I’m really enjoying the archives of this Slate series. I’ve planned to go back and re-read the Bible for some time now, but you know - it’s so darn long. Every page provokes all sorts of questions - why the two versions of Genesis, blah blah blah. I should read a commentary along with it, but which commentary? Agh, the indecision; the infinite number of Amazon reviews to peruse; maybe I’ll do it later. What I really need is a tastily serialized, feed-friendly Bible, and David Plotz has obliged. If you, too, are a little rusty on your begats, and need a low-impact way to remind yourself just what was up with those Edomites, check it out.
Now, a digression. People are often shocked that I, a molecular biologist, have read the Bible at all. Of course I have. It boggles the mind (and not in a happy, word-game kind of way) that an educated person would not be interested in a text that has shaped Western culture so profoundly. Occasionally, it’s other scientists who express surprise (the amazingly efficient ones who are so resistant to superfluous distractions, they publish three papers while you’re still trying to organize your controls). But usually it’s well-meaning evangelicals, who appear to think that if I only would read the Bible, I would instantly reject evolution, cease taking the Lord’s name in vain, and get out of bed on Sunday morning. The fact that I have already read it, and these events did not transpire, puzzles them exceedingly.
Over the holidays, yet another enjoyable conversation veered the way of religion. I should be used to this, given where I live, but I found myself on the defensive. As usual, it was suggested that perhaps I can’t help being irreligious, because I have been repeatedly taught (”brainwashed”) as a scientist to not believe in God. What baloney! I’ve never been taught anything about religion in any of my science courses. I’ve learned about it in my humanities classes, where it belongs.
Unfortunately, there are many people who are willing to put religion into science courses, and further willing to brutally edit biology wherever it contradicts a literal reading of Biblical text. If you saw Alexandra Pelosi’s HBO documentary, and hoped it was excessively hyperbolic, I’m sorry to burst your bubble of comfort. It’s not. If you didn’t see it, just imagine being a biology teacher in this community:
When I have students like this, I tell them they don’t have to believe in evolution to pass my class (I dislike the phrase “believe in evolution,” since it implies faith, not science, but it gets the message across). All I require is that they learn the evidence for evolution, and can explain why all credible biologists support it. And really, the same goes both ways. Whether you think the Bible is divine or not, everyone ought to know what’s in it, and why people will do such astonishing things because of it. Especially when those people are your neighbors.
How do I adore Bibliodyssey? Let me count the ways, but meanwhile, check out the fanciful work of mixed-media artist Vladimir Gvozdev. (He is definitely not an easy artist to summarize, so just go look around his site.)
Vladimir Gvozdev, 2004
Update: Spelling of artist’s name corrected. Sorry, Vladimir! (See Peacay’s comment below)
For those of us whose professions don’t involve lovingly handling dusty old volumes with creaking wooden spines, a website devoted specifically to the clasps and other metal embellishments found on old books. Hat-tip: Bibliodyssey.
Attractive young psychology professor is stunned to discover that “it sucks to be rejected based on how you look.”
Three new studies spearheaded by University of Buffalo Assistant Professor Lora Park provide the “first known evidence that some people anxiously expect that they will be rejected by others because of their physical appearance,” according to a January 27 article in Science Daily. But wait that’s not all: Park’s research also suggests that people who deem themselves unattractive are “preoccupied with their body and weight in unhealthy ways.”
In addition, a Swedish researcher discovered that some people are more prone to gain weight than others.
I actually thought (hoped?) this was Onion-style satire, until I clicked through the links. Absolutely terrifying!
An essential art/science website to bookmark, if you haven’t already: Universal Leonardo: Leonardo da Vinci online. The simulation of curatorial imaging techniques used to study the Lansdowne Madonna is nicely done, as are the overview of math and proportion in Leonardo’s work and the various interactive features.
Leonardo’s notebooks always give me the impression of a vast, benevolent curiosity. This man was into absolutely everything, and his insights were prophetic - it’s no wonder he figures prominently in so much historical fiction and semi-fiction. (I really enjoyed the often silly Alias mythology, revolving around a pseudo-Leonardo called Rambaldi; the ubiquitous Da Vinci Code, not so much). Here’s Leonardo’s take on the anatomy of the womb and fetus - I especially appreciate his obvious fascination with the way the placenta adheres to the uterus.
I didn’t include this image in my post on anatomical models and illustrations because Leonardo’s private notebooks were not intended to be pedagogical. Also, Leonardo here makes an error shared by early anatomists like Galen: conflating features of animal anatomy with human anatomy. It was an error of necessity. Because Leonardo probably only had access to a single human fetus for dissection (he supposedly dissected between 10 and 30 cadavers over his lifetime), he supplemented his observations with studies of the more readily available cow uterus. Unfortunately, the prominent patches of finger-like cotyledons anchoring the placenta to the uterus - which so captured his attention in this leaf - are present in the bovine placenta, but not in the human.
