Posts Tagged ‘history of science’

To Be a Rove Beetle

September 15th, 2011 | Meera

I have a small number of tracks that I follow through the halls of the Field Museum almost every time I go there. The museum, as those of you who have visited it will know, is a cavernous structure. Its walls contain more than a million square feet of floor space, less than half of which is devoted to publicly displayed exhibits—so if you have been there, imagine how big it seems to you when you’re standing in that enormous central atrium and then just go ahead and double that feeling.

I’m no mathematician, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that even if all you ever wanted to do was travel back and forth between two spots in the entire building—say, the doors of the West entrance and the bird prep lab on the 3rd floor—you could probably devise a near-infinite number of different routes to take.

Some might whisk you through the plant hall, others past the ancient Americas; some would wind their way around the feet of dinosaurs, others plunge you deep inside the heart of minerals. If you had an all-access-granted ID pass, no staircase, door, or elevator would be closed to you; you could make the Field your only home, and walking it your only recreation, and still you’d likely need more than one lifetime to traverse each one of the possible passageways it contains.

Me, I’ve been there close to a hundred and fifty times in the past two and a half years. And almost every single time I enter its doors, I take one of perhaps three, or, at most, four paths to get where I am going. It’s embarrassing, actually. I feel like an ant following some set of strange, self-made, incredibly persuasive pheromone-laden tracks; each week I sniff out what I left there seven days before and lay down new markers in the same old places as I crawl.

All this, friends, to explain why I have certain very favorite objects at the Field. For the things in the museum that I adore the most just happen to be, besides inherently lovely and fascinating, also conveniently located right along my ant-tracks.

The one I thought I’d share with you today is a large pair of drawings, mounted together in a single frame on a wall on the ground level, near the McDonalds. Each depicts multiple whole and partial specimens of Rove beetles: a large group of beetles belonging to the family Staphylinidae that, as far as I can gather, get their name because they’re fond of getting places by scurrying inconspicuously across the ground instead of taking wing.

(Their other common characteristic is a pair of unusually short forewings that leaves their abdomens half exposed, like teenage girls wearing midriff-baring t-shirts. But unlike most teenage girls, they’re shy, sleek little things.)

I’ve admired these drawings dozens of times, but today was the first time I stopped to photograph them, and it was also the first time I noted the name of the person who created them. He was Alexander Bierig. He loved beetles. And, as we shall see, he had something to teach me.

Alexander Bierig was born in 1884 in Karlsruhe (the prettiest fan-shaped German city you’ve never heard of). He was the youngest of the four sons of the shoemaker Ludwig Georg Phillipp Bierig, who apparently spent his spare time writing plays and poems. Nice work, Ludwig.

What I love about Alexander’s life story is that it has a wonderful sort of pivot in the middle of it; the first half of his biography is entirely respectable and sedate and conventional, and then he meets someone who changes things for him forever, and suddenly he embarks on a life of adventure! And jungles! And insects! To wit:

Respectable: After studying to be a graphic artist in his home town, Bierig spent a few years living and working as an illustrator in Berlin, where he got married. Then he moved to Paris with his wife Katherine, taught a few private art classes, drew pictures for scientific articles and books, and had his only child, a son who would one day grow up to be an architect.

When World War I began, the Bierig family moved back to Karlsruhe, and Alexander was soon called up to serve in the German army. The end of the war also marked the beginning of the end of Bierig’s staid life, because it proved impossible for him to find work as an artist in a country whose economy had been so thoroughly devastated.

Pivot: What happens next seems to have been that in 1919, some Russian friends of the Bierigs decided to move to Havana in search of work. This was a sensible enough plan, since at the time Havana was just starting to undergo two huge booms: one in sugar and one in tourism. There was definitely more money flowing to it than to Karlsruhe. Inspired, Alexander decided to move his little family to Cuba too.

In Havana, Bierig walked down some old paths for a while. He freelanced as a graphic artist, became a teacher of drawing and natural sciences at the German School, and kept giving private art classes.

He also met the person who would be his pivot: an eminent Costa Rican entomologist named Ferdinand Nevermann. Bierig had become interested in beetles while he was in Paris, and had even written a scientific paper about two species of Carabidae after he moved back to Karlsruhe. But it was his friendship with Nevermann that ignited what would become a lifelong love affair with field work, collecting, and Rove beetles in particular.

(At some point in 1923, Katherine—who didn’t like Cuba or its climate at all—moved back to Germany with their son. I haven’t been able to determine whether she was also irritated with her husband’s growing obsession with beetles, but I wouldn’t rule it out. In any event, the marriage didn’t survive the separation. Alone in Havana, Bierig befriended several other zoologists, learned everything there was to learn about Rove beetles, and began publishing more scientific papers. But it wasn’t until 1938 that his second life really began.)

Adventure!: In 1938, Bierig went on his first field trip, an excursion with Nevermann to Costa Rica. I don’t know how the trip would have been graded by scientific criteria, but by all other benchmarks things did not go well. There was An Accident. I wish I could tell you with certainty exactly what this accident was, but the small amount of literature I’ve been able to find on the subject contains conflicting details.

One story is that Nevermann and Bierig were attacked by a jaguar which pounced on them from a treetop, and Nevermann was killed, while Bierig was severely wounded. Another is that Nevermann was out collecting insects at night, by headlamp, and was accidentally shot by a local hunter who mistook his light for the glowing eyes of a large animal. One version of this second story has Bierig there and wounded, too; another doesn’t mention Bierig at all.

