fall to the floor. The house would smell of stillness and dust, the attempt at plaster crumbling a little here and there. She had followed the recipe as best as she could, but where she didn't recognise the ingredients she had improvised. The house was mostly stuck together and that would do. She would light the candles, the glass eggs affixed to the ceiling simply for show. And at last she would fall onto her settee, a monstrous thing stitched together from a score of images and a hundred scavenged husks. Lumpy as it was, she could lie upon it and know that it was twenty times softer than the old straw on which her neighbours slept.<br /><br />Mara began to like the number lessons. It was mostly moving the spiky counters, the 'plugs', from one heap to another. She even took to practising with her egg collection, proudly proclaiming to her mother the total produce of the day as she handed over the basket. <br /><br />As soon as the Rock Whisperer was content with her counting however, they moved onto letters. "Now some people will tell you that you don't need letters, but they're fools. It's not just the chronicle and tally, you know. It's not even sending letters to other villages. It's the whole world, everything that used to be, all yours if you know enough of letters."<br /><br />They started with simple books, filled with running dogs and 'shops'. When she wasn't having Mara read, the Rock Whisperer would read out passages from her favourite books, following the words with a finger as she spoke, to show Mara their shape. One book she held more precious than any other. It had been among the first armful of books she had recovered on her first venture in the Ruins. It was more than an inch thick and held together by a green papery cover. She read from it most days, even though every word was etched in her memory, even the ones that still meant nothing to her. She read it as a kind of religious observance, honouring the words which had made her who she was. She read it to Mara too, from time to time.<br /><br />"Information on the type of mould used can generally be obtained by the simple inspection of the artefact. If it shows evidence of casting on both upper and lower surfaces, a two-piece mould was presumably used. More elaborate shapes are likely to have required the lost-wax method..."<br />"Is that your magic book?" Mara once asked her. Her curiosity had simmered for months. <br />The Rock Whisperer broke off from her evening reading. "No, not magic. There is no magic, not anywhere. I'm not a witch, you know. You can ignore what the other children say," the Rock Whisperer scowled a little. "You can ignore what your parents say too."<br />"Well, if it's not magic, what's it for then?"<br />"It tells me how to see what things were like before they were broken, to see what the past looked like, to listen to dead people," the Rock Whisperer beamed as she spoke, every word coiled tight with delight.<br />Mara gave her a withering look, "And you say that's not magic?"<br />"It's not. It's..."the rock whisperer lowered her voice to an awed and secretive hush, "...called archaeology."<br /><br />Her collection wasn't as senseless as it appeared at a glance. The books were arranged by theme, or at least her best interpretation of their themes, and each cupboard contained a different group of items. Grouping items was very important, her book told her. She had her mug cupboard, with shelves of shattered crockery arranged by shape. She assumed that they got bigger over time, as more food seemed to become available over time, so she had at the top a shelf of tiny espresso cups and at the bottom mugs so big that they bordered on bowls. Of course, bowls were in a different cupboard, arranged by depth of curve. Another cupboard held a selection of number-pads, palm-sized ruinbone objects studded with numbered buttons. There were several cupboards of boxes filled with metal hairs impaling cards. There were clothes too, a few salvageable enough to wear.<br /><br />Her pride and joy was the peddle-lamp. She had found plenty of the bicycles during her travels. She had straightened one out enough to ride it, after falling into the rubble a great deal. Keeping out of sight of the villagers' paths, she had even brought it home and used it to fly back and forth to the Ruins. When that one disintegrated into a cloud of rust, she sought out a replacement and it was then that she found the lamp. She had dragged a bicycle from a collapsed barn-like ruin where many bicycles had been smashed together and had hauled it to a favoured patch of flattish ground. As she launched and began to peddle, the faceted plastic disc strapped to the handles gave off a sputtering light. In shock she mis-twisted the handlebars and spiralled to the ground. The light died. The Rock Whisperer scrambled to her feet and threw herself onto the bike again. Once again the light flickered faintly. The Rock Whisperer cackled in delight.<br /><br />She spent the winter poking through a sack of lamps, whirling peddlers and rotting wires. By spring she had four working peddle-lamps, hidden away to spare the villagers their inevitable terror. But with every turn of a peddle, every puzzled-out wire, every beam of light, she wondered what else in the Ruins might still work.<br /><br />Mara set aside her book with a sigh. It was filled with 'poems', strings of words which ignored all the rules that she'd so carefully learned. The Rock Whisperer appeared to be dozing in an armchair, but opened an eye when Mara's recital stopped. "Bored? I plucked that off a half-collapsed third storey. I didn't go through that for something dull."<br />"Well, you did," Mara wriggled restlessly. "What are the Ruins like? You talk about all your books and gadgets, but you never talk about what the ruins are like."<br /><br />The Rock Whisperer opened the other eye and gave Mara a long, cool look. There was a shadow in her expression that Mara had never seen before, in over a year of lessons. She cringed away from the interrogating gaze. "No, I don't, do I?" the Rock Whisperer began softly. "Most people don't want to hear about it. I know I prattle on and on about everything I find there, but that's different. People don't want to think about the Ruins as a place, a real physical place that I or you or any of us could walk to, could touch. They want to keep it as a nasty dream, or some kind of fairy realm you only stumble into through stories. So I don't make it real for them. You want it to be real? Fine. The first thing is that the Ruins are huge. It takes a day to walk from one side to another, and that's if you know the way. And those aren't the biggest ruins I've seen. Oh yes, there are lots of ruins, they're not just one special place, alone in all the world. There are ruins everywhere. Some of them are tiny and almost entirely eaten by plants. You can only find them if you understand the shapes of the earth, how it mounds over the buildings and silts up the paths. Others are vast. The largest I saw seemed to have no end. You could climb the tallest buildings still standing, look out and see only more ruin. There's brick and stone everywhere. The buildings tumble in and leave a layer of bricks over the soil, makes it tough going to walk over. And the stone has iron rods running through it and is slowly crumbling to dust. It's rather like the sea-shore, I suppose, with great lumps of rock sticking up everywhere. Some have their shapes still, enough to shelter in and to find things. A few are almost complete, they're the best pickings but they're usually claimed in the big ruins. Oh yes, people live in the ruins, did that ever cross your mind? Only the huge ones, of course, but there are whole villages clustered here and there, picking over scraps. Some even have farms in the open patches. Frankly, most of them are just as ignorant as the countryfolk ...that came out a bit too harsh. People just want to survive, they don't want to think, even when they have the ruins all around them to think about. Oh, the paths, that's the other strange thing - there are great broad paths of black sticky stone, with buildings lined up along them. More are broken now, trees growing up through them, but they're still useful to follow. There's metal husks in the way sometimes and...oh the metal trees! Well, posts, they stick up out of the ground everywhere. No idea why. They have wires inside, so they must have done something. Wires are a sure sign of doing something."<br /><br />She sank into her chair, deflated from saying so much. "You know," she added in a whisper. "I could take you there, if you like."<br /><br />Mara sucked in a breath. She thought of creeping along ancient paths, where everything was made of ancient mystery. Then she thought of her family's tutting faces when she returned, changed and corrupted. She shook her head.<br />The Rock Whisperer sighed, "You're not the first. It's always no."<br /><br /><br />She was always strange, even as a child, stuffed full of questions, questions which had no bearing on the gathering of the wheat or the pulling of the vegetables. When she was seven, she learnt of the ruins and that was the start of her downfall. <br /><br />"Now I'm letting you wander, now that you're old enough," said her mother on her twelfth birthday, "but you can't wander everywhere. You can't go onto Long Beach alone, because the sands will suck you down. You can't go into Half-Hill Thicket, because the wild dogs live there. And you can't go to the ruins, because the ruins are evil."<br />"Evil?" her eyes lit up. "How can a place be evil?"<br />"Because it can," her mother scowled. "Evil people lived there."<br />"Evil people? What did they do? Are they still there?" her eyes grew even wider.<br />"They're all dead. They were evil and the Great Winter came and killed them for it. That's all there is to it. Now go collect the eggs."<br /><br />Of course, as soon as her chores about the farm allowed, the young Rock Whisperer went to the Ruins. Days passed and she did not return. Her family grew frantic and called help from nearby villages to aid in the search. They did not search in the Ruins because it was well-known that all who went there perished. A fortnight went by and her family mourned her, for they had little hope that she could have lived this long alone, with wild beasts, raiders and the land itself all keen to kill a young girl. A month had passed when she returned. She was smiling as she skipped into the village, a little chubbier and with a bundle hugged tight to her chest.<br /><br />"Sorry, I'm late home, I found the most won-"<br />Her mother screamed at her for two full hours before she could speak another word, finishing the rant with "And where were you anyway?"<br />"It was wonderful! There was food locked in metal eggs, and cosy rooms, and all sorts of metal shapes and these!" she let the bundle spill onto the packed-earth floor and books fluttered forth. Some were stuck sealed with damp, others were worm-chewed, some faded to blankness, but enough of the words and pictures shone through, the writing too regular for a human hand. "They're not quite like real words, but I think I can work them out. At least sometimes. It's a big puzzle!"<br />Her family drew back as if she had begun to froth like a rabid dog.<br />"Where did you get these?" asked her uncle, the village chief, sternly.<br />"I went to the Ruins," she said, a little sheepish. "But I brought you a present!" The last thing she drew from the bundle, wrapped in a cloth that was not wool, was a tiny copy of a cow, made of pure ruin-bone.<br /><br />The next hour was a blur. Her more skittish relations shrieked and fled, crying of curses. The sterner stood fast and shrieked at her parents, lamenting the evils of their child. Her father cowered. Her mother took hold of her by her rough-spun tunic and threw her out of the farmhouse, books launched swiftly after her. "Get out, you little monster! You've cursed the lot of us! I told you, I told you it was evil and look what you've done. You wicked, ungrateful, vicious child! Get out, get out of here and never come back!" In tears, the young Rock Whisperer snatched up her treasures and ran into the falling night, headed for the one other sanctuary she knew. She headed back to the Ruins.<br /><br /><br />Mara had noticed that something was amiss with the Rock Whisperer all winter, but she was grown used to the strange woman's strange ways. She had been even more distracted than usual and Mara struggled to pull her from some strange tome and her sheets of scribblings, of tunnels and boxes. In the end she gave up visiting, the short and stilted lessons not worth the trek through the snow.<br /><br />Her mother shrugged off Mara's concerns, "The old bat will come out of it. This happens every few years, she gets the Ruin-madness worse than usual. Probably been touching too much ruinbone again. She got obsessed with this metal box once, was convinced that it should be able to talk. She got over it. She'll get over whatever this is too. Not that it matters too much for you, you've got more than enough letters in you now. You don't want to be spending more time up there than need be."<br /><br />Mara tried to catch her again when the snow cleared, but she found the brick house abandoned, a note pinned to the door. "Gone to Ruins early this year. Back soon. Probably gone soon too though." And true enough, she was back within the week, laden with foul-smelling lengths of metal. It was quick and easy when she knew what she was looking for, she told Mara when they bumped into each other on the path, as the Rock Whisperer headed off again. "I wouldn't bother waiting up for me. I've got lots to do!"<br /><br />And so the spring passed and then the summer, in endless little trips to ferry back pieces of metal. There were great sheets of the stuff, poles and rings, pots and toothed wheels. The village smith visited her more than once to trade, as in the past she was traded her scraps for food. It was usually apples, she was fond of those.<br /><br />"So, will a basket do for the lot?" he asked, scratching at the surface of a misshapen lump, hoping for some metal beneath the rust. "That's our usual."<br />"Oh no! Nonononono," the rock whisperer bounded from her unpacking with alarming speed and snatched away the piece. "I need all these! They're for the project, you see. That's a valve. Those are important. I need lots of valve, or so Haynes says. Though if the sea-village people come by, I could do with whale oil..."<br />The smith left her to it. There was little to be gained in fighting with her when Ruins-madness was upon her.<br /><br />It seemed that she was content with her rust heap by the end of summer, for she dashed off in the other direction towards the coast, with a bundle of golden scraps and shining fabrics. Two weeks later, she returned with gallons of whale oil, a mule to carry the lot and a face-splitting grin. "I've got everything now!" she squealed as she passed the village. "Wait and see! You'll love it!"<br /><br />They didn't really wait, they simply went about their lives and time passed just as quickly. Winter came and yet the Rock Whisperer did not appear at their gate seeking heat and company. Some muttered that perhaps finally her odd ways had claimed her. Perhaps she had drowned in all that whale oil. Perhaps she had eaten it all and burst.<br /><br />By some good fortune, it was Mara who spotted her first, on a crisp day after the Thaw. She had been tending to the goats, feeding them the scraps of the night before. She had given up hope on more lessons. An older girl had taken over the task of teaching the littler ones, but she didn't really know any more than Mara. She contented herself with borrowing her great-uncle's books and with tending goats. They were more interesting than chickens.<br /><br />A great roar ripped through the valley. The goats bleated and fled. Mara froze and glanced about for the source of the sound. It was louder than any sound that she had ever heard, except perhaps the river in a flood and a falling tree. The roar continued, continuous like the purring of some monstrous gravel-stuffed cat. The Rock Whisperer had told her about monstrous cats, but she was sure that there couldn't be lions here. A shadowed shape rolled over the brow of a nearby hill. It was the size of a wagon and just as blocky. It lunged down the slope, the whirling of its four dark wheels becoming plain. It was a wagon, but of metal and glass, rolling loose without horses to guide it. The stench of burning whale oil clogged the air. As Mara squinted at it, she saw a figure squatted behind a glass panel and upon it the glimmer of sequins. The other villagers were beginning to run out, spears in hand and armoured leathers hastily donned.<br /><br />"What is it?" her cousin called to her as he ran to her side. "What is that thing? Get back inside!"<br />"It's some kind of monster! A Ruins fiend!" cried one of the others.<br />"No, wait, I think it's..."Mara faltered, unsure of what she thought it was. "I think it's hers."<br />As the monster sprinted towards them, above the sound of its furious snarl came the voice of the Rock Whisperer, shrieking with joy.<br />"Look! Look at it! It works, just like the manual said!" As she neared the crowd, she turned the strange wagon and circled around and around the village, flicking up mud and grit. "It's beautiful! Isn't it beautiful? We could go anywhere! It's so quick. It's a car, a horseless wagon! I fixed it. We can fix things, we can make it work again! We can have it all back again!"<br /></div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-66635120766481322682011-12-12T14:16:00.003+00:002011-12-13T13:27:57.401+00:00Particles, Processes, Species and Selfby Emma-Kate Prout<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Emma-Kate Prout is about to - oh… is in her third and final year as an undergraduate in Earth Science and Geography at Durham University. This is all she has time to write at the top of the page.</span><br /><br />In an earlier post (<a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/08/life-and-learning-part-1-poetry-pebbles.html">Life and Learning, Part 1: Poetry, Pebbles and Poo</a>), I introduced the concept of consciousness of science in everyday life. <br /><br />We begin now at your desk. It’s raining and you’re cosy indoors with a full plate of <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/08/life-and-learning-part-1-poetry-pebbles.html">biscuits</a> and an empty sheet of paper. Several minutes later, plate and page reach disequilibrium: apparently, biscuit consumption exceeds creative output. You examine the remaining biscuit: sweet child of field and factory. You contemplate how it might look if you magnified it: wheatflour, vegetable oil, sugar and the rest. Millions of McVitie’s molecules (protons, neutrons, electrons, tastiness) of the right types, in the right proportions, in the right arrangement, at the right temperature, are crammed into this crumby, biscuit-shaped block. You contemplate for a while, then dunk Chemistry in your tea. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECEr0jrd9PlhXFkWvvWwiJ7A3jC82tfR_YyIXus2kijOI_fQDAW7kU2UtqO1xJDDTlXPrY9F_x3wAYamobJebLEv73Q3b0louR5CsOiazhACpRPt0fJjDdwATGnDxr7Grb9lHNwDAzgtI/s1600/Particles%252C+Processes%252C+Species+and+Self+image+cropped.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px;float:left;margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECEr0jrd9PlhXFkWvvWwiJ7A3jC82tfR_YyIXus2kijOI_fQDAW7kU2UtqO1xJDDTlXPrY9F_x3wAYamobJebLEv73Q3b0louR5CsOiazhACpRPt0fJjDdwATGnDxr7Grb9lHNwDAzgtI/s400/Particles%252C+Processes%252C+Species+and+Self+image+cropped.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685185548089643634" /></a><br /><br />As you digest your Digestive, the rain drums harder on the window. You’ve bagged box tickets for the wettest show on Earth: the Great Global Tour of life’s liquid in its many guises. Glaciers and geysers, rivers and lakes, oceans and clouds, trickle in droplets down the glass. The see-through slab of processed sand is all that sits between you and some stunning choreo-Geography. You are inches from a molecule that featured in <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/08/life-and-learning-part-1-poetry-pebbles.html">Jurassic Krap</a>. Just as the dance dies away into drizzle, Physics wows the crowds with a fantastic finale: Little Old Lady sprays Loud-Mouthed Lout as she ploughs through puddles in her petrol-powered metal machine. <br /><br />Show over, you return to your blank page. Someone once watched rain water your paper when it lived and you think you should at least honour its death with some decent words. As you ponder, you tap your fingers to the radio. Your personal patterns of lines, loops and whorls wave to the waves from the box that’s plugged into the wall. In another place at another time, limbs, lungs and minds met friction and air to make music with metal and wood. It vibrates in your room now, as frequencies and amplitudes of life and love. The pulse through the nerve from your ear to your brain makes you smile. <br /><br />You start writing. At least, you scribble ‘without thinking’- always good for getting the cogs going. Don’t cross out or pause to mentally modify it, you tell yourself. Just jot the first thing that comes into your head. But of course, you’re always thinking even when you think you’re not and there is no such thing as unedited writing. It’s as though you’re writing on the dance floor at a wedding party in your brain. Experiences, emotions and memories are doing the Mental Macarena, swilling with cognitive cocktails. Uncle Consciousness and Auntie Analogy inevitably throw up on your page.