If you read my earlier post on anatomical representations of the female reproductive organs, you are familiar with Jan van Rymsdyk’s landmark engravings of a dissected full-term uterus. Thanks to Street Anatomy, an interesting new medical illustration blog, I see that Bulgarian artist Cveotmir Georgiev has created a digital model of a Rymsdyk engraving, using 3D Studio Max, Z Brush, and Photoshop.
Immediately when I saw Jan van Riemsdyk’s original I imagined it as 3d. Somehow I was reminded of where we come from, where it all starts. I knew that wouldn’t be accepted by everyone, but I did it. The result is evident - public showcase of such work is close to impossible. As much as I tried to steer it from that shallow gross feeling giving it a wax statue look it still is explicit.
Georgiev notes that he tried rendering the piece in gory full color before settling on the sepia tone of his final version. What’s really interesting is to compare the Rymsdyk and Georgiev pieces. Some viewers may find these images disturbing, so I’ve placed them below the fold, as large as possible:
above: Rymsdyk Anatomy of the Human Gravid Uterus, 1774
(image source: Dream Anatomy)
below: Georgiev Autopsy: Human Embryo, 2006
So what do you think of the update?
I don’t see a huge difference between the two pieces. Rymsdyk’s work successfully represents the textures of the various tissues - the sleek hair of the fetus, the greasy fat of the hypodermis, etc. - in black and white. Although the piece is 2D, he creates an illusion of depth and volume. Georgiev’s version is smoother. The artifacts of the engraving process have been removed, and the greater visual contrast created by the saturated darks gives a tangible heft to the body. It’s very nicely done. Aside from the dignified but mysterious Leonardo-esque background (it looks like his writing, but I don’t recognize the specific notebook page), Georgiev’s piece is a faithful reproduction of Rymsdyk’s.
Here’s what Street Anatomy says about Georgiev’s version:
I feel that the future of medical illustration lies in such dynamic images. These types of medical illustrations will be especially useful for learning anatomy through dissection in anatomy labs. They can be especially valuable to medical students. Photos of dissected cadavers aren’t always very clear and regular illustrations can’t always capture the colors and depth of the anatomy. Medical illustrators often need to look outside of their field for inspiration. Cveotmir’s work is a good example. He is not a medical illustrator and yet he is simply copying these classic medical images and transforming them into something more visually dynamic. He has improved upon the past and created a medical visual more relevant to today’s world.
I admit I’m a little puzzled by that statement. How is the computer modeled piece “more relevant to today’s world” than the original? It’s true that we have grown to expect sleek, polished renderings, and engravings are no longer used. But I think that’s a superficial difference. As for dynamics, if this were a fully rotatable, viewable model, it would indeed be a pedagogical improvement over Rymsdyk’s engraving - because it would be a digital version of the wax models by Clemente Susini!
In terms of the tools used to make it, and the means used to view it, a 3D Max illustration is incontrovertibly modern. But the information conveyed is directly equivalent to the information in Rymsdyk’s 2D engraving or Susini’s wax models. Although there is always room to improve and innovate, I don’t think we give enough credit to these artists of the past for making exceptionally effective use of the tools they had at the time.
I first discovered watercolorist Wendy Artin in Vanity Fair magazine. She was surrounded by four larger-than-life charcoal drawings of Renaissance statuary, wearing solid black and a dramatic pendant necklace, looking very much the Artist. So I was surprised to discover that she also paints subjects as humble as vegetables and old toys. She is an absolute master of color and tone in her washes, and her work is well worth a look by any watercolorist.
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
NPR interviews Jack Gilbert, and he reads the first half of this poem, here: “What a wonderful privilege, to be allowed to breathe. To see. To feel. To smell. To love. It’s baffling, the sweetness of what we’re allowed.”
Galactopod
2007
Watercolor on Winsor & Newton Paper
My friend Seth and I have been mailing art back and forth for years. I don’t remember how it got started, but in the past year or two, I’m pretty sure he’s sent me art three or four times with no reciprocation. I’m a bad art friend. To make it up to him, I had to do something dramatic. And what’s more dramatic than a gigantic, vaguely alien-ish cephalopod brooding in the inky blackness of space?
If only being a bookish tease was a job qualification.
You scored as Clio. You are Clio, the muse of history. You love academic pursuits, but still know to have fun. You’re a bit of a tease and a prankster.
Study for Transmission no. 3
Binh Danh, 2006
leaf preserved in resin Haines Gallery
A timely post from Sciencesque identifies two artists, the late Axel Erlandson and Binh Danh, whose medium is living plant material.
Binh Danh’s leaf prints are direct conceptual descendents of Anna Atkins’ photograms, but rely on the living leaf’s natural pigmentation process to “fix” the image. I like the way his work nests human geneology inside plant geneology - Study for Transmission no. 3 is like a branch from a living family tree.