What is clear is that Bierig’s first exposure to field work was extraordinarily traumatic. It resulted in the death of his scientific partner and good friend. It seems to have gravely injured him. Yet one year later—clearly intoxicated by the glorious, colorful, totally overwhelming world of tropical wildlife that he’d found in Costa Rica—he returned to the same country to continue his beetle collecting. And he never left.

In Costa Rica Bierig would become a professor of entomology in San José, author dozens of scientific papers, collect approximately 26,000 individual specimens, and describe over 150 new species and over 30 new genera of insects (most of which were Rove beetles and all of which, of course, he would also illustrate). He was a field biologist extraordinaire. He was also a celebrated and often exhibited artist in his adopted country, remembered till this day for his influence on an entire generation of Costa Rican painters and illustrators.

rove beetles

The final years of Bierig’s life were not easy ones, although they had some bright spots (like the happy discovery of a granddaughter he’d never known he had). He began to lose his eyesight, became rather solitary, and finally died in 1963 after a long and painful illness. With no one to maintain them, his drawings, papers, and the tens of thousands of type specimens he’d collected began to deteriorate in the tropical heat and humidity.

Fortunately for posterity, this is when they were scooped up by the Field. And very fortunately for me, a few of Alexander’s drawings happened to find themselves (nearly 50 years later) located on one of my three or four short and unimaginative ant-trails through the museum.

As far as I can tell, Alexander was pretty damned good at roving. In tribute to him, next time I go into the Field Museum, I’m going to experiment with some different routes to where I’m going. I bet I’ll find a new favorite object or two. And if today is anything to go by, I might also find another great story to tell you.


(This is a self-portrait Alexander drew. I think he looks fantastic.)

Radioactive

February 7th, 2011 | Meera

Because he treats cancer patients with radiation therapy, my father has worn a small, square badge on his person every day for the past—oh, I don’t know how many years. Thirty five, at least. The badge measures his exposure to radioactive energy. It consists of a piece of photographic film, a few filters, a flat plastic canister to hold it all together. I used to see it on him often, once. There was a time when I would spend afternoons in his office after school: happy there as I was nowhere else, drawing on smooth, beautiful pieces of printer paper as white as his lab coat and smelling that sharp hospital smell. In my memory, which I tug on like a fishing line until it surfaces—pop!—with what I am seeking—it is yellow, this dosimeter. It has his name on it. It crackles a little, as film does, if you are allowed to press gently down on it with your thumb. But it doesn’t look, to me, particularly impressive. I know it is important but I am not sure why. I know it is keeping him safe but I am not sure how. Should it turn dark, it will counsel danger. It is making something visible that does not want to be seen.

My sister and brother-in-law sent me a book for my birthday this year that does the same thing.

Radioactive is artist and writer Lauren Redniss’s attempt to translate two unseen forces—radiation and love—into visible form. What she has produced, in the name of this goal, is an object of great charm: a literate, supple biography of Marie Curie, illustrated with (intentionally) primitive drawings and collages composed of photographs, primary documents, and found artifacts. The words are set in an original typeface Redniss modeled after the title pages of old scientific manuscripts. Her pages are nothing if not a pleasure to turn—now dark and brooding, now bursting with lurid color, and filled with human figures stretching and deforming into strange proportions, as if made of melting wax.

The book jumps back and forth between the story of the Curies and the contemporary significance of their principal discovery, the phenomenon of radioactivity. Sometimes the juxtapositions are chillingly fitting. On one spread, we see photographs of a pink rose grown in the fallout zone of the Three Mile Island disaster, lovely but mutated. On the next, Marie learns of Pierre’s sudden death in a carriage accident. Buttercups bloom across the page. “The flowers he had picked in the country,” Redniss writes, working from a microfilm she found in the Curie Archives, “remained fresh on the table.”

Too often, unfortunately, these transitions feel forced, not quite living up to the meanings they are presumably intended to carry. A page announcing the birth of Marie’s second daughter is immediately followed by a spread introducing Manhattan Project physicist Irving S. Lowen; the movement feels random. And when an odd little exposition of a radon health spa in Montana appears, complete with an interview with two true believers, the irony—though clear—trips awkwardly on the heels of the previous, haunting, page. Glowing an unearthly orange, it shows a ghostlike negative of Marie’s skeletal body: One assistant described Marie’s presence in the lab as nearly immaterial, “as if she could walk through walls.” Wraithlike, a humming in her ears, and her vision failing after four cataract surgeries, she felt her way among her instruments and through the rooms of her laboratory. At dawn on July 4, 1934, Marie Curie passed away.

It is when Redniss works to make love visible on the page that Radioactive is at its most powerful. An enchanting early spread shows Marie’s first meeting with Pierre in the laboratory of Gabriel Lippman. The two are shyly separated, she on the edge of the recto and he the margin of the verso, their bodies tall and straight and parallel to each other. She looks over her shoulder, eyes so big with watching him that they are easily three times as large as her demure fingertips. He has been drawn with two overlapping countenances—two noses, two mouths, two mustaches, two sets of eyes—as if continually pulling his gaze toward her, then away—drawing motion out of a frozen page.

After Pierre’s death, one page burns scarlet as a flag, a red so bright it seems almost to radiate off the page. On it, themselves bleeding crimson, appear the naked forms of Marie and the married man with whom she is having an affair: her husband’s former student, Paul Langevin. (When their romance becomes public, the ensuing scandal tears the two apart. The pages are black.)

Love, like radiation, inflamed Marie Curie’s life. Both brought her the brightest satisfactions she would ever experience; both also aroused the most blistering pain. And had she a little square of film to wear upon her breast every day of her life, it could only have warned her of one of those dangers.

2011.5. Radioactive: Marie & Pierre Curie: A Tale of Love and Fallout (Lauren Redniss)