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTWOUSEJBGoBstSyv4sLaMRQZX3JPLcUQQbnfED3R4ZpeebNAmeB_ipUUuSlVWV8ncBpsI2BCH6B1Il5SBCaMWMlcBQvxNnFTBPzfzr9TtnDP67_adOQ-eDjutAsq-TvOQt6kyyr-f1ag/s1600/Mental+Macarena+cropped.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTWOUSEJBGoBstSyv4sLaMRQZX3JPLcUQQbnfED3R4ZpeebNAmeB_ipUUuSlVWV8ncBpsI2BCH6B1Il5SBCaMWMlcBQvxNnFTBPzfzr9TtnDP67_adOQ-eDjutAsq-TvOQt6kyyr-f1ag/s400/Mental+Macarena+cropped.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685187032651457986" /></a>Writing seems quite impressive now that you consider it: up in head office, your brain commands your food-fuelled muscles to work in pairs. From your mind, through your arm, from a small plastic stick spill lines and letters (a language you learned), their patterns returned to your brain through your eyes by light bounced off mashed-up trees. You decide that even if you’re writing drivel, the action alone is a wonder.<br /><br />So you carry on writing. Science flows behind your words, within, beneath and beyond your page, in every direction, on every scale, in effervescent streams. It soaks through your senses; is almost a sense in itself.<br /><br />You have <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/09/life-and-learning-part-2-outside-box.html">uncorked the fizz</a>. And you sparkle with Science, engulfed by and part of its awe.<br /><br />In a breathing block of elements, a flesh-draped, blood-pumped frame of bones, by a window in a box of bricks, in a web of life, in time and space, as cause and effect on Planet Earth, in a still-expanding Universe; as particles, processes, species and self… you think and feel and write.Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-15125012699757166552011-12-12T12:58:00.016+00:002011-12-12T13:43:43.107+00:00Where Do Good Ideas Come From? Part 3: Sharing Experiences<div style="text-align: justify;">by Paula Martin<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Back in May this year, I invited Linda Gillard to become Durham University’s “Celebrate Science Author in Residence” for 2011. What have I gained from the experience?</span><br /><br />Part 3: Sharing Experiences<br /><br />Looking back over the past year, for me, the Celebrate Science Author in Residence project has been all about sharing experiences. I have thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to bring together diverse groups of people and giving them space, time and a common interest to explore. The project has brought people together in relatively formal ways (such as the many detailed discussions that Linda and I have had about the project as a whole, as discussed in <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/12/where-do-good-ideas-come-from-part-2.html#links">Part 2: Taking a Leap into the Unknown</a>), as well as relatively informally through this blog, and through the science and writing workshops that formed part of the residency. I have been truly inspired by the experiences I have had during this project and the people that have shared them. And as a fantastic added bonus, I have been inspired to spend even more time in the glorious North Pennines, whatever the weather!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwS9SHXo0BK6PT6MeDBlXWckcmFEdGInHu-NcAPP6oI11tnAbRYfEwhYRXtWTKmt72Oa37fguF3HOrfuJZMPf9EalRbHWFRuyP7ELppoeZZTdeKwmf1kDjXxrA0cx8YXgPNEQrN2tyvJo/s1600/North+Pennines+December+2011.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwS9SHXo0BK6PT6MeDBlXWckcmFEdGInHu-NcAPP6oI11tnAbRYfEwhYRXtWTKmt72Oa37fguF3HOrfuJZMPf9EalRbHWFRuyP7ELppoeZZTdeKwmf1kDjXxrA0cx8YXgPNEQrN2tyvJo/s400/North+Pennines+December+2011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685226071067689266" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One of the guilty pleasures of producing this blog is that I often get to see the things that people would like to contribute before they are published, as I am the person uploading them to be shared with the rest of the world. This means that I have some time to consider the ideas and images presented all by myself, before I become overwhelmed by the deluge of ideas that come from other people’s comments and responses. For example, following this post I will be uploading the final entry from Emma-Kate Prout, in which she includes an illustration of the way that she approaches writing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmuw94gAVT5xNMk0BRIyN641EnLNJNSQYeucHxX_H5WYLDMdpgHsxAc2mzUDsN_s2vwJN-BEV-NBvjisALknbTIkJKr0ziCAxlcVc-UZwxWgOFYxjYRQvEU2SQS0Paj8MKZ9GaSFqOHt10/s1600/post-its.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmuw94gAVT5xNMk0BRIyN641EnLNJNSQYeucHxX_H5WYLDMdpgHsxAc2mzUDsN_s2vwJN-BEV-NBvjisALknbTIkJKr0ziCAxlcVc-UZwxWgOFYxjYRQvEU2SQS0Paj8MKZ9GaSFqOHt10/s400/post-its.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685226964692685810" border="0" /></a>I was inspired by Emma-Kate to include an illustration of the way that I approach writing: proposals, presentations and reports (and even blog entries) rarely get produced in my office without first appearing as a swarm of post-it notes that are subsequently shuffled into some sort of order, before the ideas captured on them finally come together in an electronic document of some sort.<br /><br />During the science and writing workshops Linda introduced participants to “timed writing” exercises, in which each participant choose a word or an image that appealed to them, from a varied selection provided by Linda, and then had to write for 10 minutes solid; no stopping to think, no correcting of spelling mistakes no editing at all. I really surprised myself with the stuff that came flowing out of my pen during these exercises (unexpected objects, detailed descriptions, raw emotions), and with how much I enjoyed the experience. It was frightening to see words out there in the real world that must have been lurking in the back of my brain, but also exhilarating to think that I was finding things out in such a relatively quick and painless way, and might be able to grasp a strong hold on whatever had been eluding me. I found the experience to be so powerful that I introduced the “timed writing” concept to others at the first available opportunity, and I will certainly be making use of these exercises again in the future!<br /><br />I have also had the unusual pleasure of experiencing a rather detailed imaginary discussion with a fictional character. After reading Linda’s commissioned work, <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/11/six-days-by-linda-gillard.html">SIX DAYS</a>, I found myself thinking about one of Linda’s other characters: Marianne, the congenitally blind heroine of Linda’s award-winning novel <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Star-Gazing-Linda-Gillard/dp/0749938978/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323697303&sr=1-1">Star Gazing</a>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSOSzKBdPRY-O4I9-BQ6sdwdnmpuFIuUQJ9wKV1ae69ofDAuMZiB87Oe3QLi8r90Ixo9tWvGSNL8NzHltAyEN1nlojefuZWxI7CWNkrJ152bXxsCM5-N5HYsqcO9cPberbcsbQO7nJlLu/s1600/Frosterley+Marble+cropped.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSOSzKBdPRY-O4I9-BQ6sdwdnmpuFIuUQJ9wKV1ae69ofDAuMZiB87Oe3QLi8r90Ixo9tWvGSNL8NzHltAyEN1nlojefuZWxI7CWNkrJ152bXxsCM5-N5HYsqcO9cPberbcsbQO7nJlLu/s400/Frosterley+Marble+cropped.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685227731053349970" /></a>What would Marianne think of Durham Cathedral? I think she would enjoy the open, yet enclosed, space of both the Nave and the Cloisters. I think she would absolutely love the cylindrical columns of Frosterley Marble in the Chapel of the Nine Alters; cold to the touch, their outward faces are highly polished and wonderfully smooth, but if you run your hand around the back of any of the columns you can feel the true texture of the rock, composed of myriad pale fossils encased in dark mud with solitary corals standing proud. Giving Marianne an imaginary tour is a whole new way of exploring the Cathedral, and the rocks that were used to build it, which brings a smile to my face whenever I think about it.<br /><br />Bringing people together to share their ideas and experiences has been a great pleasure, and I’m looking forward to continuing these conversations into the future. Some of the participants in the science and writing workshops have generously volunteered to share the “writing experiments” that they have produced, Celebrating Science. Emma-Kate’s final musings on approaches to science and writing will set the scene, and then the “writing experiments” will appear over the next week or so, in the hope that they will not only entertain, but also inspire you!<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Paula Martin is Science Outreach Co-ordinator for Durham University</span><br /></div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-25518305644141476572011-12-06T20:12:00.037+00:002011-12-07T11:41:53.437+00:00Where Do Good Ideas Come From? Part 2: Taking a Leap into the Unknown<div style="text-align: justify;">by Paula Martin<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Back in May this year, I invited Linda Gillard to become Durham University’s “Celebrate Science Author in Residence” for 2011. What was the experience like for me?</span><br /><br />Part 2: Taking a Leap into the Unknown<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5vGGDDUp2-xyY__jJb0jj7x5zzyjYft9aRkDn01Y64zEYkwgUAHIJQVtR6mbsP5Xf6KqsjvWL1JVrzt1m0TJ1dzetkEi9A8ynYTVgQToe70UvYuPxOrlihLOybggalj7qQCNMUhpUuzFk/s1600/Crinkle+Crags+Unknown+Langdale.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 250px; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5vGGDDUp2-xyY__jJb0jj7x5zzyjYft9aRkDn01Y64zEYkwgUAHIJQVtR6mbsP5Xf6KqsjvWL1JVrzt1m0TJ1dzetkEi9A8ynYTVgQToe70UvYuPxOrlihLOybggalj7qQCNMUhpUuzFk/s400/Crinkle+Crags+Unknown+Langdale.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683340653955069250" border="0" /></a>Having secured support from Beacon NE for my idea to invite Linda Gillard to become the Celebrate Science Author in Residence 2011, I had to take the plunge and actually invite her. This was my first leap into the unknown world of commissioning an author. It was a surprisingly scary step to take.<br /><br />I had worked out with my colleagues in the North East of England a clear proposal to put to Linda, including running a series of writing workshops as well as writing her own commissioned piece of work. I was very happy with the range of ideas in the proposal and thought we had the basic framework for a great project. I was thoroughly excited, like a child with a new toy. Nonetheless, it was extremely nerve-wracking for me, composing an initial email to send to Linda, checking it twice (at least!) and finally hitting send. What if Linda didn’t like my idea? What if my colleagues and I were all suffering from some kind of collective insanity and this wasn’t a good idea after all? What if Linda wasn’t interested in working with scientists, or visiting the gloriously beautiful North East of England, or both/neither?<br /><br />Thankfully I only had to suffer through an hour or so of jangling nerves and self-doubt before I received a very enthusiastic reply from Linda. What a relief!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UdSJ5aq78CAJ4bv8WUWOi4kkXyt0baUg9Io_3XoYyf28JRJ95m-oJLt1IoqIPGHzrHtv3sSq20rnNDO3ku6GnwuhlfClhkjhB7n7VG8TRPOFBfFz_vFJYLWp-dLtUEQRfumviElsAuT_/s1600/Pyrenees+Perspective.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UdSJ5aq78CAJ4bv8WUWOi4kkXyt0baUg9Io_3XoYyf28JRJ95m-oJLt1IoqIPGHzrHtv3sSq20rnNDO3ku6GnwuhlfClhkjhB7n7VG8TRPOFBfFz_vFJYLWp-dLtUEQRfumviElsAuT_/s400/Pyrenees+Perspective.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683341511774939074" border="0" /></a>Linda’s reply was full of comments and questions that kick-started a wide ranging discussion that has continued throughout the project. Linda really has asked A LOT of questions throughout the project, which have been exhausting and time-consuming to answer. Many of my other projects were put aside while I figured out appropriate answers. At times my head really did hurt from trying to see our discussions from Linda’s perspective. But this is not a bad thing; I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was difficult for me at times, but I was hooked on the challenge of explaining myself in new ways, and exploring new ideas with my new friend. We have been sharing flurries of emails over the past few months, and these have been a real source of great pleasure, self-reflection and deep learning for me.<br /><br />For example, when making the initial proposal, I asked Linda to produce a short story (3,000 words) based on her experiences as the Celebrate Science Author in Residence 2011. I wanted to have something tangible at the end of the project to illustrate Linda’s unique contribution. I knew Linda as a writer of novels with an interest in poetry, but a novel would obviously be way too much to ask and a poem seemed way too small. What should I ask her to produce? In my naivety, the obvious thing for me to suggest was a short story. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccCFsqANlJ3g9P73qy7zjfYSuqTNrVsHHlc_AJZB7N2edBO33o6aC0RHd0f7UYD490XZrl1aFJTtb40fv6VoI5VAXoNTNNmh5tdPoXH-1yTdQ3Wab1oj9kusV5oNJ7PVrM-JEpgn0AjqC/s1600/Waskerley+Way+Gate.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 120px; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccCFsqANlJ3g9P73qy7zjfYSuqTNrVsHHlc_AJZB7N2edBO33o6aC0RHd0f7UYD490XZrl1aFJTtb40fv6VoI5VAXoNTNNmh5tdPoXH-1yTdQ3Wab1oj9kusV5oNJ7PVrM-JEpgn0AjqC/s400/Waskerley+Way+Gate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683342075642731938" border="0" /></a>Had I realised what a large creative barrier this would be, or how much unnecessary anxiety this would cause Linda, I would certainly have chosen my words more carefully (I now know that a request for a short piece of creative writing is much less daunting for a writer than a request for a short story, even if the total word count is exactly the same). I’m so pleased that Linda raised her concerns with me and I was able to encourage her to write freely and produce whatever seemed most appropriate to her.<br /><br />Similarly, I can also now see that the offer of presenting the commissioned work at the Durham Book Festival raised a creative barrier for Linda that I certainly hadn’t intended to be there. I thought it would be a good thing to offer Linda the opportunity to showcase her work. As soon as we realised that Linda was feeling trapped by this offer, we removed this barrier too without question. We discussed alternative ways of “presenting” <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/11/six-days-by-linda-gillard.html">SIX DAYS</a>, and decided that presenting it right here on the Celebrating Science blog was the best thing to do, in no small part because the blog has also been one of the unexpected great successes of the project.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvQn150CegUmMKX-C9GVzfAOuwYlHXVeXd15u8KvNfEOIM_Xxkfiws0H1RiecYiUUBWXn8ZZQhyj8oNd8G3fTmM5PnItDKye9iA0J6AIgDYiWxFGBnXRtrgVO74jQet2eRXAQjsdG-paP/s1600/Waskerly+Way+View.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvQn150CegUmMKX-C9GVzfAOuwYlHXVeXd15u8KvNfEOIM_Xxkfiws0H1RiecYiUUBWXn8ZZQhyj8oNd8G3fTmM5PnItDKye9iA0J6AIgDYiWxFGBnXRtrgVO74jQet2eRXAQjsdG-paP/s400/Waskerly+Way+View.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683342315981671730" border="0" /></a>Through our discussions I have learnt a huge amount about writing techniques, Linda’s personal approach to writing, and how easy it is to create something that other people will see as barriers. I would love to have total financial and creative freedom, so that when starting new projects in future I might approach people and say simply this: “Let’s have some fun and see what we end up with! Would you like to come and play?”<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Paula Martin is Science Outreach Co-ordinator for Durham University</span></div>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-41929754580289125992011-12-02T07:44:00.021+00:002011-12-02T09:42:21.527+00:00Where Do Good Ideas Come From? Part 1: Finding Inspirationby Paula Martin<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Back in May this year, I invited Linda Gillard to become Durham University’s “Celebrate Science Author in Residence” for 2011. Where did this crazy idea come from? What was the experience like for me? There are so many questions and avenues to explore that this post is going to have to be split into 2 parts (at least!). <br />Read on, and all will be revealed...</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hzA3XxB_fYsQz-sxDHGchFz1uPVSoYkoXuSnZOZUadOwqsq0rVllnJLk1f4JD3ws2fiHY78YMiR4I13R_ue077B5Vk_PD92GPl9itP_qPD7jBt35sNrORjp0cwaC4Sp8J0bAdmpbx3dL/s1600/Cathedral+view+from+Prebends+Bridge.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hzA3XxB_fYsQz-sxDHGchFz1uPVSoYkoXuSnZOZUadOwqsq0rVllnJLk1f4JD3ws2fiHY78YMiR4I13R_ue077B5Vk_PD92GPl9itP_qPD7jBt35sNrORjp0cwaC4Sp8J0bAdmpbx3dL/s400/Cathedral+view+from+Prebends+Bridge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681440699591442178" /></a>Part 1: Finding Inspiration<br /><br />In October 2010 we hosted the first ever Celebrate Science event on Palace Green, at the heart of the UNSECO World Heritage Site in the centre of Durham, nestled between Durham Cathedral and Durham Castle. <br /><br />The event was a huge success, attracting well over 1,000 visitors over 3 days, stimulating interest in science through a variety of interactive experiments and inspiring people to discuss science in their everyday lives. It was organised in conjunction with Durham Book Festival, and amongst other amazing things, visitors were also given the opportunity to experience storytelling and poetry writing under the theme of Celebrating Science. Following on from this huge success, we wanted to make Celebrate Science 2011 even bigger and even better than the 2010 event, and were contemplating the ways in which we might do this. I have a deep interest in multi-disciplinary projects, and wanted to explore ways in which we might build upon our links to the Durham Book Festival. What kind of “Science and Writing” or “Scientists and Writers” project could I come up with, that would support and/or expand the Celebrate Science event?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAFkT7ztd7W-3S5oALUUjqXZ3438wl_H_BbqwyEesqrDyDr7KgygKKK7hf80YUlCNYswdgdGn1MJ09SoYVZeqB5rJDv0wrff7khTHxACyrT9oOtU5aoLXyv2crblKOVm6gfMmD35bK2Cr/s1600/6432876167_3a8711a510.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;float:left;margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAFkT7ztd7W-3S5oALUUjqXZ3438wl_H_BbqwyEesqrDyDr7KgygKKK7hf80YUlCNYswdgdGn1MJ09SoYVZeqB5rJDv0wrff7khTHxACyrT9oOtU5aoLXyv2crblKOVm6gfMmD35bK2Cr/s400/6432876167_3a8711a510.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681452500800614914" /></a>At the same time, I had another idea floating around at the back of my head. As soon as I moved to the North East of England to work for Durham University, back in January 2006, I fell in love with the stunning natural beauty of the region, from windswept beaches with miles of golden sands to the glorious moors, peatlands and hay meadows of the North Pennines. And then of course there is the great sense of pleasure that I get from walking along the banks of the river Wear, taking in the magnificent views of Durham Cathedral and the intriguing sense of many, many other people having passed this way before. I want to shout out and tell the world what wonderful place this is and encourage everyone to come and see it for themselves and share my sense of wonder (although I must admit that I do sometimes also secretly want to keep it all to myself!). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JCj5e46ccpXbepVvVBm7DCKOTXvgOZgOgVeI5BAAYJkMRgxdlxgL8OjdheXax0Z29guho6vV5qrVbVNNQRl5rDBfKBQO3KtF54aKRpXDg88fbbwrxotxJ53OcGEx68ac6BA3RQWQ-aVF/s1600/Weardale.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JCj5e46ccpXbepVvVBm7DCKOTXvgOZgOgVeI5BAAYJkMRgxdlxgL8OjdheXax0Z29guho6vV5qrVbVNNQRl5rDBfKBQO3KtF54aKRpXDg88fbbwrxotxJ53OcGEx68ac6BA3RQWQ-aVF/s400/Weardale.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681453454742588898" /></a>What is the best way of doing this? How can I bring the beauty of the North East to a new audience? What I really need, I thought, is someone who can capture a sense of place in the same way the Linda Gillard does in her novels, Emotional Geology and Star Gazing. How am I going to find someone who can do that??