Living with hummingbirds
I am sitting in my bed this evening next to an original print of Harold Edgertonās photograph of Mrs. May Rogers Webster (thanks, as always, to the List Arts Centerās art lending program).
This photograph is nothing short of enchanted for me. Iāve contemplated and written about it since college, thinking of it in relation to the fleeting moment: how time can be invisible in plain sight, how we charge scientists and artists with holding it still for us to see. The photograph seeded for me a sprawling forest of thoughts about artists and scientistsāMuybridge, Leonardo, Duchamp, Wilson Bentley, Bill Freeman, Caravaggio, Frost, GĆ©ricault, Charlie āBirdā Parkerāthoughts that guided and shaped me as I made sense of āvision scienceā and stumbled my way to graduate school at MIT.
None of that was wrong, necessarily. It was in fact exactly right, I suspect, for a 20-year-old thinker. Time goes by too fast when youāre 20 and trying to make college matter. As an undergrad I worried a lot about my education, whether it would mean anything or if it was passing me by like the flutter of a hummingbird-wing. Mr. Edgerton and Mrs. Webster served me well as patron saints of the fleeting, and Iād like to believe that Iāve kept my eyes open wide wide wide since then.
But a strange thing happens when you live with a work of art. Before it becomes familiar, it becomes unfamiliar. It happened with Tiffany, as I wrote about last yearās art lending program, and I already feel it happening with Mrs. Webster. Itās not that sheās changed on meāitās that I haveāwhich is exactly it, as I will explain.
Iām 24 now and lost in a swarm of hummingbirds, which is to say the hurly-burly of a frenzied research community. I came to graduate school expecting a vast, monastic expanse of time to āthink deeply about simple things,ā but what I found instead was that the pace of research was weekly if not hourlyāa firehose of talks, preprints, meetings, deadlines, emails, calls, Twitter announcements, sprintsātime shattered into a thousand tiny invisible pieces, the rate of progress so rapid that I can barely keep up day by day with the thousands of researchers clamoring for attention. My instinct is no longer to open my eyes wide, itās to close them tight and hide.
So it does not embarrass me to admit that as I lifted Mrs. Webster off the wall at the List Arts Center, I noticed for the first time in my life that her eyes arenāt really open eitherāor if they are, itās just a knowing sliver. I was shaken by that gentle, timeless dignity, her stillness next to the buzzing birds. As much as any hummingbird-wing, Mr. Edgerton also captured Mrs. Websterās grace with his stroboscopic cameraānot to hold it still (how could he, moving for once so much faster than his subject?), but rather to mark it, frame it, memorialize it. This photograph is not Gussie Moranās serve. Itās the opposite: if anything, it is Mrs. Webster who held Mr. Edgerton still that day in 1936.
Is it crazy to admire that? What would it be like to be Mrs. Webster, the eye of the hurricane, aware of, yes, but never consumed by the turbulence around her? Andā is that a meaningful way to orient around your research?
Iām thinking of Don Knuth, who writes that staying on top of things is hard when youāre trying to get to the bottom of things. Iād like to try that this year, I thinkāan experiment in timelessness over timeliness, wisdom over knowledgeāto carve for myself the spaciousness I imagined graduate school to be.