<br /><br />Meanwhile, I was also involved with the North East Beacon for Public Engagement (Beacon NE). Through my previous experiences with Beacon NE I knew that the Beacon NE team are a generally supportive bunch of people, who are open to crazy new ideas. I also had a memory of the voice of the Beacon NE Project Manager Kate Hudson running through my head, saying: “Take risks; try something new!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSMOepP6Bxjdhe8pFp0Vfh97UtwbyfEqEm-iFnAGhem9W5XxSdlHgvUNVRmUWpdruwKRQCL0-ZUlNhtv_-KJU8Wa2xVqHAkoeaO4NDKr2iW33vHbcfX69MlfW_sxp8aWJ8jrua3dq-s4ue/s1600/North_East.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px;float:left;margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSMOepP6Bxjdhe8pFp0Vfh97UtwbyfEqEm-iFnAGhem9W5XxSdlHgvUNVRmUWpdruwKRQCL0-ZUlNhtv_-KJU8Wa2xVqHAkoeaO4NDKr2iW33vHbcfX69MlfW_sxp8aWJ8jrua3dq-s4ue/s400/North_East.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681442926993919074" /></a>All of these ideas and experiences came together in late 2010, and I decided to follow Kate’s advice. First, I discussed my ideas with a few close colleagues, others that I hadn’t worked with before in the Department of English Studies, and with Claire Malcolm from New Writing North (organiser of the Durham Book Festival). Then, as Linda put it in her discussion of <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/11/inspiration-perspiration-exploration-by.html">being commissioned to write something</a>, I embraced hubris! Rather than messing around trying to find someone who could capture a sense of place in the same way that Linda Gillard does, I went straight to the source: Linda Gillard herself! <br /><br />For me, really good ideas tend to be slow-burners, that develop over many years, and only turn into reality when several things come together at once and the timing is right. I am so pleased that I did follow Kate’s advice in this case, taking a risk and trying something new. The whole experience has been a fascinating journey of discovery and a real rollercoaster of emotions! I’ll give you all the gory details in Part 2...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Paula Martin is Science Outreach Co-ordinator for Durham University</span>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-16715885426580549882011-11-23T16:45:00.039+00:002011-11-23T22:42:13.335+00:00Literature and Scienceby Simon James<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCf3mtgKNum0e7rZ9U82IKa2Vu9Jp_lsuhgMEkvalsshddCg8c1_oIzAmeBYrYC4WIh1YDK32omdMzfREak_iav0mkiZ62oDt2nHS6qSPo49rYly76nsjU_XoDuG2ZKh5yb-51Zb7tqMpd/s1600/200px-Structure-of-scientific-revolutions-3rd-ed-pb.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px;float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCf3mtgKNum0e7rZ9U82IKa2Vu9Jp_lsuhgMEkvalsshddCg8c1_oIzAmeBYrYC4WIh1YDK32omdMzfREak_iav0mkiZ62oDt2nHS6qSPo49rYly76nsjU_XoDuG2ZKh5yb-51Zb7tqMpd/s400/200px-Structure-of-scientific-revolutions-3rd-ed-pb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678288003837410274" border="0" /></a>Three years after C. P. Snow's famous complaint of the academy's 'two cultures', a text was published that has become very familiar to students of the History and Philosophy of Science: Thomas Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962). In this book, Kuhn coins the term 'paradigm shift' to describe the way that science moves from one conceptual framework to another. Kuhn shows the notion of 'scientific truth' to be not one of increasing transcendent, unshakeable and permanent certainty, but that it might be more provisional, contingent, the best hypothesis available given the current data available – in other words, to think of truth more in the way that researchers in the Arts and Humanities might understand it.<br /><br />It is a curious paradox, however, that when writers in the Arts and Humanities incorporate science into their work, sometimes they fail to apply the same combination of rigour and scepticism that we bring to history, philosophy or aesthetic artefacts in our own disciplines. A scientific 'fact' can become an idée fixe that subjugates all the other components, a sword to cut through the Gordian knots of literary production and consumption. For H. G. Wells, along with Snow one of the rare literary writers to receive a training as a scientist, the most important thing to be learned from science is the fact that all human beings share a common biological origin. For Wells, this proves national and racial identity to be a fiction: therefore humanity owes it to science to renounce the idea of nation states and form a utopian world government that will allow every individual to reach their potential.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ETnlOmURASE3CWkcK8yT7KrrxBH3g-TO_vjdP6Ssa5cvbC5-T7K7IxTW1dlk2jWqmde56sWwBMJZH68v9vFSzOJmPtnFYekHZZdWWypk1w_v_qRdN_WK8FdNczBCc3C98O1C8atmnJJk/s1600/Maps+of+Utopia1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px;float:left;margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ETnlOmURASE3CWkcK8yT7KrrxBH3g-TO_vjdP6Ssa5cvbC5-T7K7IxTW1dlk2jWqmde56sWwBMJZH68v9vFSzOJmPtnFYekHZZdWWypk1w_v_qRdN_WK8FdNczBCc3C98O1C8atmnJJk/s400/Maps+of+Utopia1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678312469333624850" border="0" /></a>As I discuss in my forthcoming book Maps of Utopia, that this single idea comes to dominate Wells's fictional and non-fictional output is one of the reasons why only books from the first fifteen of his fifty-year writing career still tend to be read now (although it is also forgotten that in Wells's own lifetime, his best-selling books were not his scientific romances, but the speculative non-fiction Anticipations, the World War One novel Mr. Britling Sees It Through and The Outline of History, a history of the world from the evolution of man to the desired utopian future).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfbr4V4YB9UofwAq5_DlQCB5ubx3dHAsB8FGI3lo8DqDEbb5y-U0fpZ2-atOYBwTZ4xgwntB-RiBnbRAvmSvi08J0kACnd8Zhu2_lFow7IizRLeRIQCMRPjjjnS8Js-Jk0aToBhLIs3f1/s1600/carroll_book.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px;float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfbr4V4YB9UofwAq5_DlQCB5ubx3dHAsB8FGI3lo8DqDEbb5y-U0fpZ2-atOYBwTZ4xgwntB-RiBnbRAvmSvi08J0kACnd8Zhu2_lFow7IizRLeRIQCMRPjjjnS8Js-Jk0aToBhLIs3f1/s400/carroll_book.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678313893789702866" border="0" /></a>Among literary critics, a further example might be Professor Joseph Carroll of the University of Missouri-St Louis. Carroll is strongly opposed to the 'theory revolutions' that convulsed literary study in the late twentieth century, and which sought to instruct that the meanings of language are unreliable, provisional, even indefinitely deferred. Carroll, a scholar of the Victorian cultural critic Matthew Arnold, wanted to put literary study back on a firmer basis – and that basis is the work of Charles Darwin. Literary critics should again be encouraged to preach that literature's function is to teach us about human nature, because we have books that tell us what human nature is: The Origin of Species and The Descent of Man. Unfortunately, the work of Carroll and his disciples, while formidably erudite, can produce rather crude readings of the texts themselves: to be told that we read Austen to learn about mating strategies, or that Homer constitutes an adaptive technology for better chances in natural selection neither illuminates nor dignifies the text very much – nor, for that matter, humanity either. Carroll's claim that literary merit is something that can be scientifically measured has yet to find wide acceptance, and few English Departments teach 'evolutionary' literary theory alongside theories of formalism, gender, history or psychoanalysis.<br /><br />Perhaps a part of the problem is that literary theory, like science and social science, looks to create meaningful universal statements, while literary criticism is more concerned with the particular, the specific, the individual details that enable a text to create the range of effects that it does. Literariness itself thrives on indeterminacy – a well-worn measure of literariness is the capacity of the greatest texts to produce multiple meanings in the minds of different readers (or even from the same reader at different times). Evolutionary theory, in this respect, is like a mechanical digger. Mechanical diggers are useful things if you're looking to make something big, like a theory of the origin of the human species, but less useful in circumstances when what you really need is a scalpel or even just a spade.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSR1to7PfBez1GxNelmSnyUV8K1vp2gLqdXb04Wu87h5oefjJ0QH01F-s5tnXPbrfQ995vd6aEvZyRBU6eHl2oyyKgXXwGqpcw444Q_2pjI-SuOlxiBqqugltzw6kiBxGaTNP6cwLJCQOi/s1600/Evolit.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px;float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSR1to7PfBez1GxNelmSnyUV8K1vp2gLqdXb04Wu87h5oefjJ0QH01F-s5tnXPbrfQ995vd6aEvZyRBU6eHl2oyyKgXXwGqpcw444Q_2pjI-SuOlxiBqqugltzw6kiBxGaTNP6cwLJCQOi/s400/Evolit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678314620877376482" border="0" /></a>When Professor Nick Saul of the German Department and I set up an interdisciplinary conference under the Institute of Advanced Studies' 'Darwin' theme, we intended less to use Darwin's theories as a 'universal solvent' that would liquefy the differences between literary texts, than to engage with the specific ways in which writers and critics actually think about these theories. In this enterprise, we were very much inspired by Gillian Beer's groundbreaking study Darwin's Plots (1983), which in both deals with the ways in which writers such as George Eliot and Thomas Hardy think about Darwin, and also brilliantly reads The Origin of Species itself as a literary text, tracing the significance of the stories it tells, its metaphors and its lexical choices. (The proceedings of our conference have recently been published as The Evolution of Literature.)<br /><br />Durham's drive towards making its research culture more interdisciplinary is the most exciting thing that has happened to my own work. Through engaging with the history of economics, with theories of evolution and of culture, new perspectives have opened up on the texts I have chosen to study – but always as a way of enabling aesthetic response to be more complex, not of giving me a key that will automatically unlock the 'answer' of literary interpretation. I am continually inspired by the work of my colleagues in synthesising other forms of knowledge with literary study, such as Professor Pat Waugh's work on literature and neuroscience, or Dr Angela Woods on culture and psychiatry. More recently, conversations with Dr Charles Fernyhough of the Psychology Department have made me challenge the Freudian model of autobiographical memory with which English has long been comfortable, perhaps too comfortable – surely it must be the case that insights gleaned from empirical psychology might change for the better the way critics view Dickens's dramatisations of the acts of memory, and of his supposed childhood trauma in the Blacking Factory?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVESNR-a_Q7myWiZZGaGgzZXNw29bvboOlAPHoTFnD-6m1feHeQ0v7W83oizqXpfUlTes4WRZ8-dtMc-o1z_O8TSUV_AgaqR7KOZlBnoxZIfddzhVTWIeYvPqEVrKoQcwha_qyUKzC0Nv/s1600/Simon+James+and+Iain+M.+Banks+%2528Courtesy+of+New+Writing+North%2529.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px;float:left;margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVESNR-a_Q7myWiZZGaGgzZXNw29bvboOlAPHoTFnD-6m1feHeQ0v7W83oizqXpfUlTes4WRZ8-dtMc-o1z_O8TSUV_AgaqR7KOZlBnoxZIfddzhVTWIeYvPqEVrKoQcwha_qyUKzC0Nv/s400/Simon+James+and+Iain+M.+Banks+%2528Courtesy+of+New+Writing+North%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678316734733246834" border="0" /></a><br />Simon James talking about science fiction with Iain M. Banks<br />(Image courtesy of New Writing North).<br /><br />Snow's diagnosis of two separate cultures of the arts and the sciences is less true than it was, although traces of it remain: consider, for example, the way in which science is constantly misreported in the media, or whether it is more socially acceptable to be innumerate than to be a bad speller. For all this, it can nonetheless be very inspiring to see how your work might look through the eyes of another discipline, or to try to speak about it in another language from your own. I'm very lucky that the raw data of my subject, in my own case, novels, can be of great interest to academics in other disciplines, and I've learned so much from talking to scientists and social scientists, as well as other researchers in the arts, in contexts provided by the IAS and the Centre for Medical Humanities; and I'm looking forward to more such conversations in the new Centre for Sex, Gender and Sexuality.<br /><br />If you enjoyed this post, you may also be interested in the discussions continuing on the Centre for Medical Humanities blog:<br /><a href="http://medicalhumanities.wordpress.com/category/ideas/">http://medicalhumanities.wordpress.com/category/ideas/</a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Simon J. James is Senior Lecturer in Victorian Literature in the Department of English Studies at Durham University. He has recently completed <span style="font-weight: bold;">Maps of Utopia</span>, a study of H. G. Wells and high culture, and is currently working on books on Dickens and memory, and male bonding in fin-de-siecle fiction. He will be contributing to the Durham University IAS Public Lecture series on the Persistence of Beauty on 31 January. </span><br /><br />This piece first appeared in The Grove, vol. 17, November 2011.Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-4428760742287575162011-11-09T23:24:00.002+00:002011-11-23T17:03:03.111+00:00INSPIRATION, PERSPIRATION & EXPLORATION by Linda Gillard<span lang="EN-GB"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Being commissioned to write something for money is probably the dream of most authors of fiction. Few of us write anything knowing it will be published, or even if we’ll be paid for it. (I gather it’s rather different for scientific writers who have editors badgering them to write books for which there's a guaranteed market of academic libraries. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sigh</i>…) No one had ever commissioned me to write before, so when Dr Paula Martin included this request in the job description of the CELEBRATE SCIENCE residency, I was excited. In fact, I felt honoured. Little <i>me</i>?...</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTk02ddVjRP6901TU50nxGDCq8NwN8hKqHKLBPxNZmpMdt9_RTkDO_lqB9rJkrwt7i7pDb33z3gSHuztPR2TwvKSg1ETAAseIVmxLv0lKj41lXMHSoT9O9cwCo4TyRgljNVkiRns75s0d1/s1600/Paula_Martin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTk02ddVjRP6901TU50nxGDCq8NwN8hKqHKLBPxNZmpMdt9_RTkDO_lqB9rJkrwt7i7pDb33z3gSHuztPR2TwvKSg1ETAAseIVmxLv0lKj41lXMHSoT9O9cwCo4TyRgljNVkiRns75s0d1/s200/Paula_Martin.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr Paula Martin</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB">These very pleasant sensations lasted until I settled down to write. I’d been asked to produce a mere 3000 words, but the work needed to be polished as it would be shared publicly.<span style="color: green;"> </span>As I applied myself to the task, I realised I wouldn’t be able to work in my usual way. Normally I start writing fiction without many preconceptions about the end product. I always know it will be a novel rather than a play or a short story, but I don’t know how long it will be or what genre. I often know little about the plot. For me writing a novel is a process of exploration – of a group of characters, some themes and a skeletal story line. After one or two years and a huge amount of editing, I end up with something fit to be shown (tentatively) to my agent, a few family members and writing friends. After that, there’s another long editorial process before the finished manuscript – something between 85,000 to 125,000 words – can be handed over to my agent to sell, if she can.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">So the gestation period of a novel is elephantine. Yet I find this timescale reassuring. You have one or two years to get to know your characters, have second thoughts, develop plot complications and most importantly, do research and digest it, so you can use it judiciously. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">As it happens, we’re in the middle of <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a> (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Novel Writing Month</i>) in which many writers – some professional, most of them not – will be trying to produce a 50,000-word draft of a novel in 30 days. I tried to do it last year and gave up halfway through the month at around 26,000 words. Although I can write fast, I discovered when I attempted NaNo that I don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> fast enough to produce a novel in a month.</span><span lang="EN-GB"> It can take me weeks to establish a distinctive narrative voice and</span><span lang="EN-GB"> I need at least a year in which characters and plot can settle and mature, so I concluded NaNoWriMo is not for me.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJkW13_-_TfXaNCbJ7kZmOOjz47B7RtPk3JwCiPCrKrJixEBCsLAm3S4V3fSeb8oM7Luh2lXXF52vg4R2lz_EdZY59fh5U9dA4JAcS9GyDO9izrY6eQzmxlF_FRMrYnfjG2W6ky-Jw4Mu/s1600/sunderland+glass+samples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJkW13_-_TfXaNCbJ7kZmOOjz47B7RtPk3JwCiPCrKrJixEBCsLAm3S4V3fSeb8oM7Luh2lXXF52vg4R2lz_EdZY59fh5U9dA4JAcS9GyDO9izrY6eQzmxlF_FRMrYnfjG2W6ky-Jw4Mu/s320/sunderland+glass+samples.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glass samples, National Glass Centre, Sunderland</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Nor, I suspect, is writing to commission. I’d already been toying with the idea of writing about a stained glass artist and I decided to develop this for the commission in a context of “telling the story of science”, a theme that had cropped up in the writing workshops I ran in Durham as part of the residency. But because of the commission criteria, I felt under pressure to order my thoughts and package them in a certain way. I’d been asked to write a short story, but I had no experience of writing them. The 3,000-word piece needed to be coherent and entertaining. Ideally, it should demonstrate that Durham University hadn’t wasted their money asking me to write for them. This was a writing showcase for me, and I soon became aware that I was trying to put on a show. That doesn’t make for good or easy writing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">The gift of the commission soon began to feel like shackles for my imagination. After some discussion, Paula relieved me of the burden of having to write a short story or anything self-contained (though what I’ve produced is something like a short story and stands alone.) I told her I might be writing a radio play, or an excerpt from a play. Or it might be a bit of a novel. Or not. Paula was very understanding and agreed that the tail should not be allowed to wag the dog. I should produce whatever I felt inspired to write.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Reassured, I churned out a lot of dialogue without really knowing who was talking. </span><span lang="EN-GB">(This is how I work out my fictional ideas. I don't know what I think until I see what I say. Or rather, what <i>they </i>say.) </span><span lang="EN-GB">It was a bit like eavesdropping: fascinating to listen to, but confusing, because you don’t know what’s going on. A couple of characters were emerging, but without a novel’s extensive back story, they seemed like ciphers, mere mouthpieces for my ideas, which were risibly simplistic. I could already see that SIX DAYS was becoming a preliminary sketch for a novel about art, music, science and religion – a selection of my favourite themes – but was I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> going to scamper through the Creation, plus the End of the World in 3,000 words?... Well, why not? I was writing about an imaginary stained glass window that covered the same ground without recourse to any words at all. I embraced <i>hubris</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">But then there was another hiccup. I discovered belatedly that I would be required to read my piece at the Durham Book Festival. Another honour, but I felt I had to point out that no audience could be expected to sit and listen for the 15-20 minutes I estimated it would take me to read SIX DAYS. In any case, my event was to be shared with poet Valerie Laws. There simply wouldn’t be time for me to read for a self-indulgent 15 minutes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGlupqKjpBaM3QqIiVYDIM2eUKKSgXOPuLFx1-vXuPVVaRFcWiyosC688c4Sr4m1VDf85mcxfUxeScLdKVJzwzhGJPTRnlTe_VEKZCh6MewkNc9oAH7woDa2-cw-fdxcm_XWSAGytj4tC/s1600/LG+at+Durham.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGlupqKjpBaM3QqIiVYDIM2eUKKSgXOPuLFx1-vXuPVVaRFcWiyosC688c4Sr4m1VDf85mcxfUxeScLdKVJzwzhGJPTRnlTe_VEKZCh6MewkNc9oAH7woDa2-cw-fdxcm_XWSAGytj4tC/s320/LG+at+Durham.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LG reading at Durham Book festival. (Valerie Laws on left.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">So I suggested an excerpt and went back to the manuscript to see if I could find 5 minutes-worth that an audience might be able to follow and enjoy. I couldn’t. I’d written the piece to work <i>as a whole</i>. There were no breaks. The wide-ranging conversation led on from one idea to the next, until the whole thing was rounded off nicely with a twist and a punch line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Gloom descended. Anxiety followed hard on its heels. I began to consider re-writing, then realised this was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> bad case of the tail wagging the dog. The attention span of punters at the Durham Book Festival was dictating what and how I wrote. So I asked to be relieved of the obligation to read some of SIX DAYS in public. Paula was yet again very understanding and we agreed my piece would be posted, in its entirety, on this blog and on my website. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Relieved, I nevertheless felt a bit of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">prima donna,</i> but my difficulty had taken me by surprise. I’ve read from my novels at many author events over the years and I’ve never had any problem choosing excerpts ranging in length from two to ten minutes, because, </span><span lang="EN-GB">I suppose, </span><span lang="EN-GB">my novels are written in much shorter “thought chunks”. SIX DAYS had to stand alone and unconsciously, I wrote it as one indivisible whole.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL6WtQbJTX3vndg7EBPzG9yvC3jFXqi6cx-kBOHgX_BzHnRAtD7oWzzABLQmuKUymcYZJs7UkrHkXPTNmjtkTy10zwAm6pmDONkaU58sFCKPQRF0uFy3DSPHZs7EaCTk_6ABSNl9lOF4vU/s1600/Frosterley+marble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL6WtQbJTX3vndg7EBPzG9yvC3jFXqi6cx-kBOHgX_BzHnRAtD7oWzzABLQmuKUymcYZJs7UkrHkXPTNmjtkTy10zwAm6pmDONkaU58sFCKPQRF0uFy3DSPHZs7EaCTk_6ABSNl9lOF4vU/s320/Frosterley+marble.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frosterley marble</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">So now it’s all over, what do I think about writing to commission? Well, despite my anxiety, I delivered the goods. I finished ahead of my deadline and the piece was over 3000 words (but not significantly over.) I’ll no doubt find out soon if Durham is happy with what I wrote – though I wasn’t commissioned to write something anyone would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like</i>, merely something that was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inspired</i> by the experience of being in Durham, spending time with scientists. I did that, but the irony is, the most inspiring things about my residency didn’t make it into SIX DAYS. (I’m hoping they’ll make it into the novel, if it happens.) My 3,000 words didn’t encompass my wonder at the Cathedral’s stone forest of columns, particularly those made of black Frosterley marble, studded with milky fossils. Nor could I find room for the eerie sound of Saturn’s aurora, a recording played to me by the boundlessly enthusiastic Dr Pete Edwards after we’d been discussing the recording of Earth’s Northern Lights that features in my novel STAR GAZING. Pete also introduced me (at an appropriate primary pupil level) to helioseismology, which has not only become one of my favourite words, it has furnished the physicist-musician hero of my novel-to-be with an interest in “solar music”.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmfccedfdaneSVWW-wc_VaH1FriRH1SvjBIJOY0pbA7ciCIcgW4uGpPPbynhCQp7rlpFdvEI99GHtKHjZXQSS9S8t27NyG67K5ZFqz9k1C5ApDYpyR3DbC494qjD-wdrD4uMkvQxW2TzA/s1600/Pete+w+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmfccedfdaneSVWW-wc_VaH1FriRH1SvjBIJOY0pbA7ciCIcgW4uGpPPbynhCQp7rlpFdvEI99GHtKHjZXQSS9S8t27NyG67K5ZFqz9k1C5ApDYpyR3DbC494qjD-wdrD4uMkvQxW2TzA/s200/Pete+w+glasses.jpg" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr Pete Edwards</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB">But I’m afraid you won’t find these wonderful things in SIX DAYS. Not on the surface anyway. But they’re part of the underlying structure – invisible but essential. They need another year or so to grow and mature before they’re ready to face the world. SIX DAYS is about darkness and light, loneliness and the need human beings have to reach out to each other, to share ideas and enthusiasms. My novel-to-be will also be about those things and I hope to include much more, including the song of the Sun.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB">(Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be a bad title…)</span></div>Linda Gillardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747108591927491742noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-10609496736195873522011-11-08T14:44:00.000+00:002011-11-08T14:44:12.328+00:00SIX DAYS by Linda Gillard<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><i>As part of my brief as Durham's CELEBRATE SCIENCE author in residence, I was asked to write a 3000-word piece inpired by my residency. The nature of the work wasn't specified, other than that it should be a response to my experience of time spent in Durham - the city and the university. </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><i>I wrote the following piece of fiction, SIX DAYS. It stands alone I think, but I see it as the germ of a novel which I hope to start writing next year. </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6tHAWPhQruClrVHI88RX1n2LnQi9Z6ZBzWuMD_Ow3FEGAncxJ-ncxMvN1u_w2g78IK0AYC_4dhhIYttc4ynDqpOmtRmRWk0-bm6s84vt84Zvib_FlKbuIjQ-wlj6VlFHsrDPjI_pctMK/s1600/UN_Glass+Chagall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6tHAWPhQruClrVHI88RX1n2LnQi9Z6ZBzWuMD_Ow3FEGAncxJ-ncxMvN1u_w2g78IK0AYC_4dhhIYttc4ynDqpOmtRmRWk0-bm6s84vt84Zvib_FlKbuIjQ-wlj6VlFHsrDPjI_pctMK/s400/UN_Glass+Chagall.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Window designed by Marc Chagall, UN building New York</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b><span style="font-size: large;">SIX DAYS </span></b><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"><i> </i>There was something about the way the woman stood that made him think she’d been there for some time. Standing with her back toward him, centred under the large stained glass window, she gazed upwards. Even when someone moved within her orbit, she didn’t drop her eyes or look to the side. It was as if she were oblivious to the cathedral traffic: the dawdling tourists, bustling clergy and chattering school parties who wove their way round her still figure, keeping a respectful distance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB"> Joe had no wish to intrude on the woman’s contemplation, but he wanted to take a closer look at the Creation window (so called because it depicted the first chapter of Genesis), so he approached cautiously, taking up a position to one side, giving the woman a wide berth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">As he studied the window, he was still aware of her in his peripheral vision, standing in a pool of coloured light. He sensed rather than saw her shift her weight from one leg to the other, but otherwise she didn’t move. Curious now, he registered an impulse to turn and look at her – an impulse he nevertheless suppressed. He feared he might find her in a state of distress. People sometimes got emotional in cathedrals. He didn’t wish to feel either embarrassed or obligated, so Joe confined his attention to the window. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">There was plenty to occupy his mind. The window was contemporary, with six lights, or panes of glass, separated by stone mullions. Each light represented one of the six days of the biblical creation. As the narrative moved from left to right, order emerged gradually from chaos. The design began with a dark, impressionistic evocation of the Almighty’s raw materials and ended with a teeming but pictorially precise timeline on the far right, depicting the natural history of the modern world, from Noah’s ark, descending via the dodo and Darwin’s giant tortoises, to what Joe took to be a representation of a polar bear on a shrinking ice-cap. In the background, waves of turquoise water curled like a nautilus shell, approached an emblematic land mass. Whether they represented the normal motion of the sea or a tsunami, there was no way of knowing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Colourful and comprehensive, Joe decided, but certainly not cosy. Belatedly, he noticed a caption pieced out of coloured glass running underneath the six pictures: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He was relieved the artist had ignored advice to be fruitful and multiply; pleased that there was no exhortation to subdue the Earth or claim dominion over every living thing. Just the simple (and enigmatic) statement: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And the</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>underneath a series of illustrations that began and ended with a disturbing evocation of watery chaos. Joe found himself wondering whether the artist was a Christian. The window didn’t exactly toe the party line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">As if she’d read his thoughts, the woman suddenly turned to him and said, ‘Are you here because you believe? Or because it looked like rain?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Surprised to be addressed, Joe was caught off-guard by the question. He was also thrown by his inability to place the woman’s age. She was no longer young – her red hair was greying at the temples – but her large brown eyes were bright as a child’s and her high forehead unlined. Joe tried to recall why he’d stepped into the cathedral. A sense of cultural duty, he supposed. No visit to this city was complete apparently without a visit to its cathedral. He thought that might have been his motive. Then he remembered Monika and his irrational desire to light a candle for her, before her own light was extinguished and he said, ‘I’m about to become a father.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Congratulations.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘No… I didn’t mean it like that. My ex-wife is dying and our daughter is about to become my responsibility. I’ve barely seen her since she was a baby.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘How old is she?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Twelve.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Good grief! Poor kid... And poor you.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Thank you.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m very sorry about your wife.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Ex-wife. We parted shortly after the baby – our daughter – was born… Actually, I came in here to light candles for them both. And – well, to have a look round. I’ve never been here before.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘So… you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> a believer?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m a scientist.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">She tilted her head to one side and regarded him. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t think you’ve actually answered my question.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He smiled but didn’t meet her eye. ‘I believe in science. But if you’re asking me if I believe in God – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> god – then I would have to say no.’ He gazed up at the window. ‘But I envy those who do. Who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i>.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Why?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Because if you believe, the story – the story of our planet – makes some kind of sense. Why there’s something, rather than nothing. The story has a beginning and an end – if you believe in the day of Judgement. Heaven. Hell.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">The woman frowned. ‘But don’t scientists have a beginning too? The Big Bang? And as for ending – well, isn’t there supposed to be a “Complete Theory of Everything” now? That must surely include the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dénouement</i>? Stephen Hawking in the library with all the suspects and a solution.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">As he laughed softly, the woman saw the strain drop away from his drawn face. He suddenly looked much younger. She wondered if she’d somehow rendered him some small service and felt glad. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I don’t think any Theory of Everything will tell us what created the circumstances that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">led</i> to the Big Bang, any more than a Christian theologian can tell us who created God.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes, it’s the same intellectual dead end, isn’t it, for believer and atheist alike. St Paul’s was designed by Sir Christopher Wren, but who designed Sir Christopher Wren?’ She waved a hand dismissively. ‘There’s just no end to it.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Or beginning. Which is why I love Genesis. And I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i>,’ he said, looking upwards again, ‘it’s why I love this window.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do</i> you?’ Her tone was almost accusatory.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Why?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Because it answers the questions. It tells the story. And it has a beginning, a middle and an end.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘And God saw everything that he had made and, behold, it was very good.’</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Exactly. It’s a proper story, complete with happy ending.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘But… it’s not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">true</i>.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He turned and smiled. ‘Why let truth get in the way of a good story?’ He watched her face as momentary confusion gave way to amusement. Only then did he realise he’d felt slightly intimidated by the woman’s physical presence, which he knew had little to do with her height, or the opulence of her untidy auburn hair, and nothing at all to do with beauty. Her face was unadorned, her strong features almost mannish, but her eyes were arresting. Fearless, was the word that sprang to Joe’s mind, though he had no idea why. Perhaps that was why he’d felt intimidated. Her eyes challenged him. To a duel of words and ideas? He took up the gauntlet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Science has a story, but it’s not complete. If the Big Bang is the answer, what set it in train? We need a prequel. And we don’t have a proper ending. Only theories.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Which are?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He shrugged. ‘We’ll fry or we’ll freeze.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Choose your own adventure,</i>’ she replied with a smile.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m sorry?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I have a young nephew who writes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Choose Your Own Adventure</i> books. He used to read them, then he decided he wanted to write his own. Play God, I suppose. He’s creative, but rather controlling.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘God?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘No, my nephew. Though now you come to mention it…’ The woman grinned. ‘Anyway, when you read these adventure books, you make choices and, as a consequence, a variety of terrible things happen to you. You freeze or you fry. And it’s all your own fault. Because you chose that path.’ A mobile phone pierced the cathedral’s hush with its strident jingle. The woman scowled and gestured impatiently toward the sound. ‘Just imagine if we’d said no to the Industrial Revolution… You know, Native American Indians didn’t bother to invent the wheel. Didn’t need to. They didn’t own anything a horse couldn’t drag.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘But then look what happened to them.’</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQTziegI7pQrnt7zBypqNIISU1q8annS8Qi54OmIv3h-Y7QCZ_FWwaNDlvLizM-CdRyb7atpnMbcyuD4bALVJJNnPrd4o6VGfPjsrIR8UXmUhT3t7i_n5KoQXudHrBtZVnPydPpcqAV5C/s1600/chooseyourownadventure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQTziegI7pQrnt7zBypqNIISU1q8annS8Qi54OmIv3h-Y7QCZ_FWwaNDlvLizM-CdRyb7atpnMbcyuD4bALVJJNnPrd4o6VGfPjsrIR8UXmUhT3t7i_n5KoQXudHrBtZVnPydPpcqAV5C/s320/chooseyourownadventure.jpg" width="188" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘That’s just how it is in my nephew’s books. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Whatever choice you make, you end up in mortal peril. But I gather that’s all part of the fun. Life and death as a game. Dodging your own extinction.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Joe shook his head. ‘There’ll be no dodging our planet’s extinction. The end may not be nigh, but it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> inevitable.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Freezing or frying?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m afraid so.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘So, tell me, how does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> story end?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m not a storyteller. I only observe. Record. And try to make sense of my findings.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘What are you exactly? If you don’t mind my asking?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m a physicist. I’m also a musician. Of sorts.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘That’s an odd combination.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Not really. I don’t see that there’s that much difference between physics and music. Everything has a numerical basis. Physics is about maths and music is about numbers, just as much as maths is.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘So how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> your story end? Let me guess… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The physicist saw everything that God had made and behold, it was very dead</i>.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I don’t have an ending. Only predictions.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m all ears.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He felt daunted by her persistence, but acknowledged also that he felt happier thinking about an unimaginably distant future than his own. He took a couple of steps toward her and began to speak, his casual tone at odds with his subject matter. ‘There are two basic scenarios. Number one… Two galaxies, Andromeda and the Milky Way – which is ours – are on course for collision in about two billion years’ time. It won’t be a galactic car crash, more like the mixing up of the contents of the two galaxies. If this happens, the earth could be torn out of its orbit around the Sun and life on earth will cease.'</span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Because we’ll freeze?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes. But we’ll have a great send-off. The colliding galaxies will contain giant clouds of gas and dust - the raw materials needed to make new stars. As they collide, our sky will be filled with thousands of dazzling new white stars. It will be quite a firework display.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘That’s some consolation I suppose. What’s the frying scenario?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Well, if the galaxies collide, but we aren’t ripped out of the sun’s orbit, the sun will eventually burn itself out.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘So won’t we just freeze gradually?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘No. That’s not how stars die. They don’t go gently.’ He hesitated then said, </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘Would you like me to explain?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh, please do. This is all quite thrilling!’</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Joe studied her face, searching for a hint of irony, but her child’s eyes were wide with delight and anticipation. He continued, his tone still dispassionate. ‘If the sun were a car, the fuel tank would now be half full. It’s going to run out of gas – hydrogen, to be precise – in about five billion years. Towards the end of its life-cycle, the sun will swell up until its radius is thirty times greater. It will be producing a thousand times more energy and it will be hell on earth. Literally. Even if Earth escapes incineration, the seas will boil dry and the atmosphere will evaporate. We’ll be toast. But it’s not all bad news.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t</i>?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘No. The sun might actually melt the frozen moons of Jupiter and Saturn. There’s a lot of water out there. Humans – if there’s any left – could relocate there.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh, you can just imagine the estate agent’s blurb, can’t you? Finally the hyperbole would be justified! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plenty of space for growing families –</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out of this world</i>!’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Perhaps the frozen moons are all part of God’s plan. I imagine He’d be the sort of deity who’d think ahead. See the bigger picture.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I thought you said you didn’t believe in God?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I don’t.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Nevertheless, you think he’s worth mocking. And that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">faith</i> is worth mocking. But one of the functions of faith is to account for things that can’t be explained. Beauty. Truth. Goodness. Even scientists can’t explain those. And human beings don’t like unanswered questions.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Which is why people like me try – and fail – to answer them. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mock. To be honest, I find it hard to come up with an appropriate response to the extinction of all life forms. Even as a physicist, I find that hard.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘And as a musician?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He turned his head sharply and regarded her. She wasn’t looking at him, but gazing up at the window again. He studied her profile with its patrician nose and stubborn chin. But there was also softness there. She resembled a monarch on a coin – an ancient coin, worn down so its details had become blurred. Eventually he said, ‘As a musician, I find it slightly easier to confront my species’ extinction. Music has a language that can at least <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">attempt</i> to encompass the obliteration of the universe, in the same way it can tackle the creation.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Because art is bigger than the human beings that make it.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘That wasn’t a question, was it?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘No, it wasn’t. It’s a sort of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Credo</i> of mine, actually. I no longer believe in God, but I still believe in art. And,’ she added, ‘I believe in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">belief</i>.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘You used to believe then? In God?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh yes. I was devout.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘But not any more?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘The last time God spoke to me, he said he didn’t exist.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘And you believed Him?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Who am I to doubt the Word of the Lord?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He searched for a hint of amusement in her solemn brown eyes, but found none. ‘Do you miss Him? I’ve heard people say, if you abandon your religion, you’re left with a God-shaped hole in your life.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh, my life is positively <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">moth-eaten</i>! There are so many bits missing now. One of them’s faith. Another is prayer. I certainly miss my little heart-to-hearts with the Almighty. The theological gossip. Maybe that’s why I end up talking to strangers in cathedrals… Do you know much about stained glass?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘No. Other than that I like looking at it.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘You know Chagall, the artist? He also designed stained glass. He said, “Every colour ought to encourage prayer. As for me, I can’t pray. I just work.” That’s what I do now. I just work.’ Her mouth was set in a grim line, her lips compressed, as if she could have said more, but had thought better of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Joe continued warily. ‘So if you don’t believe, why are you here?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh, I come here a lot,’ she answered briskly. ‘It’s my second home. I drop in to study how the glass changes with the light. With the seasons. I like to watch the coloured shadows creep across the stone walls and floors. And people.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s not just the glass that’s stained. Everything the light touches is coloured. Your cheek is gilded now. With saffron light. And I doubt your eyes are that extraordinary green in natural light. The light blesses everything on which it falls,’ she announced, turning away. ‘Mullion or man.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">They both fell to silent contemplation of the window. Joe was studying the figures of Adam and Eve when his companion said, ‘I really am sorry about your ex-wife. I’m afraid I can’t pray for her – not any more – but I’ll light a candle. I’ll light one for your little girl too. A useless gesture, I know, but what else can you do when darkness encroaches?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Thank you, that’s very kind. I think I’d like to bring her here.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Your daughter?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes. I’d like to show her this window. One day. When things have… settled down. I’ll tell her I met a stranger who lit a candle for her. And one for her mother.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’ll light one for you too. In for a penny, in for a pound… My name’s Celia, by the way. I think it’s nice to know who’s lighting candles for you, don’t you?’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘Really sorry I can’t manage a prayer though.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘That’s OK. My name’s Joe. And my daughter’s name is Tilly.’</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">‘Duly noted.’</div><span lang="EN-GB"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHc09MW9b2OakSgrO5RoYl3gSEfddlsunVFDmT3sHelwVYoI8f-L8v5J5xEXxvTe0XYJxnGqVEcAKAnVMSzg2boL61JsIKyyKjYs6m-0J-G807rOesdDKTgWBQXTo0l5MssyejXytGR_4/s1600/eve+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHc09MW9b2OakSgrO5RoYl3gSEfddlsunVFDmT3sHelwVYoI8f-L8v5J5xEXxvTe0XYJxnGqVEcAKAnVMSzg2boL61JsIKyyKjYs6m-0J-G807rOesdDKTgWBQXTo0l5MssyejXytGR_4/s320/eve+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of Eve in a stained glass window, Washington, D.C.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Anxious to change the subject, Joe pointed up at the window, to the sixth light. ‘You know, I think Eve looks a bit like you.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh dear, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘The red hair is a nice touch. It suggests a temptress. A bit Rita Hayworth.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh no, she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tiny</i>. Not a carthorse like me.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">As a thought struck him, he turned to her and said, ‘Did you model for this?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes. That’s why Eve’s as tall as Adam.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Ah. I see.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">She turned to him. ‘What do you see?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Your connection. I had no idea the window was so personal to you.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Oh, yes. Very personal. You have no idea.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He pointed again. ‘Do you think the inclusion of a trilobite is deliberately anachronistic?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘How do you mean?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Well, if you treat the Bible as historical record – and an alarming number of people do – the Earth is only six thousand years old. Archbishop Ussher worked it out in the seventeenth century. Day One took place in 4004 BC. October 23<sup>rd</sup> to be precise.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘The Venerable Bede had already placed it in 3952 BC, centuries before.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Is that so? Newton said it all started around 4000 BC. So they were all pretty much in agreement. As well as being spectacularly wrong.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘How old is the earth then?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Around four thousand, six hundred million years.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Is that all? Some days it feels like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">much</i> more.’</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAwaxMLTu6JAtSUBhDiIUgmL2b5Mmbl-GTOZi_Lp2VwS5kxywt_yv6acvBfbSJkVIBy-tTBh3hX8FnK_smCoOUPxleXdFES1lmi1yEhgF0UpHcObR1UKuzJzsvkiLjvO4PNr2JthbR0he/s1600/trilobite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAwaxMLTu6JAtSUBhDiIUgmL2b5Mmbl-GTOZi_Lp2VwS5kxywt_yv6acvBfbSJkVIBy-tTBh3hX8FnK_smCoOUPxleXdFES1lmi1yEhgF0UpHcObR1UKuzJzsvkiLjvO4PNr2JthbR0he/s320/trilobite.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Elrathia kingii" trilobite fossil (400-500 million years old)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He pointed to the fifth light. ‘The trilobite’s a witty touch. They were around more than five hundred million years ago. Obviously the artist isn’t one of those flat earth Creationists.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Obviously.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Trilobites. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Adam and Eve</i>.’ He smiled and shook his head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">She spread large, capable-looking hands, ‘Why not? The window’s telling a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">story</i>. It’s not a scientific thesis.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Indeed. And Eve’s story is much more gripping than the trilobite’s tale.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘And more human. After all, this is a window for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i>. It’s not there to let light in or keep rain out. Its sole purpose is to make people look at it and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i>. It’s an aid to contemplation – although I’ve actually seen quite a few people stand here and weep. Brits do it discreetly, of course, but I’ve seen Italians sob. Quite unmanned. Stained glass is a funny thing. Powerful. In the Middle Ages glass was believed to have healing properties.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I can sort of understand that. I collect sea glass. No idea why. When I was a boy I used to think it had magical properties.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Coloured glass does! No other medium allows you to paint with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">light</i>. In painting, the canvas and the paints are the material. But a stained glass artist works with light. That’s what produces the colours. The glass is only the medium through which the light passes... I think it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a form of magic. Almost. What other art form changes constantly, second by second, adapting to the turning of the Earth, like a kaleidoscope?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">He thought it was probably just the effect of the multi-coloured beams playing on her pale face that seemed to make her eyes burn and her freckled cheeks flush, but the thought still came to him, unbidden, inappropriate, impertinent. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is a passionate woman. Passionate and lonely.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Embarrassed by his insight, Joe turned away and faced the Creation again, this time unseeing. After a moment, he cleared his throat and, with elaborate casualness, said, ‘Do you know who designed this window?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yes, I do... Celia Reid. That’s me.’ Joe wheeled round and stared. ‘I designed it. And I made it.’ She lifted her face to the coloured light. ‘But it took me a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot</i> longer than six days…'</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIo0qhaEoIIQpwpy-Yof_zTScLq0xiNeS5Es6hhsfo1hnzu8VhSWLu6wPEVafiuSM048iumDvVtokc3HcERQamOW6eqyPI_Ew5o8gj1d-KtUrQD2pK-yn9AGxunPeMORa7Z32x6rmFKWDE/s1600/andromeda_1502473c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIo0qhaEoIIQpwpy-Yof_zTScLq0xiNeS5Es6hhsfo1hnzu8VhSWLu6wPEVafiuSM048iumDvVtokc3HcERQamOW6eqyPI_Ew5o8gj1d-KtUrQD2pK-yn9AGxunPeMORa7Z32x6rmFKWDE/s400/andromeda_1502473c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andromeda captured by Nasa's Swift Satellite telescope</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div>Linda Gillardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747108591927491742noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-43764887003138652052011-10-30T22:20:00.002+00:002011-10-30T22:42:29.737+00:00Celebrate Science '11 (and Art and Science)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UqJlEV9DKqh6aNxQkQ1CzWhE7xMJ0P1-jkyYi4AiGDeq-rwq5TFszvI-rK4GL3rB-kftOtmGtoNlQZBhQ0DAc0X4xwjuJ7z1v-MV1MMgeU_qvQ6t0Lcz5e8-XQrlB78LCdV3anYMAcc/s1600/CSN2swirl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669416402632053106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UqJlEV9DKqh6aNxQkQ1CzWhE7xMJ0P1-jkyYi4AiGDeq-rwq5TFszvI-rK4GL3rB-kftOtmGtoNlQZBhQ0DAc0X4xwjuJ7z1v-MV1MMgeU_qvQ6t0Lcz5e8-XQrlB78LCdV3anYMAcc/s320/CSN2swirl.JPG" border="0" /></a> This is wonderful. It's simply one of those places everyone wants to be: the children, the parents, grandparents or friends, the students... On two of the days of the festival I turned up latish in the afternoon expecting to find people contented but flagging. Instead the atmosphere was still electric, the enthusiasm boiling over, and no outward sign that anyone had had anything like enough of this!<br /><br /><br /><div>Thank you to everyone who had anything to do with Celebrate Science. It is absolutely the Durham way to do this - setting the most moving, the most searching, the most imaginative, possibly the most spiritual activity a human being can enjoy - that is doing science, on Palace Green, one of the most inspirational places of learning on Planet Earth.<br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Discovery seemed to be the theme right to, and beyond, the last moment. Even as part of the cleaing up process the remains of a dewar of liquid nitrogen tipped over the floor became an experiment in cloud dynamics for some 8 and 9 year olds who were kicking about the floor (see the photo above - the best happened before I could get the iPhone out: a veritable spiral galaxy on the floor). Proctor and Gamble scientists were helping visitors smash (chemically) oil drops to smithereens with surfactants, the Institute of Physics had completely lost it and were making music with teapots as far as I could make out ... and I actually had a rather serious conversation with the psychologists about their spinning black and white wheel that makes you see colours (it's all about temporal and spatial retinal colour calibration gone wrong I think ...).</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And Art and Science ... perhaps I'll save my twopennyworth for later; suffice to say that some of us <em>were</em> unhelpfully talking about it when we should really ahve been carting tables away...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Who's for keeping the blog going all the way to Celebrate Science '12?</div>Tom McLeishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01388299632873616796noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-32867495548453964002011-10-29T22:25:00.026+01:002011-10-29T23:34:17.242+01:00A House Divided<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2H2v-bziDgktqTUwNvbLYNuw_wmyc61aefd7yqX3aWFSR1jBmfRXkEUpjwD_g1hizako9vilk_BQz3Ihuqff1lO5jdaGIHBFQZfkQd7F6RBnvgEtrw_kG-mP0rstL2R1uwLUVYBt91hII/s1600/writing+and+art.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2H2v-bziDgktqTUwNvbLYNuw_wmyc61aefd7yqX3aWFSR1jBmfRXkEUpjwD_g1hizako9vilk_BQz3Ihuqff1lO5jdaGIHBFQZfkQd7F6RBnvgEtrw_kG-mP0rstL2R1uwLUVYBt91hII/s320/writing+and+art.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669033296368519266" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:georgia;" >(Lynne Hardy) </span><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">As discussed by <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/09/what-makes-good-scientist.html">Tom</a> and <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/09/what-makes-good-writer-by-linda-gillard.html">Linda</a> elsewhere on this blog, writing, like science, is about observation. And so is art. Yet so often, these are treated as completely separate disciplines with little or nothing in common. <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/10/good-or-misunderstood-wicked-witches-of.html">Kate Hudson</a> discussed in her recent post the struggle to reconcile art and science; it’s one I know well, because I’ve had to work through it.</span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I trained as a scientist because I was fascinated by how the world around me worked. I wanted to understand how our fleshy little sacks stumble about and create, in the words of Howard Carter, such “wonderful things”. I was drawn to the study of how life functioned at the tiniest of scales, first through biochemistry, then molecular and cell biology. </p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwhnkLIZczK4yeNXGYPo_PYkDlV2ue_4A_CAxdpamHZCqB-GRD2Q1OejhR5_6pM6d2oCOc4qpdE9ze9fqaETLjkPDt5wybu7AG1VUBZv_0X1m6DDoZ9bzuN53LBM2JU4g1VU0RbvlOMKc/s1600/DNA+helix.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwhnkLIZczK4yeNXGYPo_PYkDlV2ue_4A_CAxdpamHZCqB-GRD2Q1OejhR5_6pM6d2oCOc4qpdE9ze9fqaETLjkPDt5wybu7AG1VUBZv_0X1m6DDoZ9bzuN53LBM2JU4g1VU0RbvlOMKc/s320/DNA+helix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669029699473189634" border="0" /></a></p><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"> </p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I think it would have been a more difficult decision to go into science if I hadn’t failed my Art O-level. Let’s just say that I suffered two years of creative differences with my art teacher, which left me with the impression that art was intractable and out of bounds for anyone with an interest in science. Science satisfied my curiosity and had measurable, quantifiable things in it; it had nothing to do with someone’s personal beliefs, be they right or wrong. Of course, now I’m older and wiser, I know that’s a very naïve view but to someone deciding on their future career path, it was fairly fundamental.</p> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:georgia;font-size:12.0pt;" >Children, as Emma-Kate discusses in her </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:12.0pt;"><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/08/life-and-learning-part-1-poetry-pebbles.html">first post</a></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:georgia;font-size:12.0pt;" >, see no specialisation or separation between creativity, science and art; that separation comes later, both for us as individuals and in the history of our subjects. In fact, once upon a time, back when the word scientist didn’t exist, the people who studied the world around them were called natural philosophers or natural historians, both of which sound so much softer and all-encompassing. And they studied the world through observation, thinking, writing and art, all as one big, accommodating discipline. It was only as we grew to know more collectively than one person could ever hope to learn for themselves that they began to fragment and drift apart.</span><br /><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmU_mSbtVbOXbLO4mnOj3hM8mLMjUyLX2laij9HCstErYYA9JzMnnHmhupP6M48Yei5va_s3wGOIm20LYHiyhD2kHMYEUxZ-NtoR-iLF_CldsZ_YYalsN-a7r5r93CcXwq9wffV2prXU-/s1600/Natural+philosopher.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmU_mSbtVbOXbLO4mnOj3hM8mLMjUyLX2laij9HCstErYYA9JzMnnHmhupP6M48Yei5va_s3wGOIm20LYHiyhD2kHMYEUxZ-NtoR-iLF_CldsZ_YYalsN-a7r5r93CcXwq9wffV2prXU-/s320/Natural+philosopher.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669032568870714594" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">During the last of my post-doctoral positions, I decided I didn’t particularly love science anymore, which came as something of a shock. Somehow I’d gone from someone who had believed science to be wonderfully creative (after all, how do you get from a handful of apparently random measurements to a theory that explains them?) to someone who viewed it as restrictive and stifling. I’d always written and worked with textiles, but the longer I spent as a post-doc, the less engaged I became with what felt like, at the time, these much more creative activities. </span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">And so I took the drastic decision to drop science and retrain as an embroiderer, with a view to teaching it. I took my City & Guilds qualifications, but struggled constantly with the feeling that somehow I didn’t belong, that I was pretending to be something I wasn’t. Because I couldn’t get enough teaching hours to get my PGCE as a community craft lecturer due to funding cuts, I was pushed into teaching A-level Biology as well and I frequently felt like I was at war with myself. I was having a terrible time trying to be both a scientist and an artist, such utterly alien fields, until something slowly and painfully dawned on me: the underlying processes for both science and art are essentially the same.</p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Look at it this way: scientific research is like solving a mystery. First you identify your problem, then you start asking questions. Once you know what questions to ask, you set about finding answers through experimentation and observation. If that doesn’t work, you go back to the drawing board and design new experiments until you can answer them.</p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">And how is t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKqzov_an1eXiIqLYS4BHaVX-01As9GCxK75pkxqmqdKhevRS5rqzt9Y5eTaEOpLlxu9QXO7J2K0ewOwYKNuhPjRznpTNovQd_iLXGEDaXzjnQdn8JKcF0pxjo4LTkKeY0TwdYi0l-Yro/s1600/science2.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 147px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKqzov_an1eXiIqLYS4BHaVX-01As9GCxK75pkxqmqdKhevRS5rqzt9Y5eTaEOpLlxu9QXO7J2K0ewOwYKNuhPjRznpTNovQd_iLXGEDaXzjnQdn8JKcF0pxjo4LTkKeY0TwdYi0l-Yro/s320/science2.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669033787121536434" border="0" /></a>hat different to creating a piece of art? It isn’t. Each new project is also a mystery, posing a unique set of questions of its own. So you start to experiment with sketches, word lists, pencils, chalks, paints, ink, fabrics, whatever, to see if you can answer those questions. And if those experiments don’t work, you go back to the bench and carry out new research until you can answer them. Just like science.</p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">By stepping back and realising this, I regained not only my passion for science but a greater understanding of how I work and how these two great fields don’t need to be mutually exclusive. Creativity should not be defined by the discipline you are working in; it should be free to cross boundaries and break down stereotypes for the enrichment of all. </p>Lynne Hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136062836568431291noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-81119939459323786092011-10-27T23:04:00.005+01:002011-10-27T23:09:04.516+01:00Celebrate Science: Day 3We have had a fantastic final day of Celebrate Science 2011! Once again there were members of the public with their faces pressed up against the glass doors pleading to be let in to the marquee before 10am, and there was a steady stream of new people joining us for the event throughout the day, right up until 4pm (and beyond!). All of the exhibitors and visitors have had a fabulous time exchanging ideas and sharing experiences; there was lots of laughter, and we will all sleep well tonight!<br /><br />Celebrate Science 2011 has been a huge success! Once again we had over 1,000 new people visit us in the marquee today, and have had a grand total of more than 3,500 visitors over the course of the event. We simply wouldn’t be able to run this event without the generosity, enthusiasm and commitment of the many volunteers from Durham University who either ran exhibits or acted as stewards for the event (or both!). In addition to the many volunteers from various departments across Durham University, we also had a variety of other people involved in Celebrate Science, who I refer to as “external exhibitors” for want of a better phrase, who were similarly committed to sharing their ideas and enthusiasm, and who I want to take the opportunity to publicly thank for enriching the event.<br /><br />First mention must go to Proctor and Gamble, who provided some financial support for the event as well as a team of volunteers who amazed us all with magic materials and revealed the mystery of what happens inside dishwashers.<br /><br />Second mention goes to the pathology team from University Hospital North Durham, who came to us with the idea of running a Virtual Autopsy, and in addition to making that Keynote a great success also ran an exhibit allowing visitors to become “Disease Detectives”.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPPBi93OQGFNzwEbHvTdyZPpLxZbT02aUzjPjkzZa29Wr_zUwjVS8N5hBolcYB0iZxsE1p7UnoH78FnekYaC_-eSgnQ2YQGyPlb2-KpofFIHHRxb_FDYDsimUlr-GpDJZmVdJeCwLB7OJ/s1600/pathology_cropped.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPPBi93OQGFNzwEbHvTdyZPpLxZbT02aUzjPjkzZa29Wr_zUwjVS8N5hBolcYB0iZxsE1p7UnoH78FnekYaC_-eSgnQ2YQGyPlb2-KpofFIHHRxb_FDYDsimUlr-GpDJZmVdJeCwLB7OJ/s400/pathology_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668296527366753042" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Continuing the detective theme, the team from STEAM (Science and Technology Education Around Museums) invited visitors to solve the mystery of the missing mummy, and follow the journey of an artefact from initial discovery to eventual display.<br /><br />Finally, today, for one day only, we had the pleasure of welcoming Cancer Research UK to the Celebrate Science marquee. Their team of volunteers from the Newcastle Cancer Centre introduced visitors to a day in the life of a cancer researcher, and provided the opportunity to extract the DNA from strawberries. Did you know that strawberries have more DNA per cell than humans?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdXKJ3KDL2tKQKrZQWhRVUqKJtIOtK3Ozo80OYJJeHKUvc4yEaNnQfmhqJeZNFNg306adRIxs-cZDm0_RzwQR82R7L6A2wnzO6YwWJE_jJGnlCzFTugaCGCQT2K4DKcpa3DHs1u6FhYZH/s1600/CRUK_cropped.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdXKJ3KDL2tKQKrZQWhRVUqKJtIOtK3Ozo80OYJJeHKUvc4yEaNnQfmhqJeZNFNg306adRIxs-cZDm0_RzwQR82R7L6A2wnzO6YwWJE_jJGnlCzFTugaCGCQT2K4DKcpa3DHs1u6FhYZH/s400/CRUK_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668296651373411442" border="0" /></a><br />We also had two major installations within the marquee, challenging each other for popularity, and both winning a special place in the memories of visitors to the marquee. Pro Energy, the installation provided and run by Greenfield Community and Arts Centre, is an interactive installation using light, sound, music and movement to explore healthy lifestyle choices. Pro Energy was created by young people from Newton Aycliffe with artists Falling Cat and health professionals, and certainly had our younger visitors expending their energy! <br /><br />Meanwhile, in the Planetarium provided and run by the Life Science Centre, visitors were introduced to the characters of the constellations in the night sky and found out where to look if they want the chance to see a supernova. Sadly, it is cloudy in Durham tonight, so there is no opportunity for more stargazing. I am instead enjoying a nice sit down and a cup of tea, and thinking about plans for Celebrate Science 2012! See you there!<br /><br />Paula Martin is Science Outreach Co-ordinator for Durham University.Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-43153650158681883332011-10-26T21:12:00.008+01:002011-10-26T21:31:55.542+01:00Celebrate Science: Day 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkz9iE12KMkgKhhtYgO8r53jpDewXVXua_v1GP4qJ4HSQ0YU3u3qxelcFbmbxjKQjI5xXTDr5sUF4P1-QND8XKAibQGWdTkonaNeQ2fi5RQrQri0lewx-9iNuiVTzD7n5qcGxajLaH67M/s1600/Innovation_small.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px;float:right;margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkz9iE12KMkgKhhtYgO8r53jpDewXVXua_v1GP4qJ4HSQ0YU3u3qxelcFbmbxjKQjI5xXTDr5sUF4P1-QND8XKAibQGWdTkonaNeQ2fi5RQrQri0lewx-9iNuiVTzD7n5qcGxajLaH67M/s400/Innovation_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667896930714657538" border="0" /></a><p>I arrived at the Celebrate Science marquee bright and early for the start of Day 2, giving myself time to soak up the atmosphere of excitement and nervous anticipation amongst the exhibitors before we opened the doors again to the public at 10am. We had had a great start to the event on Day 1, and were hoping that we would enjoy more of the same boundless curiosity, inspiring imagination and thought-provoking discussions today. We were not disappointed!</p><p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_eAGNAyFjix3f1I6yhPNOw8tFyed_atTlKUo_zF-Sf-uqNx-T9mmcWWfpLSWCso84MY0-VCrxgC38HO5OcLd2CQD_7ctR7FPqoM12dJ9owizYbWEP92V_clBhfzqL4Fq_xeSQwNWPnA0/s1600/Jonathan.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px;float:left;margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_eAGNAyFjix3f1I6yhPNOw8tFyed_atTlKUo_zF-Sf-uqNx-T9mmcWWfpLSWCso84MY0-VCrxgC38HO5OcLd2CQD_7ctR7FPqoM12dJ9owizYbWEP92V_clBhfzqL4Fq_xeSQwNWPnA0/s400/Jonathan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667897123326369794" border="0" /></a>By 10am the public were knocking on the door, eager to come inside, explore new ideas and share their experiences. Following on from the great crowd of visitors we had on Day 1, we had more than 1,000 visitors again on Day 2, and a very busy lunchtime with more than 300 people visiting between noon and 1pm.</p><p>In addition to all the activities taking place in the marquee, we are running a series of Keynote events over the 3 days, all of which are supported by exhibits within the marquee. On Day 1 we hosted a virtual autopsy, conducted by pathologist Dr. Mitul Sharma from University Hospital North Durham, which was very popular with the local school students who attended; they kept Dr. Sharma very busy with probing questions!</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKJ7hyphenhyphenaRkcR-Rc3zPWCIHfD14AEMqxpOE__JmBeSkkS7x5alQIWelzgC-nChavHsVfSw7TZz7hbBP40Ht_NhK-2mEID2RMQPkWOztM7_cIaUOAHJNzLMBhKTwF4_yW2KFs66cYustzWG_L/s1600/Jack_small.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; float:right;margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKJ7hyphenhyphenaRkcR-Rc3zPWCIHfD14AEMqxpOE__JmBeSkkS7x5alQIWelzgC-nChavHsVfSw7TZz7hbBP40Ht_NhK-2mEID2RMQPkWOztM7_cIaUOAHJNzLMBhKTwF4_yW2KFs66cYustzWG_L/s400/Jack_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667897690999386258" border="0" /></a><p>This evening, Dr. Karen Johnson from Durham University’s School of Engineering and Computer Sciences will be discussing Dirty Stuff: What rocks and soils have done for us! And finally, tomorrow, Dr. Steve Robertson, also from Durham University’s School of Engineering and Computer Sciences, will be discussing Bikes in Bits: Why your bike does what it does. The Keynote events provide an alternative way of exploring subjects with the wider public, expanding on ideas that have been introduced in the marquee, and challenging our Keynote scientists to consider new ways of thinking about and discussing their own passions.</p><p>We have all had a very stimulating couple of days; our exhibitors are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, full of new ideas and looking forward to finding out what tomorrow may bring!</p><p><em><br />Paula Martin is Science Outreach Co-ordinator for Durham University.</em></p>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-91760809254681429252011-10-25T22:46:00.008+01:002011-10-25T23:17:38.864+01:00Celebrate Science: Day 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV4XFHIuNeT1j-NmN_h2R8cODI98P0iqKIt5gBDAebzdi_jer3qqUqCVqF0LHvjKktUfxoqw8_fm7aCUfRizpb5iCIqBG5hXbzUKjVTikAg7brBYZtiODFpdvLZv_c1YNZ12cwyL4KbRg/s1600/Glassblower_cropped.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV4XFHIuNeT1j-NmN_h2R8cODI98P0iqKIt5gBDAebzdi_jer3qqUqCVqF0LHvjKktUfxoqw8_fm7aCUfRizpb5iCIqBG5hXbzUKjVTikAg7brBYZtiODFpdvLZv_c1YNZ12cwyL4KbRg/s400/Glassblower_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667550902542054594" border="0" /></a><p>Linda Gillard’s Celebrate Science Residency is approaching it’s finale at the same time that Durham University scientists are breaking out of the lab and sharing their ideas and their enthusiasm for all things scientific with the general public.<br /></p><p>Today was the first day of Celebrate Science: 3 fun-packed and fascinating days of FREE events, activities, workshops, experiments and lectures celebrating science. Children of all ages are invited to join us in a marquee on Palace Green, the heart of Durham’s World Heritage Site.<br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfrfKgXwtICaiL2KFhrCgwMwk_0QegqXszvcsua4bUPsNVunoBx-U-LY4HCbL3qkndt-pUTwyArHPL7isQlIZPBYK97ZpS7ocsf6UnA5x_ieD7Z7AEToVGQfVej2PVLR8rfLQHO92KSXj/s1600/Kirsty_small.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0px 10px 10px 0px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfrfKgXwtICaiL2KFhrCgwMwk_0QegqXszvcsua4bUPsNVunoBx-U-LY4HCbL3qkndt-pUTwyArHPL7isQlIZPBYK97ZpS7ocsf6UnA5x_ieD7Z7AEToVGQfVej2PVLR8rfLQHO92KSXj/s400/Kirsty_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667550448001722258" border="0" /></a><p>At one end of the marquee Glassblower Malcolm Richardson wowed the crowds with his amazing craftsmanship and beautiful, delicate glasswork; at the other end PhD student Kirsty McCarrison captivated the crowd with her explanation of how to mummify a banana (or a Barbie doll, depending on your own personal preference).<br /></p><p>For me, this is the busiest and most exciting time of year: there is a new cohort of undergraduate students in Durham full of questions and new ideas, and we are taking the plunge and opening ourselves up to explore science with anyone and everyone who wants to join us. It’s exhausting, but exhilarating!</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTr4lTu7tgEa-1M8xBLRYjjHnqdHVgzepPdvMYm8dOBssQHj4EFxosHn9E3Rv2GMpvNrSB6YeTZ8IBou9iCiY1gMD0WtkvDeZLpcNLYLPn-xG15kL_ZpP8fyJ0zLm-pf2HrzagqkMAz1MN/s1600/Bookcrossers_small.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px 0px 10px 10px;float:right;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTr4lTu7tgEa-1M8xBLRYjjHnqdHVgzepPdvMYm8dOBssQHj4EFxosHn9E3Rv2GMpvNrSB6YeTZ8IBou9iCiY1gMD0WtkvDeZLpcNLYLPn-xG15kL_ZpP8fyJ0zLm-pf2HrzagqkMAz1MN/s400/Bookcrossers_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667550100919781394" border="0" /></a><p>In the midst of all the excitement of the event, I managed to take a well-earned break and catch-up with a group of friends I made through Bookcrossing, the online community of booklovers which first introduced me to Linda Gillard’s work. Although we didn’t have much time to talk about books today, we did cover a wide range of scientific ideas. We discussed everything from kitchen chemistry, natural pigments and dyeing to liquid nitrogen, stargazing and the origins of the Universe.</p><p>We had over 200 people visit the marquee in the first hour of Celebrate Science this morning, and saw more than 1,000 visitors over the course of the day. There was an amazing buzz in the air, with families and friends exploring together, making discoveries, and sharing experiences; building happy memories for the future. We all had an amazing time, and can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow!</p><p><em>Paula Martin is Science Outreach Co-ordinator for Durham University</em>.</p>Paula Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-58231580670825684972011-10-20T16:20:00.027+01:002011-10-20T23:04:32.316+01:00Working With Words<div><div><div>(by Lynne Hardy)<br /><br />I was very disappointed to have missed the <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/07/what-if-two-writing-workshops-part-one.html">writing workshops </a>held in <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/07/what-if-two-writing-workshops-part-2.html">the summer </a>as part of Linda Gillard’s Celebrating Science residency, so I was thrilled to bits to see that there was to be a repeat run this semester. The write-ups from Linda on the Celebrating Science blog had me intrigued and I was looking forward to seeing what was on offer.</div><div><br />So, on Monday morning I made my way to the very top of the Calman Learning Centre ready to be inspired. We were a mixed group: professors, lecturers, science communicators and students with a variety of backgrounds and experience (including Emma-Kate, who has also contributed to this<a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/08/life-and-learning-part-1-poetry-pebbles.html"> blog</a>). The room we were in looked out onto a high blue sky and a magnificent view of the Cathedral and Castle, presiding serenely over the bustling city below.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div> <img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 308px; height: 223px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665598609006799474" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjfD8X4VIDs-uQ_oUR3rxphZwelmGkL9_xhQTvh9OTNw9Jh7iERXgZJR1r6ZiuRqwj8SkTD21i1gdyj6FlgiNe0OibxQXQQ04Z0npRCGPyhX2hZiTZHxyN8Z1XNEsPW3sFGQfoPXiOcjUZ/s320/DurhamCathedral.jpg" border="0" /></div><div><br />Our first exercise was to read two scientific newspaper articles and discuss our thoughts on them. One was brief and clinical, concentrating on getting hard data across to the reader without engaging them on a more visceral level; the other read more like a story, beginning with a question that people could identify with, then building on that to deliver an accessible scientific message. They served to highlight key differences in the way that science can be presented to the public and, <a href="http://celebrating-science.blogspot.com/2011/07/science-of-words.html">as I’ve discussed before</a>, how words can be used to turn people on or off regarding it. </div><div> </div><div><br />The next set of exercises used photographs. For the first one we had to choose a picture that spoke to us and write down the questions it inspired. In the next, we answered a series of questions relating to a different picture, trying to create a character with depth but not useless detail (or, as Linda described it, it’s not as if you need to know what school the character went to, or what they had for breakfast, to get a handle on how they behave). We also used photographs to look at ideas of stereotypes and how to subvert them to make for a more interesting plot.</div><div><br />Now I’ve done quite a lot of writing in various different fields, scientific and fantastical, but as in everything, there is always more to learn and I was particularly interested in the timed writing exercises I’d read about. I knew that many of my comic artist friends did warm-up sketches before they settled down to more “serious” drawing (<a href="http://dumpylittlerobot.tumblr.com/post/11472130037/maybe-i-shouldnt-ask-twitter-for-suggestions-for">here's an example of one of Abby Ryder's</a>) and the timed exercises seemed to be the word equivalent of that. Having tweeted some of my writer friends after the workshop, several of them also do warm-ups to get their creative juices flowing; sometimes it is with similar exercises to this, or in <a href="http://www.danwickline.com/">Dan Wickline’s </a>case, he likes to do sudoko puzzles to take care of his brain’s logical needs before flexing its creative muscles.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjal5-SsnmU_JQZ-0ddvARq9BLymods1bZAaD7yhOA40Rgb-FoemnilX-1swTAQ5n8u5zSLEu0sYPYYXLAiWrWmjRACiSf9Eh64_HBLD5wuj9mSmI8c3l77Usv2UYvLq85Nn6pYmk2PrVMi/s1600/Mechanical_Stopwatch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 320px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665598898268419026" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjal5-SsnmU_JQZ-0ddvARq9BLymods1bZAaD7yhOA40Rgb-FoemnilX-1swTAQ5n8u5zSLEu0sYPYYXLAiWrWmjRACiSf9Eh64_HBLD5wuj9mSmI8c3l77Usv2UYvLq85Nn6pYmk2PrVMi/s320/Mechanical_Stopwatch.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The challenge of the timed writing exercise is to write for, say, ten minutes without stopping or correcting spelling and punctuation or worrying about quality, starting from a trigger word. Linda had supplied a very long and varied set of words to choose from and so we began. My first word was “silence”, which I then proceeded to destroy by tippy-tappying away at my keyboard. Interestingly, the non-stop part of the exercise didn’t phase me and the words tumbled out in a stream of consciousness that was very liberating. What was difficult was not going back to correct myself; I’m a fast typist, but not a very accurate one, so the piece was littered with inversions, trip-ups and gobbledygook caused by my racing fingers.<br /></div><div><br />This first attempt was followed by a discussion on how people had found the exercise. It’s always fascinating to hear how people work, why they write and the difficulties they have with it. Some had relished the experience, others were not so sure; the lack of structure and an end product was sufficiently different to the scientific writing they were used to, that it had taken them out of their comfort zone completely. After this analysis, we had another go. And another. This last attempt was slightly different; a word wasn’t the inspiration this time, but a piece of music. I can’t remember the name of it, or who wrote it, but it was a very sad and haunting cello and piano duet that led to quite a melancholy response.</div><div><br />And then, suddenly, we were out of time. The morning had flown by and had, by turns, been instructive, illuminating and demanding, but very rewarding. Linda was an open and engaging teacher, more than willing to share her own experiences, ideas and advice with all present<a name="_GoBack"></a>. My only complaint would be that it just wasn’t long enough, and it’s not often you hear that about CPD!</div></div></div>Lynne Hardyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14136062836568431291noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-7757988934513938772011-10-11T15:04:00.016+01:002011-10-11T15:47:17.467+01:00Good or Misunderstood?: The Wicked Witches of Art and Science<span style="font-weight: bold;">by Kate Hudson</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztCV-U5-MrnZrnf2T_-nmuD1mC0QmSabvzZ46_9m-3ahQ6IYsNkJLSqR1vj_HJr763GbeUhvIrWnWc2YKSysMdAiB_zS248_oV6zl80OcKaH33avQ9nv_lFV0UDfcW9tdrGd-8RCyIyct/s1600/two+witches.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 300px;" 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style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >As someone who </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >works in public engagement across research subjects, t</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >he boundaries and gateways between disciplines fascinate me, and it was the simple and comp</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >lex connections between art and science that interested me in the Celebrate Science Author in Residen</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >ce project.<span style=""> </span>Now called upon to articulate this interest, <em><span style="font-style: normal;">I have turned the subject over in my mind for several week</span></em></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;">s, not quite understanding exactly what I find so challe<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span>nging about art and science.<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span><span style=""> </span>Of</span></em></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"> the two areas of expertise, I sit firmly in the <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span>arts <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span>camp.<span style=""> </span>I studied art and literature, worked for a while in design and con<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span>tinue to write </span></em></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;">and<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span> produce work in my own time, for the pure thrill of feeling creative.<span style=""> </span>Yet I <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span>am somewhat turn<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span>ed on by science. There, I <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span>said it.</span></em></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;">Creativity grounds me; it allows me to make sense on my own world, ensures I don't fall down too often by my own doing. 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</xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-520092929 1073786111 9 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0cm; margin-right:0cm; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Cambria","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-US; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} em {mso-style-priority:20; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-bidi-font-style:normal;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;} @page WordSection1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} --> </style><em><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-style: normal;" lang="EN-US"></span></em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;">It was the world of arts that broke through and inspired me on this occasion, a lyric from a musical in fact. I</span></em></span><span class="st"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >n Stephen Schwartz’s</span></span><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" > </span></em><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >Wicked</span></em><span class="st"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >, we see </span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >two unli<em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em>kely friends grow to become the characters we already know </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >as the Wicked Wit<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span>ch of the West and the Good Witch of the North, famous from L. Frank Baum’s<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span> stories of Oz.<span style=""> </span>The charact</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >ers struggle through personality clashes and opposing viewpoints,<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span> not least their responses to the Wiza</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >rd's corrupt government, and ultimately, th<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span>e story sees one of them suffer a very public fall from grace.<span style=""> </span>The lyric that struck me was o</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >ne made famou<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span>s by Idina Menzel, who originally played Elphaba, the misunderstood <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span>girl who becomes the Wicked Witc</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >h of the West.<span style=""> </span>Devastated to find out that the Wizard is not the man she thou<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>ght </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >he was, Elphaba vows to fight back and break free of the rules in her world<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>, concluding that it’s “<i style="">time to try defying gravity</i>”.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >I thought how </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >wonderfully empowering this lyric was, and then considered </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >almost instantly, how ridiculous too.<span style=""> </span>Like many m<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>etaphors in art, </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >we are encouraged to think that casting off reality is<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> pivotal, as living within boundaries is dis</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflDEJ6LmYP3v0pYJj0L-R1-8xjQeizMEvnpyGFRzRVX1PpfhvAofY0YDVmLjDbQE4k42aTtyv-SY03S32eakqKKF8renJHIh23Anp2u9UACrri4F3GcYGhgwm4aQc0xskH6f-FALjFwpB/s1600/elphaba.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflDEJ6LmYP3v0pYJj0L-R1-8xjQeizMEvnpyGFRzRVX1PpfhvAofY0YDVmLjDbQE4k42aTtyv-SY03S32eakqKKF8renJHIh23Anp2u9UACrri4F3GcYGhgwm4aQc0xskH6f-FALjFwpB/s400/elphaba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662237526358969106" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >abling.<span style=""> </span>External <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>influences in art have, across centuries, creat<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>ed the idea of reaching a state beyond reali<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>ty: enlightenment. And herein lays the problem.<span style=""> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span>Art seems historically set up to clash with science.<span style=""> </span>Rather than be seen as parallel forces with which we push <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span>boundaries, explore the world and test our understanding of it, art has been a <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span>vehicle with which to overthrow science.<span style=""> </span>Art has almost arrogantly assumed a power <i style="">beyond</i> science, considering scientists to be missing the wood <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span>for the trees.<span style=""> </span>It is the subject of ‘Yes, <i style="">but</i>…”, often valuing the point but rubbishing the practice.<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >Science has had its victories, of course, but now</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" > embittered, seems to fight back against anything and everything that is anti-science, with all the grace of a scorn<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>ed lover.<span style=""> </span>At a performance of <i style="">Uncaged Monkeys</i> recently, I watched some of our leading scientific minds incite a crowd to whoop and cheer at the public <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>flogging of non-scientific theories, reaching frenzy in the dismantling of faith and religion.<span style=""> </span>I felt horribly uncomfortable, as though the universe was a prize, which you could only ‘hav<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>e’ if you understood the science behind it. The message was that science is strong, science is true… doubters not welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >I am of course, p</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" >ointing at the far e<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>nds of the spectrum.<span style=""> </span>I gratefully see more and more<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> science-art collaborations and regularly meet wit<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>h minds that understand and appreciate the inspiration in both fields, seeking <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></em></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>to make the world a better place to be with the practice of either, or both.<span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=""> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrsfKvN5v9RQzZOpRpeM_gL7_JuYTJIaHKUB3S6cuv3Btq6rMTeDEgtBsKCppPAdcuPzv5UPYDP1t5esUUaENCcxhyphenhyphen2r9nt3Rf_LnjaViT0xMXAggXcMRnqsFFOgogVpjQvvxErXB2Nz2H/s1600/wicked.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 240px;" 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mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-style: italic;">Kate Hudson is Project Manager for Beacon NE, the North East Beacon for Public Engagement.</span></span><b style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <br /><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10pt;" lang="EN-US" 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Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17041949933555319347noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-89349726297390553812011-10-03T09:27:00.001+01:002011-10-03T09:27:49.441+01:00Through the Garden Gate<div><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><em>Linda France is an award-winning poet, freelance writer, editor and tutor. She has published seven collections of poetry; the latest is</em> You are Her (<em>Arc 2010). Linda also edited the acclaimed anthology</em> Sixty Women Poets <em>(Bloodaxe 1993). She has a particular interest in cross-arts collaborations and has worked with visual artists specializing in, amongst other things, stone, wood, metal, glass and textiles. Linda is continuing to explore the theme of gardens and the natural world at </em><a href="http://everywherewaseden.wordpress.com"><em>everywherewaseden.wordpress.com</em></a><em> You can read more about her work at </em><a href="http://www.lindafrance.co.uk"><em>www.lindafrance.co.uk</em></a></div><div> </div><div> </div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieb4CPJECQYBSXz7SDQZdk3pAd5vbwjgEmt1xSXdLom0m-KmhngacHIqROMSetGOJ4Y6qvX2YoXG4qP1GANSHWl4g7Udll6u3t09H1AiQv5N7G_oyV8KO5s9jre4cNEnUuGHb5cy0GujOh/s1600/picture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 128px; height: 180px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657406292637593618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieb4CPJECQYBSXz7SDQZdk3pAd5vbwjgEmt1xSXdLom0m-KmhngacHIqROMSetGOJ4Y6qvX2YoXG4qP1GANSHWl4g7Udll6u3t09H1AiQv5N7G_oyV8KO5s9jre4cNEnUuGHb5cy0GujOh/s320/picture.jpg" /></a>The end of September and three months on from my time as Leverhulme Poet in Residence at Moorbank, Newcastle University’s Botanic Garden, I’m in the midst of harvest - gathering together my work there to share with others. On Wednesday 19th October I will be reading some of the poems to celebrate the publication of a pamphlet, illustrated with images by Kim Lewis, and the installation of a sculpture in the Desert House, created by Alec Peever. The numerous practicalities of organizing this work and this event is also being shouldered by various folk at <a href="http://www.newcastle.ac.uk/moorbank">Moorbank</a>, <a href="http://www.opalexplorenature.org">OPAL</a>, <a href="http://www.ncl.ac.uk/ncla/">Newcastle Centre for the Literary Arts</a> and my friend, the designer <a href="http://www.ashbydesign.eu/">Melanie Ashby</a>. This sense of collaboration and interconnectedness was one of my most striking impressions of the way things work in a botanic garden.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhobZPqP3XGXFGAYXtuAipJtJyb43nBXdlREWD7DjvvxHMtg1D3VE6yP2eRdo0ZfM6Fc6jLjQS2lEQHs-3bv7Ks6crbaMu4O3HNJsb7DoiEQvCJszQX-PIfAk_LOIg2TKRSo7KZeIxcOy/s1600/IMG_3987_small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 214px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659178645640774498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhobZPqP3XGXFGAYXtuAipJtJyb43nBXdlREWD7DjvvxHMtg1D3VE6yP2eRdo0ZfM6Fc6jLjQS2lEQHs-3bv7Ks6crbaMu4O3HNJsb7DoiEQvCJszQX-PIfAk_LOIg2TKRSo7KZeIxcOy/s320/IMG_3987_small.jpg" /></a>My residency started in October, in many ways a counter-intuitive time to begin a new body of work inspired by a garden, just as many of the plants were dying back preparing for winter. But last autumn was a spectacular one and the changing colours of the leaves on Moorbank’s magnificent collection of trees gave me my first opportunity to explore the process of photosynthesis. I was moved and astonished at the cycle of breath we share with what grows in the garden. As a poet, with an educational background in the arts, my grasp of scientific principles is rudimentary to say the least; however once I started finding out more about the exchange of carbon dioxide and oxygen, the alterations in the chemical compounds in the leaves that create all those gorgeous oranges, russets and reds, it was impossible not to feel a sense of the miraculous.<br /><br />Many of my Moorbank poems refer to the act of breathing, the key to life itself. Both fact and metaphor, it underlines the necessary physicality of the way we experience a garden. Being there is a dazzle and balm to our senses, making us feel more alive and happier, calmer than out on the streets of the city, armoured with tarmac, concrete and metal, just on the other side of the gate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYDkreF3617b2zyuT-rezumKLozm8-Xb1E5AXAC6t_CDVuDFCZCo77uZcP5vq9JKbycEaT1DdjTLYIXXwLqemCuVPMTrZhGOv3qeqoSafqs9bIOVDbT7EpdauI660I7kNlF-JuY3AY4qI/s1600/centaurea.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657406622275589346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYDkreF3617b2zyuT-rezumKLozm8-Xb1E5AXAC6t_CDVuDFCZCo77uZcP5vq9JKbycEaT1DdjTLYIXXwLqemCuVPMTrZhGOv3qeqoSafqs9bIOVDbT7EpdauI660I7kNlF-JuY3AY4qI/s320/centaurea.JPG" /></a>This pattern of interdependence is also reflected in the way that human beings participate in their activities at Moorbank. Alongside the cycle of the seasons, the light and the weather, the diverse plants and trees, the visiting birds, butterflies and insects, the staff, volunteers and students all play their part in the smooth running of things. Whether it’s under glass in the Tropical House, where pruning is a year-round task, or outside where trees, flower beds, compost heaps, not to mention a newly-designed pond, all demand attention, a small but dedicated team work hard to tame the wild and make it look as if it all just happens naturally. The horticultural style of Moorbank is organic, unfussy and relaxed, not to distract from the glory of the individual plants. There are too many wonderful specimens to mention but I have revelled in getting to know the bizarre carnivorous plants and the Angel’s Trumpets (<i>Datura stramonium</i>) indoors and the Meadow Fritillary, Meconopsis, Trillium and Centaurea outside. Some of these have seeded themselves in my poems.<br /><br />To be a poet is a solitary affair and during my time at Moorbank I’ve really appreciated the chance to feel part of an ecological system, something bigger than I am. I was interested to discover that the root of the word ecology is from the Greek ‘oikos’, meaning home. That became another of my themes – how much we feel ‘at home’ in a garden, somewhere we can be ourselves and sense we are in the right place at the right time; not quite as alone as in the city, despite (or maybe because of) its crowds and busyness. Everyone I met at Moorbank spoke of the benefits, the simple pleasure of working there, or even just visiting. And I felt it too, nourished and inspired not just for the nine months of my Residency but, I suspect, for some time to come.</div><div><br /></div><div><em>Linda France's reading on Wednesday 19th October at Moorbank Botanic Garden is now fully booked. However, if you would like to go on the waiting list, or learn more about future readings, contact Melanie Birch on 0191 222 7619 or email: <a href="mailto:melanie.birch@ncl.ac.uk">melanie.birch@ncl.ac.uk</a></em>. More details can be found about the reading <a href="http://www.ncl.ac.uk/ncla/events/item/linda-france">here</a>.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Helen Weddlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915857396600367553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-64349252449476324652011-09-28T18:09:00.000+01:002011-09-28T18:09:44.261+01:00WHAT MAKES A GOOD WRITER? by Linda Gillard<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The idea was that I would respond to Prof. Tom McLeish’s blog <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What makes a good scientist?</i> with a companion post, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What makes a good writer?</i> I thought it would be interesting to compare the similarities and differences, but to my astonishment, I find Tom has already written my post for me. Substitute the word “novelist” for “scientist” and his blog could stand for what makes a good writer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LG's 3rd novel (paperback and Kindle e-book)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Tom sets out his stall with “</span>the cornerstone of all good science [is] observation. Real, deep, questing, searching <em>looking</em> at and into things.” Substitute <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">writing</i> for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">science</i> and the sentence can stand. Looking at and into things and thinking about them is the basis of all good writing, whether it’s drama or journalism. The business of looking and seeing is so central to writing (and central to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> writing) that I decided to write a novel about seeing/not seeing and for <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Star-Gazing-Linda-Gillard/dp/0749938978/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1317228806&sr=1-4">STAR GAZING</a>, I created a congenitally blind, first-person narrator who would be well placed to challenge the other characters’ assumptions, not to mention the reader’s. The scientist hero says of her, “It’s not you with the limited perception, Marianne. Folk who can see just don’t seem to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">look</i>.” (And Tom’s Nobel-prizewinning lecturer complained, “People are losing the ability to see – they don't look down their microscopes any more ...”)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Tom talks about a scientist needing to have an open mind, curiosity, many interests, an ability to reject assumptions. All these form part of the job description for a good writer. He also mentions the need to make connections. This too is essential for a writer of fiction and drama. You can’t plot without it, nor can you motivate characters convincingly. In a good story, actions have causes and consequences.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It’s perhaps not all that surprising that Tom’s list of basic characteristics of good scientists are also required by writers. Arguably other arts practitioners (eg actors, painters, designers) also need these qualities, not to mention historians, geographers & philosophers. But I found myself reading with a dropped jaw when Tom began to get into the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">detail</i> of being a good scientist, because it seems even when you get down to that level, a good scientist still has much in common with a good writer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Tom wrote, “A good scientist needs to take the blinkers off, not to be afraid of initially crazy-sounding ideas, and certainly should not be too hasty in judging an idea until it is developed.” This in essence is what I say to student writers when I teach. It’s also what I say to myself when contemplating the creative abyss that stands between me and beginning work on a new novel. If I knew <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i> I was going to solve the problems thrown up by my plot, if I knew how my story would end, I doubt I’d bother to write it. If I already knew the outcome of the experiment, why bother to investigate? No, I write <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to find out what happens.</i> (Perhaps a low boredom threshold is also a characteristic of a good writer? If you bore easily, there’s less chance you’ll bore your reader.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">So I like to know just enough about my story to be able to begin to write and for me, any story begins with questions. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why? When? What? Who? How?</i> The answers can come much later in the creative process, which is both exciting and nerve-wracking but I've learned to trust the process. Over the years I’ve found that even the craziest-sounding plot has resolved itself in my subconscious and conscious minds because I’ve been “thinking about it constantly” (as Newton said of his theory of gravity.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Tom refers to that “strange interplay of the conscious and unconscious mind in the creative scientific imagination”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I refer to this process as “disappearing into the world of the book”. When writing a novel, we enter this world for short periods to begin with, but as the book progresses, a novelist spends longer and more intense periods in this alternative world until, towards the end of the book, s/he scarcely emerges from it and almost finds it difficult to distinguish between the real and fictional worlds. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSn8njgJsQ2RIB13EXrit7S6kwCGG4xCr-WhR9xp05pEkuTz0cYWYXUumfKDe-NFclCg-Dip8d9JyEvVoJeoezmHboyn_y2HFZTgZgXexqtbh5Fnp2hDboH7hZS5ahGeP9poESCBWwsTz7/s1600/LG+by+Loch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSn8njgJsQ2RIB13EXrit7S6kwCGG4xCr-WhR9xp05pEkuTz0cYWYXUumfKDe-NFclCg-Dip8d9JyEvVoJeoezmHboyn_y2HFZTgZgXexqtbh5Fnp2hDboH7hZS5ahGeP9poESCBWwsTz7/s320/LG+by+Loch.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author may be gone for some time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ask the family of any novelist about the final stages of completing a book and chances are, they’ll describe someone with a listless and distracted air who doesn’t really listen to conversation or participate in it; someone who’ll consume meals without noticing what s/he eats; who stares into the middle distance, apparently grappling with a three-pipe problem. That writer has descended into the underworld of the book and might be gone for some time…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div>Tom described another of my writing processes, also common to other writers: “The momentum of thought built up by conscious wrestling with a problem can be gloriously released days or weeks later by a mysterious process of background thinking.” Or, as I call it, “the psyche-up”. Over the years, some serious things have happened to my characters. They’ve been variously buried in an avalanche, blown up by a bomb, burned alive, raped, maimed in a car accident and trapped down a well. They’ve attempted suicide, slept with a sibling and accidentally killed a child. I like drama. It’s challenging to write and it keeps readers turning the pages. But to write a challenging scene, I find I have to prepare, mentally and emotionally, almost like an athlete in training for a big event. Then when I finally feel ready, I dive in to my alternative world and I don’t come up for air until the dreadful deed is done. <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It is indeed, as Tom says, “a mysterious process” and apparently not dissimilar to the “exercise in vertigo” that a good scientist performs: “One can only make progress by diving right down into the fine details of a problem or phenomenon, but it is just as important to pull up and climb to an intellectual height where the context of your problem comes into view.” From that intellectual height an author edits and re-writes. That meticulous and repetitive slog is just as important as the creative inspiration that brings a story to life.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMShmQNm2TeDH9KJmD7ue5wv0eje33p_XHCxC3nc1Ej9GhSBzpG7XskNRywBkK00PvFsihsihR6mu16e_UesuEp-LamCb9ccqNz-4KheYlHz4KoG00P08SJ0byVbWvNZD_5zhxdkQ9SM4R/s1600/LG%2526+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMShmQNm2TeDH9KJmD7ue5wv0eje33p_XHCxC3nc1Ej9GhSBzpG7XskNRywBkK00PvFsihsihR6mu16e_UesuEp-LamCb9ccqNz-4KheYlHz4KoG00P08SJ0byVbWvNZD_5zhxdkQ9SM4R/s320/LG%2526+bear.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author at play. (Or planning a novel?...)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Writing is hard work and can be draining, but it isn’t all doom and gloom. (Writing fiction is so badly paid, if writing weren’t its own reward, few would do it. We write because it is hugely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enjoyable</i>.) Tom says, “a good scientist has not lost the delight of play”. Nor has a good writer. My son once referred to my fiction writing as playing with my imaginary friends and I don’t think I’ve come across a better definition of what I do for a living. My characters are my friends. They <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> imaginary. And I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> playing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But do not disturb. This is also a writer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">working</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3md3r_M_IpKSrmgfnB4-5CqCqNwGuchJef8efBjLV9WpAMopGsd04821zZqmwhiXAYmZXraAcXuAvBuKOmjXtNXVBv_AWVS7diJN8qmB9Bj_CmWhsnrIMA_YU7owy9AZZqZx4HgCvk_1/s1600/UTK+FINAL+600+x+800+colour.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3md3r_M_IpKSrmgfnB4-5CqCqNwGuchJef8efBjLV9WpAMopGsd04821zZqmwhiXAYmZXraAcXuAvBuKOmjXtNXVBv_AWVS7diJN8qmB9Bj_CmWhsnrIMA_YU7owy9AZZqZx4HgCvk_1/s200/UTK+FINAL+600+x+800+colour.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> Linda Gillard’s latest novel, <b><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/UNTYING-THE-KNOT-ebook/dp/B005JTAMQO/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1314697929&sr=1-5">UNTYING THE KNOT</a></b> is not your average love story. The heroine's divorced. From the hero. There’s a rom-com subplot, some explosions, several war zones, flashbacks (in all senses), two weddings, and the restoration of a ruinous Scottish castle. </i></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span class="messagebodytranslationeligibleusermessage">Or to put it another way, TWO WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL meets THE HURT LOCKER.</span></i></span><br />
<h6 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="messagebodytranslationeligibleusermessage"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Available as a Kindle e-book on Amazon.</i></span></span></span></h6><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Linda Gillardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747108591927491742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-90727014507717009222011-09-20T21:57:00.005+01:002011-09-28T18:19:36.893+01:00What makes a good scientist? by Tom McLeishIt seems that the "Celebrating Science" team want to explore the "what makes a good...." theme in the context of science, writing, art and more. Perhaps distilling quality in this way is a good route to teasing out what are the commonalities and differences between art and science. So let's have a go...<br />
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Although I am myself a theoretician, I can't resist setting down what for me has to be the cornerstone of all good science: observation. Real, deep, questing, searching <i>looking</i> at and into things. I'm amazed at how little it is possible actually to see of the world around us when most of what we think we see amounts to the projections of our own assumptions. But I am equally delighted by how much we can see if we do direct our gaze and look. Perhaps my teenage years peering for hours at a time at Jupiter or Mars through my home-built telescope, waiting for the moment when the turbulent atmosphere would momentarily clear to reveal a dazzling treasure of detail, began to teach me the patience of the observer. Much later, a Nobel-prizewinning scientist made a great impression on me during a lecture when he stopped, put down his notes, and turned to the students in the lecture hall. "I have to plead with you something", he began. "People are loosing the ability to see - they don't look down their microscopes any more ... you should all, please, spend hours just looking down your microscopes! Then you will learn to see things. Then you will be able to discover".<br />
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Perhaps this sort of contemplative "seeing without presumption" is as important for the theoretician as for the experimentalist after all. A good scientist needs to take the blinkers off, not to be afraid of initially crazy-sounding ideas, and certainly should not be too hasty in judging an idea until it is developed. Paul Dirac's tenacious belief that there was meaning to the negative-energy solutions of his equation for the electron, in the face of almost universal dismissal, has always impressed me. His intuition was of course the first glimpse of anti-matter.<br />
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The scientists who most impress me are often to be found where you would not expect them; in the "wrong" seminars, visiting people who work in different fields, or outside science altogether, reading papers about things they have never worked on. Reading poetry for that matter. They seem to know that new ideas often emerge at the boundaries, or even in the collision of different projects. I think that this sort of activity somehow gives our minds those little knocks that can make unorthodox connections between unsolved problems and distant solutions. It also helps broaden the imagination and scope of a scientific mind. Doing science is an exercise in vertigo: one can only make progress by diving right down into the fine details of a problem or phenomenon, but it is just as important to pull up and climb to an intellectual height where the context of your problem comes into view.<br />
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Observing, a predilection for the quirky, a dual passion for detail and big pictures, ... if this all sounds a bit playful then I think that's right. For the next thing I want to say is that a good scientist has not lost the delight of play. Or perhaps the best scientists are the three-year olds in the sandpit! Great ideas do not arise from the pressured, tight moments of the schedules typical of the days we orchestrate for ourselves. Newton famously answered an enquiry on how he arrived at his theory of gravity, "By thinking about it constantly". Those who have been playing this game for a while know the strange interplay of the conscious and unconscious mind in the creative scientific imagination. The momentum of thought built up by conscious wrestling with a problem can be gloriously released days or weeks later by a mysterious process of background thinking. This can even happen simultaneously - I recall the moment when a colleague and I just looked at each other and <i>knew</i> that the other had just realised the answer to the strange experimental results....<br />
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So what makes a good writer then?Tom McLeishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01388299632873616796noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7464026926660519697.post-58122559716754983742011-09-20T19:46:00.000+01:002011-09-20T19:46:10.122+01:00A CAREER IN GAME DESIGN? by Charles Czerkawski<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Perhaps because video games have come a long way in a relatively short space of time, there seems to be a fundamental misunderstanding of the numerous roles available within this expanding industry. There is also a corresponding – and worrying - lack of communication on the part of those already working in the industry, with those aspiring to a career in games. One role about which there are many misapprehensions is that of game designer.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JdviWR6ukXwrch3QjzbaBl8SOQaV8HV1j7uiFjTJAsteB8de4OhjgGsIEZvNcFW8AyG1UHizYzLyUzGtCmodiiPgFveWRSeeXhBi6GCCWNWCPa4UFPDIWGbzpzt5ytHGuMm26ppm6HQH/s1600/CHARLES+CZERKAWSKI.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JdviWR6ukXwrch3QjzbaBl8SOQaV8HV1j7uiFjTJAsteB8de4OhjgGsIEZvNcFW8AyG1UHizYzLyUzGtCmodiiPgFveWRSeeXhBi6GCCWNWCPa4UFPDIWGbzpzt5ytHGuMm26ppm6HQH/s320/CHARLES+CZERKAWSKI.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Czerkawski</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The video game designer is the ‘vision holder’ for a project; he or she makes decisions regarding the many aspects of a game such as core gameplay, additional gameplay features, scoring system, characters, story, difficulty, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>risk/reward, etc. The job varies depending on the development company in question, but writing is always a key skill, (the ability to communicate is essential) as well as the use of certain proprietory software tools, which will almost certainly be learned on the job, rather than via any academic course. But I’d like to attempt to dispel a persistent myth regarding game design: that to be a game designer, you must also be a talented programmer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span></span>When high school students with ambitions to work in the games industry are searching for university courses, they may consult careers advisors who seem determined to send them in the direction of computer science courses or – more commonly now -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dedicated computer games technology courses. In both of these, a core focus will be on computer programming. But a rarely discussed aspect of programming (perhaps because it is an uncomfortable truth!) is that it seems to be heavily aptitude based. A Middlesex University study by Saeed Dehnadi and Richard Bornat acknowledges that, despite many and varied approaches from dedicated academics, there is clearly more to programming than good old-fashioned hard work alone. Anecdotal evidence suggests that computer science courses have a high drop-out rate and aptitude, or lack thereof, may be the key. At worst, this can result in a woeful state of affairs where, as the study concludes, </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">many find that they cannot learn what they want to know, however hard they try. They struggle on to the end of the course, for reasons of personal pride, family pressure or because of a lack of pastoral support and a dearth of escape routes, disillusioned and with a growing sense of personal failure.’ (<i>The Camel has Two Humps</i>, 2006)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>None of which is to denigrate programming without which no game could be made! Quite the reverse. All companies need good programmers – but in my experience, the best programmers are not too interested in overall game design; rather they enjoy being presented with the many complex problems which innovative game designs present, and their highly skilled job is to make a game mechanic work, technically, not to maintain a project’s vision. Of course, a knowledge of programming is helpful to a designer, but it is not essential to be a genius coder. The same can be said of subjects such mathematics and physics; university level knowledge is desirable but above all, the aspiring designer within this evolving industry needs a portfolio of skills. This should not, however, translate into the naive notion that design is easy, and involves simply telling talented people what to do, any more than - for example - an artistic director’s job (which it can resemble) is the soft option in theatre.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With hindsight, I’m inclined to think that a broad focus, early in a University career, is worthwhile. This will partly be dictated by the University itself, but the first year should give the aspiring designer the opportunity to experience a number of different subjects, and the student should be conscious of not specialising too narrowly, too soon. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, I was fortunate that my first university (Glasgow) gave me the opportunity to keep my options open for a couple of years. I began with the conventional aim of completing a computer science degree, but a number of other subjects were compulsory during my first year. I kept mathematics and computer science on the go until my honours years began, then decided to continue solely with mathematics, favouring pure maths. If I had gone along with my original intention to study computer games technology alone, I doubt if I would have completed my degree at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>The truth is that game design does not have any well defined route to entry. The best thing you can do is to get a good first degree, slanted towards the sciences, but keeping a broad field of interests. You should also look to work in Quality Assurance, otherwise known as game testing, for a while. This is an entry level role and you can even land work before you have graduated, during vacations. I’ve heard students on CGT courses declaring that they are ‘too highly qualified’ for QA work, but in reality, this often provides a great springboard to design.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>As the industry continues to move forward, it seems as though Masters level education is becoming desirable for the whole games industry. <a href="http://www.abertay.ac.uk/studying/find/pg/cgd/">The Professional Masters in Game Development</a> at Abertay University in Dundee is one such example, which allows each student to specialise in his/her area of interest, creating games in teams, and working in situations designed to mimic the actual games industry. Obviously, other excellent courses are available, and the number is growing each year, but I strongly recommend any course where teamwork is a key aspect. Video game design involves achieving a balance between scientific creativity and artistic inspiration, all underpinned by the ability to communicate with people and facilitate them working productively together. The whole field is evolving and it will be interesting to see which direction this fascinating new medium takes in the future.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-6iEXH2DHlwPk564cRlZBVW-M9PV8uwpEiURc_ZQm_7fCyqxIyLg2gYBMJiz4B4eapHzneDdVJfvP7xjpYgQrafDfN_bOXIT8LJGBWeJ0OoIIhXuucGZkx16lOrSPTORNSX0nPIKcGmr/s1600/logo_thumbnail+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-6iEXH2DHlwPk564cRlZBVW-M9PV8uwpEiURc_ZQm_7fCyqxIyLg2gYBMJiz4B4eapHzneDdVJfvP7xjpYgQrafDfN_bOXIT8LJGBWeJ0OoIIhXuucGZkx16lOrSPTORNSX0nPIKcGmr/s200/logo_thumbnail+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 150%;">Biographical Note:</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 150%;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 150%;">Charles Czerkawski is a game designer and one of four partners in a Dundee based independent video game developer, <a href="http://www.guerillatea.com/">Guerilla Tea</a> . He is a qualified mathematician who has worked in video game testing on titles including <i>Grand Theft Auto: Episodes from Liberty City</i> and <i>Dirt 2</i>. He holds a shodan black belt in Shotokai Karate, is a keen sportsman and loves to travel. His eBook guide for school students and undergraduates, <i>Breaking into Video Game Design – a Beginner’s Guide</i><span> </span>is scheduled for publication in October 2011</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div>Linda Gillardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05747108591927491742noreply@blogger.com2